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[phramboise]

[phramboise]

simon sees a familiar face. (AO3 mirror) tags: darkfic. ghost x nude model! reader. (given a stage name but no discerning characteristics.) violent intrusive thoughts. objectification. rough sex. marking. dacryphilia. possessiveness. dubcon photo sharing.

It's the slip of her skin in his periphery. Moisturised, gold shimmer body glaze. Tucked up against the bar and nursing a negroni in both hands, her dress riding high up on her thigh. Sticks out like a sore thumb in a pub like this, where seedy men come to drink their woes away. Just a little too clean, prim and perfect polish. Pretty enough to make his teeth hurt.

He has to do a double take before he can be sure. Where he would know her calves, those hands and varnished nails, anywhere, he can hardly believe it until she turns a quarter angle and her face comes into full view. Lips he's seen perked up and glossed into erotic O's. Eyes so often half-cast and sultry, lined in kohl, that it's odd to see them wide like this; looking around, searching for something.

Yeah. Simon knows her. Knows her like the grip of a gun, the rip release of a hand grenade, the flat lining of barrack cot mattresses. Knows her so well that his cock chubs up in an almost pavlovian response, fat and heavy and leaking already, like a bloody sixth former seeing a pair of tits for the first time. In all honesty, this might just be the equivalent for a man like himself. Aching jowls, frothy lips. Ageing, dirty beast – thrown the most delectable fucking bone.

Because it's her. Cut straight from the centrefold of his favourite magazine and pasted a mere four feet away. Just as alluring, as provocative as she is in the poster he'd gifted Johnny on a deployment birthday. The object gracing every page not adhered together with dry cum. The one thing that gets him – and frankly, every other mutt on the task force – through long missions.

He throws back the last of his bourbon and slips his mask back over his chin. The haunt is emptier than usual. He assumes the big guy by the doorway is responsible, no doubt hired to follow her around and scare the creeps away. Simon must count as one – if his intentions, latched like filthy claws in his stomach, are anything to go by – but he's also bigger. Bolder. Probably has tattoos that outlast her bodyguard's experience in the field. So he takes his chances as he stretches up and prowls up to where she's sitting.

"Selene Harlow." It's a stage name, of that he's certain. But he has nothing else to call her by, not having fallen short of searching for her true identity. She's good at keeping herself safe from perverts like him. A good fucking girl, if not a little minx.

"Only on the clock." She smiles softly, dipping the orange peel in and out of her drink. It looks untouched, glass sweating onto the bar top. He thinks of holding her head back by her hair and knocking the concoction down her throat. "You don't look like my date."

Simon makes a sound. "No' your usual type, then?"

"I didn't say that." Her dress is low cut, bandage tight. When she breathes in, he devours the way her chest heaves out of the material. Begging to pop free, or else be ripped open right here. He can't imagine she would be opposed to being stripped in public. Not with her breasts plastered on a million different publications, issues displayed in the illicit material case behind every gas station counter.

"Well, he must be soft in th'head."

She shrugs. "Don't sound so surprised." Simon wonders, if he were to press his thumbs down onto each collarbone, how much pressure it would take to snap them in place. He's always liked the delicate arch of her shoulders, the swan-like column of her neck. With how he fixated he is on them now, he can hardly place the dejection in her voice. "Not a lot of people wanna go out with a girl who does what I do. It was only a matter of time before he found out."

"Can' be too pissed at him, a'suppose."

"Hm?"

"His loss is my gain."

"Aha." A flash of teeth. She turns on the bar stool to fully face him, and her knees knock his. Soft fucking legs, plush like a chew toy and he knows– he knows what they look like completely nude and spread open. But nothing could've quite prepared him for how different it is to see them in real life. To see her – real, fleshly, blood full – and not be able to take. Have to hold himself back despite the way he's pumped himself raw to her arse almost a hundred times now. He lost the plot some time ago. His mind must think of her as his. "Is that what this is?"

And what is this? Simon doesn't have a name for it. All he knows is the way his head itches, the tantalisation crawling in his skin. The sheer self-restraint it takes not to pocket her home and chain her to his bed. He wants to dig his teeth into her cheek.

Instead–

"Could be."

"I think that's up to me." She crinkles in a wily little smile and he chuckles because it's funny. Funny because she takes him to be a good man. But with the way her bodyguard is eyeing him from across the room (fucking muppet), he knows that's not the quality he's projecting. There's the urge to crack a sick joke, something about clipping a bird's wings, just to see her pick up on the rot he carries with him. "You military?"

"Tha' obvious?"

"Hm, no. Wild guess." She straightens her back and the vague gesture she makes with her wrist is enough to drive him up a wall. It sets a timer, ticking time bomb, in his brain that'll detonate if he doesn't get his nasty old hands on her waist. Thirty seconds on the clock. He can never be patient when it comes to sweet things. "Your... stature. And I tend to be popular with servicemen, anyway. What's your name?"

"And why do you wan' to know my name, bird?"

She flutters her lashes, pointedly looking down to where he's bulging in his jeans. Bird is right. She shines like one with pretty feathers, begs to be plucked, because why else would mother nature create things like her if not to appease men like him?

"Figure you'd want me to moan it later."

And it's like watching one fly into a cage on its own accord. His blood boils hot and thin, flooding his head until his eyes strain with something ferocious. "Why wait." Simon says. He can't wrap an arm around her waist fast enough, scooping her from her seat and wrapping her tight against his side. Tight enough that, if she changed her mind, she wouldn't be able to flap her way out of it. "Name's Simon, and there's a bathroom 'round back."

It's nasty. Depraved. Graffiti lines all four walls and it's no coincidence that the one he pins her up against looks the filthiest. Something in him craves to see her degraded (the same part that marked a picture of her in black ink, chicken-scratch body writing proclaiming her as his), brought down to the same peg that he occupies. Beasts with too much baggage stored in their marrow. Humans, men, with moral compasses that skew a tad too far left. Animals. Animalistic.

"I don– Don't usually do this..." She breathes, excuse stuttered through little whimpers as he mouths at her jaw. Maybe she's afraid of living up to her name, or whatever image Selene Harlow projects. Not a prostitute, he can almost hear her say. Tastes the fear of misconception, sour on otherwise tart skin. He hums and tugs her breasts free with one, scarred paw.

"Doesn' really matter, bird. Were fuckin' made for it." He squeezes the two mounds, pinches knotted nipples and rolls them between his fingers until she cries. Her voice breaks in little bubbled sobs – starts crying so fast that, christ, it must be some sort of record – and he aches in his trousers. Ready to burst if he doesn't bully his cock into a hole soon, just like she's been ready to be unravelled all night. "Made to be mine, yeah? Bloody 'ell, jus' look at you."

Frayed little tapestry. If he weren't so mad with lust, he'd obsess what drove her to this point. What brought her to some shitty pub in Manchester to meet a good for nothing lemon. Why she mewls and completely melts into him when he slaps her tits, just to see the way they jiggle. He's an ugly bastard, definitely punching just by breathing the same air as her, and yet she's so perfectly willing. Flaying herself open, skinned alive. Gasping selfish gulps of air when he finally pulls off his mask to sink his canines into her shoulder.

He's so used to seeing her posed, perfectly still. To have her like this, a trapped worm underneath him, feels like concentrated lightning on every artery. Overstimulating. Paralysing. He never thought he'd see the day where she exposes herself in motion: folding her dress up over her wide hips, slipping soaked panties down to her ankles.

(In fact, he vividly remembers brooding over an interview her magazine had added to the corner of a cover page, once. Selene Harlow tells all! Answers inquiries on video pornography and more!

I don't think I'm the right person for that sort of scene. Not much of an actress, I'm afraid.)

Not that her feigning was ever a concern. Simon knows the giddy gossamer over her eyes can't be artificially replicated. She's too clumsy, too amateur in the way she readies herself for him. Used to doing all this prep in a frilly dressing room with apathetic staff members directing her. Sways a bit on her heels and holds onto his thick forearms as she widens her stance. He stands until she's steady, then drops to his knees in search of the star of this show.

And the sight is as much a bludgeon to his self control as seeing her for the first time was, trigger for the feral mongrel that barks and chomps on his ribcage. Her cunt is just as perfect up close in this grimy bathroom as it is well lit, professionally oiled, and printed on coated paper. A little fuzzy, swollen enough that it flowers open for him on its own. Shyly inviting him to dig his nose right under her clit and inhale, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the scent of her, undiluted. Salivate blooms around his teeth.

When he flattens his tongue against it, she tries to find purchase in the roots of his shorn hair. Nails scrambling along the buzzcut until she forfeits and clamps her hand behind his ears, head thrown back to knock against the wall. If he were a nice man, he would spend hours buried between her legs. Sated by licking her slick from its source, like a kitten given a bowl of cream. Would make her cum until she forgets how to keep quiet, until she screams his name loud enough for the world knows their muse is off the market now.

But if he were a nice man, he wouldn't be defiling her here. He would've taken her out to the Greek place that never seems to have room for him alone, and then back to her apartment, where he'd drop her off with a chaste kiss and a promise to call her tomorrow.

So Simon combs through her lips once, twice, three times. Coats her in enough spit to be able to shove two fingers with little fuss, and scissors them apart. The little thing stretches to accommodate his ministrations immediately, clutch swallowing him up to the second knuckle and sucking around him when he spreads her hole for his leering eye. It's cute – so fucking cute how she clenches and keens and cries. Neck arched up above him. Apple of eden, blank canvas. His fingers leave her cunt as he rises to bite into it.

(Truthfully, she could've done with more prep. She wasn't lying when she said she doesn't do this often, whatever this is. But the way silver pebbles brim on her lash-line makes his chest twist, the dog rearing on its haunches, ready to pounce – and he thinks he'd like to see her babble in pain as he splits her open on his cock.)

"Gonna take you home after this, y'hear? Fuck you well 'n' good, all proper like. Fold ya over a mattress and print my cock on your guts, birdie. Never let you forget it. "

"S-Si! Simon, please. I n-need..."

Ichor beads in the shape of his teeth, streaking oxygenated red down her throat. He makes a mess of it, smearing it across the marred patch of skin, and brings the fluid up to her face to rub it into her cheek. The type of marking he'd reserve for his third or fourth going with someone – if anyone ever lasts that long – but is absolutely necessary right now. Here, with her. Technically their hundredth something time together, if he were deranged enough to count the various times he'd spent himself over her spreads.

But nothing can supersede the truth of the matter. He streaks blood along her face and licks it off in a show of merciless possession. Pretty things like her get plucked off streets and ruined everyday, despite her cynicism on her value, and he can point to at least three other men by name who would slaughter to be in his place. Best to stake his claim now, clamp a collar on the exotic fowl he pulled down from the sky.

"Need wha', hm?" His tongue laps at her cheek, laving over the contour of her nose and swiping right under her eye to catch the tears that freely fall. She winces when he gets too close, hands faltering along his waistband.

"Your... d-dick. Please, please. Just wanna be fucked, Simon."

He plants a rough kiss onto her mouth, all teeth and tongue, and finally ladles himself free of his jeans.

Just wanna be fucked.

Daft, silly girl.

She should've chosen anyone else.

It takes a bit of pressure to feed himself into her cunt, pinning either leg to the sides of his hips as he guides his cock toward the opening. If she was putty before, she's positively liquid now, boneless rag doll slumped onto him. Dead weight. Letting him take control of this fight. Content to do nothing, slack-jawed and empty eyed as her hot walls come to embrace him completely. Her breath halts, the air recalibrating to just the sound of his ragged grunts, and he considers it an invitation to wrap a fist around her neck.

"I'll do more than jus' fuck you, pretty thing. Won' ever let you out of my sight."

And he means it.

It's impossible to withdraw completely from her – vacuum sealed too tight, too good, around him. So he fucks in short thrusts instead, snapping his pelvis back, only to shove forward once her legs begin to flail about. It's brutal even by his standards, rough in a way that supplants pleasure with pain. A small pity surfaces when her lip trembles, discomfort wringing her darling face up like a dish towel. Wet and pathetic, but he sneaks his free hand down to knead at her swollen clit anyway.

Like oil, it slips and hardens, tense enough that he knows she won't last long if he keeps it up.

Simon feels his own release encroaching. Unfurling at the base of his spine to form something cruel and primal. His vision tunnels to fixate on her – not the filthy bathroom or the lewd squelch of her pussy taking him in. Not the banging on the door by a customer desperately needing to piss, or otherwise, her bodyguard concerned at the choked screams carved from her lungs. Just her. Little bird.

The howling in his head doesn't stop, but it sure as hell quiets down when she soaks the coarse hairs at the base of his cock. Squirts, off-white fluid gushing from her and trickling onto the tiled floor. His movements grow stilted, off-rhythm, at the sight. His want grows claws and scales, grows wants that have wants. Beastly. He sees red.

"N-noghonbirfcontraahl." She gasps, suffocated still by the fingers pressing crescent-shaped scars beneath her jaw.

"Don' give a shit." He growls, then cums.

(Really, he doesn't. To see her swell up with his child is just one more added temptation, carrot on a stick. He bucks like a rabid animal and bookmarks that thought away for later.)

His seed doesn't stay put when he pumps her full of it. It gathers and drips out of her, undeterred by the barrage of his softening cock. When he pulls out, it draws milky treks down her legs. There's the instinct to shovel it back into her, tape her lips shut until the spend takes; but as he pockets her panties and helps her readjust her dress (after polishing himself clean on the expensive fabric), he finds he quite likes the thought of parading her around like this.

"C'mon," He nips her earlobe. "let's walk you home."

Simon does end up making good on his promise. They hardly get any sleep that night, sweating on every available surface her flat affords. By the end of it, she's so tuckered out that he has to lift her to bed. Hardly cognisant as he strips to his boxers and sidles up right next to her.

What doesn't escape her notice, however, is when he pulls his phone out to snap a picture of her like this. Fucked to oblivion, puffy pussy oozing about three loads worth of cum.

"W-what are you–" Stuttered. Panicked, like a pet that has at last realised it's been caged.

"Shhhh, birdie. You're my model, ain't you? Let me show you off, yeah? Won' let it get into the wrong hands."

"Promise?" She whimpers, tucking into his broad chest. She isn't in the condition to give her proper assent, but he takes it anyway, kissing both eyes and carding his fingers across her scalp.

"Promise." He mutters, then sends the portrait off. "Jus' to men like me."

Sgt. Garrick: ?! Is that Capt. Price: Christ, Simon. Someone ought to muzzle you. Johnny: I don't believe you. Johnny: Pick up my calls. Johnny: SIMON.

[phramboise]

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[phramboise]

[phramboise]

— risqué mistress of morbidity:: captainjohnpricexfemale!reader

In my tavern, my muse, leaves me longing, as he quiets my insanity's wild ruse.

tags and warnings: 18+, price and bartender!reader, reader is also smoking and drinking; he denies eye connection, both are madly alone, kissing, choking(?), vague smut, no aftercare, depictions of breakdown and depression, touch starved reader, touch starved price, implied cheating, death. one time thing with a stranger that visits for a drink.

read the dry salvages after to give this post another perspective, to see a happier closure (!), or his view.

wordcount: 4.1k

;;

A little city, or not quite, not even a town. Some place between other little places. The kind that keeps you in front of the radio, listening through channels to find one that works, or the kind that makes you wonder how people who live here spend their days with. Rarely a vehicle glides down the road, throwing pebbles around the one-line asphalt, and even rarer does one stop in front of this pub to walk in. Still, roads smell of dust, soot and grease; ground dry and deserted, feels like the sun stays right in the middle of the unsure sky the entire day. Not moving, not a cloud over it for it to blink­­ ─always hazy, even indoors, even when it’s dark outside. A hit stench that sticks behind your neck, one that hogs your vision, one that feels like the breath you take needs to be a lot deeper for it to feel enough.

Slow, banal, monotonous; makes one think of one simple thing for days for there’s nothing else this place offers you to do, to think about. A stale life, one with no surprises. Where days feel long, years feel short. Hours are slow, and weeks are even slower, without one noticing, -but maybe with one noticing, noticing but not having the will in oneself for putting it to a stop- how the life, however fast or slow it might be, is still yours, and you are watching it away, for here leaves no wish, nor will.

Not to say that the man who now walks in the pub is simple -maybe his clothes, indigo rinse jeans, a fleece are- but even in such attire, he looks.. jarring, debonair, taking the air off the small tavern, suffocating -makes her take a big sigh before catching her breath. The place feels as it gets smaller as he makes his presence known, with a terrific aura oozing out of his frame, even glancing from the door his eyes are clear when looking inside. Dark blue landmines, the sea she always wished to see one day but never will, but she knows, if she were to see it, it would be of the colour of his eyes. The sweltering sun hits the sideline of his face for a sliver of a second as he steps in, the sun kisses his hair, bathes his brunette in golden rays, skin turning tan. She lifts her head off the counter, leaving the dry towel to her side to see who would step into this pub that has only her inside. And sees him. And meets his unavoidable mercy.

After that -after she looks away- there’s this haze in her head, an unease that dreads her, a cloud between thought and morals, and a ringing in her ears, vertigo, a pressure when having a long trip. She turns back to the counter, trying to avoid the impossible.

─that is, before he finds himself a seat next to the counter, slanting over it before asking for a whiskey, adding neat right after.

Glencairn winces in her hand as she places the glass in front of him, before giving the drink a firm twirl.

The goldenest burnished copper, a soothing sherry, a hint of warming smoke. Oloroso & oak. She even eyes the quaich on the glass shelves.

Lee Hazlewood in the background, the whiskey works his inhibitions away, it seems. His eyes linger longer on her with each sip, but each looks away after a moment on her body and never meets her eyes, as if such capable-looking man is afraid of simple connection, never suggestive. Maybe he’s looking at her only because nothing ever moves in this dead bar, but she prefers to think otherwise, and is free to dream. One hand dives in his hair, fingers graze on his forehead while the other holds a thick cigar, turning his head down as he takes drags of it between his thick fingers. He looks as if he finds comfort in smoke, and for his comfort in a smoke, she wants to take it to herself.

The cigar between his lips seems like a mockery of her own desire, knowing it can lovingly touch and feel between his lips and her lips just aren’t able.

Not one to fall into compulsions on his intuitions, he is. He shifts in his seat, stretching his leg out to take out his wallet. Windows open, so he tucks the paper under the tulip glass.

Five minutes, if not more. No talk, not a glance.

“I can have you another? On me?

This is ridiculous, needy, she thinks. A bartender asking to give a free drink, and the customer not attentive. He looks like he has nothing better to do anyway, he looks like he’s going to go somewhere unwanted after. Unwilled, to an infinite wrath, or an infinite despair. A silent man, he looks like he finds comfort in silence too. No defeat in silence, no rejection. A man who looks like he knows that it’s only the time that heals, and not the memory. Just a man, it’s what she sees, who looks like any other man, but not quite.

The quiet man does not object, and she fixes a drink with the sleight of her hand. “Forgive me, but you look rather… tense. Can I help you in a way?”

The fingers tapping on the wooden countertop miss their next beat, stop their steady pattern for a second. He doesn’t need to lift his head, look up to her to see that she’s speaking to her, he doesn’t bother anyway.

When there are two people who are strangers alone, only the one who wishes for a talk feels awkward. The other doesn’t notice, doesn’t want to talk. He looks down at his drink, the narrow-mouthed tulip, at the linted lifelines in the palm of his hand. Turning his palm against the counter, he looks at the cuts on his tanned skin. At some point he even reaches for his pocket, shifts in his barstool to take something out his pocket, and looking askance, she sees the split corner of the glossy paper, no wonder a polaroid. Only a second, before he secures it back in his pocket. Worn and irritated, it’s clear he had it with him for long enough. She can’t get a glimpse of the picture but has guesses on who that might be. The owner of the ring on his finger, perhaps? She curses the woman whom she never met, as if she’s to blame. She knows this man didn’t come here for the reason she has in mind, but she tries to deceive herself, reassure herself, make a consensus, a false one at that. It’s easy to justify, to blame her impurity on her id. Because who would come to a bar in the middle of nowhere at this time of the day? Only for a drink? Not likely if you ask her.

“This is enough.” He says, swirling the glass he lazily holds with a twirl of his wrist. It was on you, remember?

Rarely one comes here, but never once someone gives this answer to her question. Any other man, what she sees, and each time that other man looks like every other man, with trivial thoughts of every other man on their minds. Same minds dressed in different skins. This is another man.

Any other man thinks, she’s given me a drink, a sly smirk on his indifferent, indiscreet face. A young woman offering me of all men -as if there’s someone else around to compare- a drink? And she has plenty else to offer, no? This man, the another, looks like a man who is not in need of a proposal, looks satiated, even with the remorse of his sulken face. He looks like a man who has everything with nothing to lose. Like a man who seizes how transient she is, who wouldn’t be interested in her if she was a ghost of his wildest dreams.

Maybe that’s why, she doesn’t remember asking a question twice, she remembers when she hadn’t, when other men already had the proposal themselves, many of them she remembers rejecting. But never she remembers being rejected, never remembers simple defeat.

─So, she persists, dainty steps walk over, towards the customer side of the counter. Nervous, but slow enough to make it obscure, slow enough to notice her own breath, light as air as she walks next to him. I only want you to relax, no other reason.

She’s skeptic that he’d pull away, but alas, she’s also insistent, and he does not squirm nor he moves. Doesn’t tell her to stop, doesn’t tell her off. He doesn’t even grunt in efforts to mean something, to dismiss her. That’s her answer, she feels the tense muscles under her almost sweaty palms -nervous as she does -, gives a squeeze before daringly trying to snake her hands along his neck. Then gives another.

Then once more, and one more, until he slants back, until she hears a groan of relief out his hoarse throat, does she rubs his shoulders. Can I keep going?, mutters her, earning no yes, no no, but a little hum, it comes out as a withering moan out his lips, fainter than he planned to make it sound. Each rub inches her closer, until her breath kisses his nape, her front pressing right behind his back.

He looks capable, enough so, she wonders what kind of woman would leave him unsatisfied back home, she even wishes to be such lady, leaning over his shoulder slightly to not startle him away from compulsion, but enough to remind herself of the silver band on his finger, lambent in the midday sun. No reason to stop. Soon she leans her head down, down and her hair embraces his, as he tilts his head equally back, eyes closed. She clicks her tongue, rubbing it inside along her teeth as she looks down at him, and his short hair meets her skin through her v-neck.

A plea rolls out of his mouth, a growl, a promise of a whine, he tries to protest but is in the last sips of conviction. He puts his hand on her shoulder, he does, but he does not stop her. Only one way this goes, and now they both know it. One proposes quite openly, and the other subliminally accepts.

“I only want you to relax…”

With his head resting on her breasts and her supporting him, he only relaxes a little more on the stool, his breathing slowing and slowing. Heavier, bated. His eyes closed; his cheek feels against her breastbone.

This girl, undeniably smells like his lover. Talks like her too. Hearing the suggestive delivery of her voice, an immediate animal presence with incredible luring power, she whispers something simple, something she probably already said to many others who came here before his turn, but her voice, her fluid, languorous movement, just moves him in. Erotic and subliminal, but she’s not to blame. Him? He’s practically starving for some affection, and she’s warm. She feels like the warmth in a haze that holds you in bed early in the morning, an unhurried mist of comfort, all with terrifying seduction. Thus, he closes his eyes, to feel her but to see someone other.

He curses himself.

A little tug on his arm, and a brush of her lips along his jaw, is an overt invitation, for him to follow. And with a shaky breath, he does.

…

Through the water-stained mirror of the open lid of the locker, she watches his face as his hand wraps around her throat, rough fingers dragging along her supple skin, thumb searching for her life under its warm pad. Thumping harder and even palpitating with each beat, it’s ridiculous, she feels his warm breath as his lips inch closer right under her ear. His eyes trail along her hair, over the features of her face, every spot but her eyes as if she doesn’t have any, what she notices also is he doesn’t look at himself over the mirror too -as if he hates the sight, this charade that he plays. Then again, would a cherished person be in a staff room of a dusty bar? Only she sees the mirror, and only she feels what’s felt now. Him?.. Face indifferent, only his breath speaks.

She ignores it, just like she does with the fact that they don’t even know their names.

Palm leaves her throat, and she whines as his knuckles brush down her nape, taking her necklace off. It would be such romantic sight if he were to meet her eyes, she thinks. A kiss to her cheek, and a smile as he unclasps the chain. Some sweet whisper along her name. She even contemplates, would he let her if she were to snake her fingers towards his chin, lift it up to see his eyes that never see hers?

She does not risk it, for she feels like he’d pull away and leave her here. Behind.

Distant eyes are no matter, for the hands are what she cherishes. Even when obligatory, even when it’s mandatory. Hands are hands, and they are warm, warm but not burning on her skin, not sickening and twisting in her head -easing some vertigo. Oh, how she wished to get sick so that someone would take care of her, even when out of pity, even fake, even without looking in her eyes. The envy when she sees a damsel in distress, with her company along her, a crave for a wound for someone to heal. They don’t see her when looking at her, they see someone else. Still… She can close hers, and pretend. How she wished for a brush, of a touch, a graze, a squeeze, a straddle even intended to hurt her... For so, she wouldn’t stop. This is another man, and this is not only touch.

Don't mind my desperation.

—Let me hold you, not just for vacation.

Until he notices, she’s under his mercy, one hand enough the grasp her supple neck, holding tight, a little too tight to enjoy -him the executioner, and she would lovingly be the sacrificial lamb- for she’d be something then. And she’d feel warm hands on her. Isn’t this the reason for every other man anyway?

Instinct and desire, his rough hands scrape towards her chest, thumb presses on the notch between her clavicles, forehead resting on her shoulder as she leans back, hand on his wrist as she leads his hesitant touch further, through the loose buttons of her linen shirt.

It’s torment to be this slow, a hiss leaves her as she turns back, pulling the collar of his jacket in a fist, her bare back meets the cold of the metal door of the locker, goosebumps on her skin as her lips find his jaw, pressing against him, unzipping as he leans against her with his forearm resting next to her head, trapping her between his broad physique and the door behind her. She’d usually hear whispers by now, promises to never keep, on how good it will feel for her, never teaching her things she doesn’t know- along with some praises and sometimes with fool words. Out filthy mouths, with a sharp tone, turning her off in how unnatural and forced they sound. Now she imagines how his voice she only heard when he was ordering his whiskey would be a perfect candidate, etching prayers into her skin, voice husky and deeper than usual, in desire, and the thought burns an image between her thighs. Between little groans, she tries to matchmake words.

His large hold gropes the back of her head as she kisses his chest through the black t-shirt he has on, sliding his arms off the jacket, leaving it on the floor as she walks him back, the zipper makes a sound on the tiles off the personnel room. Her nails graze his jaw, he turns his head away as she moves to his lips, pressing her head to his neck further. What’s sex without a taste? Can fulfilment ever feel as deep as a kiss? Vexed for attention, she begs his lips, rising on her feet, rubbing hers all over his face, nibbling his skin just under his ear, tongue tracing right after, a cool blow of her breath as he looks up at the ceiling, holding onto some sort of sanity, holding onto her. He only threads his arm along her nape, pulling her to his chest, his teeth graze the strap of her bra, tugging it down, his lips light on her shoulder, it’s a kiss —only if she accepts.

Forget about her already, you’ve been too far to compensate. Seal us with a kiss and forget about her, or don’t.

Don’t forget about her, just kiss me. Kiss me as you’d kiss her.

It’s raw and as clean as an almost abandoned pub could be, the back of his legs touch the couch as she pushes him onto it, and not him pulling her back with her, he watches her body as she undresses, putting on a needy show, spreads his legs as he shifts comfortable on his seat. She doesn’t ask for another kiss after, only moves towards him as he fiddles with his belt, unbuckling as she moves her lips, kissing him through his underwear, lips on his happy trail, moving upwards as her hand moves his t-shirt upwards, he helps her take it off, before pulling her on his lap with arms holding her to himself, close to him. Sweet girl. Hands on her knees move up, up to her thighs, hooking her underwear with his thumb on his way to her spine, palm open on her back as he buries his forehead on the side of her face, pressing his nose into her skin, his stubble burning on her core.

Nothing to know about one another, no explanation, no justification, but it keeps on. A mutual tension, a strange exhilaration, they’re both dancing around something with no name, something that gets her heart racing, stirring and swelling inside her. For a moment, she dares to dream, to think beyond the moment as she grinds her hips against his. Of something more, of this once more, somewhere else, a future of endless moments of this. An abyss of something… she wants more of. Strange, unsure, unknown. Not really recalling what she does, she just tries to feel more of his skin against hers.

She feels him move, his hand coming to her chin, thumb caressing her bottom lip, tugging it down with enough force as he tilts his head, finally about to seam the inches. The pulse on her throat quickens, she looks at him, but his eyes are already closed, so she mirrors, leans into his touch, parts her lips as she feels his, with a hum blooming on her chest to kiss his lips, he just lets it happen, leads it. The rush in her veins dulls the chill of the wedding band that brushes her back as he slides to a more comfortable position, pressing her chest to his. It’s a gentle kiss, patient, yet she feels the unshakeable core of stoicism behind too. He’s always in control, emotions controlled and calculated. Not the greediest, but he kisses like he knows when to let them take over, both of her and himself. And her, she holds him like she begged something above for him to kiss her, and the way she kisses him back, it’s clear she did.

In the moment, she fails to read the engravings of his initials on the dog tag around his neck as the chain goosebumps its way on her chest. Each kiss of his leaves an indentation of his lips in intensity on her body. Each kiss that travels her thighs, so does his tongue. Each kiss gets her ensnared, trapped, she feels as if he’s holding his voices back, but when he does not, when little muffled curses with letters moaned out —telling her to keep doing what she does, they fall into her ears, takes root in her soul, sprouts inside her stomach, she lets them grow. Voracious, alive, relentless in lustful abandon. He tastes her in an unbridled display of passion. Never met her, but he fucks her like he missed her.

…

Her figure follows his as he pulls back, a heavy warmth now leaving itself to the sun’s. The difference is the latter is sickening, and unwelcomed, yet he still is on his feet, hastily looking around for his clothes as she lays, reclined, pulling the sheet over her, watching his back, muscles moving in rhythmic fashion, before he covers it with his t-shirt. Not holding her anymore. But when he sits at the edge of the worn couch to tie his boots, she at least feels his weight through the sunken cushion. She could savour it.

“Would you visit again?”

I’d wait.

She blinks once, licking the taste of his skin on her lips. Hopeful, alas, she knows the answer already.

He moves onto the other boot, type that men in field work would wear. Not even sighs, as if she hadn’t asked him something, as if he’s alone at this personnel room with nothing to consider. As if she’s gone in the wind, used and thrown away. As if he’s leaving no one behind. A fantasy unwind in summer breeze. Gets on his feet, on his way to leave.

And as if not having his answer loud and clear, and having the audacity, she pleads. As if she just didn’t fuck with a married man. A married man whom she knows not the name of.

But she knows he belongs to someone else.

“Right, your wife!?” She wipes the passion off her lips on the back of her hand then. “You should’ve thought about her before you decided to fuck me!”

He stands a second, petrified, judging in his mind if she’s worth turning back to answer, and when he decides, he turns halfway before her, looking at her with a mocking squint of his eyes, which trail up and down on her, belittling her. Brows furrow, meeting his lashes before he speaks. Voice low, lower than a whisper, but still is assertive, only the tone of it enough to put her back in her place. Almost a threat, and as sure as the sun outside.

She sees his thumb playing with the band on his ring finger, mad in rage she spoke about his wife; she wishes she never asked, afraid he would just walk up to her and do something that wouldn’t give her a choice to object. She wonders of the times where she needed to speak up but didn’t, and when she needs to shut up she never is able.

It’s the only time, for a sliver of a second before he meets her eyes.

He mercies her an answer, nonetheless. Maybe for she'd eased some of his own distress, silenced some insanity.

“She’s dead.”

…

The vertigo he brought stays after his leave.

She bites and scrapes the polish off her bitten nails, until the skin around is red and throbbing and her teeth are frail, when there’s this familiar chemical taste down the pit of her stomach. She hates it.

She’s not sure how many minutes passed, but getting off the couch to speak back, to shout and break stuff, she finds the things back in their usual order, and even the seat she pulled him off from stands neatly tucked under the counter, the parking lot empty once more, the scent he brought with him gone. The only remnants are a stub and an empty glencairn, which keeps a banknote under its diligent tulip to keep it secure. Not a number, not a thing she gets to keep, no memoir. As if he’d never been in here, as if no one visited today either, and it was only a fragment of her tainted imagination. Only the ghost of his lips imprinted on the glass keeps his now gone presence real as she lifts it to her lips, before feeling the inside of the bar to grab her slim cigarettes to try what she saw him do.

Can I ever not think about you?

;

the dry salvages

[phramboise]

[phramboise]

— collector:: simon“ghost”rileyxfemale!reader

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

tags and warnings: 18+, therapist!reader, patient!riley, mentions of names of psychiatric drugs, disorders, self-destructive behaviours and many other labels that are in the nature of therapy, talk of trauma, persuasion, sexual fantasies, kissing; drugging, kidnapping, nudism, Stockholm syndrome, self-pleasuring (f), vaginal fingering, female receiving oral, semi-public sex, vague ending. More like your obsessive situationship kidnapping you. italics are therapy entries, scribbled notes of the therapist written in her POV; the rest is in third POV. In no way this is praising or normalising any behaviour written -read at your own risk, drugging and kidnapping are not consensual.

wordcount: 3k

;;

When Mr. Riley first crossed your gaze, it wasn't amid your session. Across the road, he stood, and there was no mistaking the man. Here near the thicket, scarcely a few people wear long sleeves on summer fierce, and even fewer have masks on. Until you stop making a mental prognosis even for a person who is not your client and come back from your tea break -or until the end of your shift if you don’t notice- he lingers around, waits at the bus stop, though not seeming to wait for a bus for countless have come and gone, in the hours long.

Another man is what you see, he might be any passerby on the street, and perhaps he is. Mr. Riley embodies one of those afflictions, less unique than he imagines, of those pathologies you've encountered before. When you extend your hand to greet him in your office, he offers no response, nor does he ask of you to address him more sincere. Mr. Riley he remains. He's one who knows himself, aware of his inner discord, though its depths remain veiled. From afar, his black eyes turn warm summer, amber in the sunlit pane, his presence yields little beyond the his file's mundane strain. He avoids talking of his past, and names elude the characters as he tells little pieces of his life. No period of self-destructive history, no suicide attempts. No addiction on gambling, alcohol. No signs of wrist cutting, nor drug injections -seems you misinterpreted his clothing choices. Many hospitalisations, all classified military field papers, one particular on teenage period, one he speaks not about.

Mr. Riley's visits to the office seem to transcend the usual reasons of any other patient, not for seeking counsel or solace; they harbour an enigma you can't quite decode. He adamantly requests your final session on Friday evenings, as if bound by some unseen rhythm of his own. There's no poignant trauma he didn't untangle of himself, no platitude of life's hardships to impart upon him. He has already navigated life's currents, seemingly with ease. There's no sign that he needs a therapist to grasp the stark realities, to know life's not to see through rose-tinted veil.

He is a patient who possesses a profound understanding of himself, sparing you the tire of the week's closing session. There's no need for medical interventions, no requirements for Risperidone, Prozac, or Paxil, nor any hint of sedatives to dull his senses. At times, his answers are so astute that the roles between therapist and client seem to blur. In the dynamic of your therapeutic alliance, there is no predetermined mould, because Mr. Riley doesn't adopt them.

Not a traditional pathology, Mr. Riley is one where not the patient being ready for the therapy, but the therapy being not ready for the patient, one who needs of you to be creative and bold to unravel himself. Of no technique, no book nor rule. So, you suggest roleplay -no voice recorders, not a notepad to write down occasionally. Less practical and even less theoretical. You even offer to do it on the skirt of the small lake behind the office as not to create social desirability. -Not that he bothers of it.

He accepts.

Now, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be, you are no therapist, nor he is a client. He’s not a diagnosis, a test to report, a scale. Not an alienation, not a compulsive or antisocial disorder. Only Mr. Riley.

When you ask him about his first memory he recalls, you realise you must play the maternal figure in this intricate play. When you settle on the bench overlooking the pond, he approaches from behind, enfolding your shoulders before walking to your front, resting his head to your lap. He does not know much about gods; but he thinks that the water is a way of semblance, his soul’s double winks off the reflection, whispers in your voice as you offer solace. “Sometimes” you begin, stroking gently the blond locks that nestle on your lap, “one must mourn to heal.”

He rises on his knees, clinging to your body as you caress his neck, crying to your chest as your cloth is now pulled down with the weight of him resting on you. …Like a baby, his resistance just melts away.

Mr. Riley requests that from now on the therapies take place in the backyard of the building, and since this change of nature contributes to the therapeutic alliance more than the office setting did, and now that he is sure of you enough to remove his mask, and since now when he looks at you he sees you, you acquiesce.

Mr. Riley is touch deprived, he has not yet spoke about his father, but he revealed in our role play therapies that his mother passed when he was only a child - his deprivation leads to a relentless need for contact, that is, after he started to trust me. He shook my hand today, and came with only a mask that covers half his face, which he later took off also. I feel for much further developments with Mr. Riley, which is heartening.

He's by your step as you step around the garden, his presence a silent echo of your every move. His arm wraps around your shoulder as you sit next to one another on the bench. With each sensual step, he surrenders morsels of his shadow, weaving them into your shared space. And when he bids the invitation to walk hand in hand along the water's edge, you accept. Not a drug-treatable depression, rather, it's a serenity born from the tumult of excess violence and the rusty imprints of roads taken, reflected in his eyes. A familiarity in his demeanour, a wash of embrace as if he unravels yourself to you.

Mr. Riley abandons the sessions for a while, it takes a lot of strength to pretend to other clients that you are interested in their problems. When you start to wait in your office on Fridays, even though your last session is available, an empty slot, and when you do this for weeks on end, you realise that this bond is a two-way street, nothing professional. For him, you are a person who will listen, for you-

Someone to listen.

;;

When he does return, the birds are flying south. You find yourself consumed by a gnawing unease of thinking that his routine apathy is back again. Once more, -you prayed so- he seats you into the sanctuary of the bench amidst the garden, yet his eyes no longer linger upon yours with their former intensity. When he pushes you into the water with the strength of one arm, you freeze for a moment, and when he pulls you back in before you soak in the reedy river, he catches you unaware and kisses you harder than you dreamt possible.

One thing you cannot deny, is how his demanding yet sensual kiss is turning you on, leaving not one bit of your responsibility, your authority as the therapist as his hand moves over your legs, circling beneath the curve of your hips. Dipping his hand between your warm thighs, you let his firm touch venture between, supple skin heating cold fingers. His other hand gropes a fistful of your slinking skirt, and you wrap his scent around your loins as he falls to his knees again before the bench. Before you.

Never in all your career you thought you’d be getting into this, to abuse someone who is to solace in the first place, even the thought of it appalled you. Now the thought tightens his fingers on your hips, his tongue rubs idly against your clit in unrushed fashion, he slowly feasts you out.

Mr. Riley will no longer attend our therapy sessions – I said to him that our sessions are not helping him, gave him another therapist’s card, hopefully his condition will move for the better. My efforts were useless I’m afraid.

It’s what you wrote down the day after, but you don’t recall him agreeing.

;;

Three Fridays it takes when he suddenly reappears, he intercepts you locking the door of your office. Adorned with the very mask he tells you he came back to get the other one from you, he’s clad beneath a hoodie, zipper drawn all the way to conceal more than just his torso, hood over his head. You’re not sure what to answer, in a vague indecision, with the haunting realisation that his condition remains as unchanged as ever. Perhaps you should have heeded the warning signs, reconsidered the nature of your occupation, and resisted the temptation to immerse yourself so deeply in his plight— perhaps you shouldn’t have given of yourself to something that won’t heal for the better.

He's your shadow down the corridor, a silent loom trailing behind you as you make your way back to your office. You let out the breath you've been holding as you pick up the pace and create a few steps of distance until you reach your door. Yet, even within the confines of your own space, his presence looms large, casting a pall of uncertainty over your every thought.

In your room, he follows, his silence heavy in the air. As you retrieve his mask from the drawer, he catches your wrist as you turn.

One word leaves your mouth, he’s on you again. Pressing your back against your desk, one hand winding tight around your arm as the other tips your chin up for you to meet his height as he looms over you. The caress of his lips draw tingling heat to your cheek, your lips, your neck. You feel his body against yours deeply as he clines closer, hand on your jaw tight as he tries his way in with his tongue, both hands cupping your head to his, leaving nowhere to lean but him.

His mouth feeds something inside yours, a smooth little dragée that leaves a ragged earthy taste each second you refuse to swallow down, his mouth is on yours to keep it on your tongue, raw liquorice and a sickly sweet taste in your pharynx, your nose tightens in its taste as you try to pry away with a doleful cry — he only pulls away as he feels it down your throat with his thumb, the other wipes the tear on your cheek as he pushes his forehead against yours, cooing it’s okay as you shudder in trepidation.

You leave the room, try to cough it out your mouth.

A hit behind your neck is enough to knock you out.

;;

The sound of spinning tires piercing a howling like a restless banshee against the asphalt wakes you, worn leather feels eerie against your back as you sink into its contours, laid sprawled on the backseat in a short slip gown you don’t own yourself that pools around your hip as the car you’re in hurtles towards the undying disquiet. Cool leather surrounds you, as if offering a hug from the owner on the driver’s seat. The sight outside is a blurred panorama of shifting shadows of a transient night and neon lights racing by in dragging lines before your surly hand moves to feel the ache nestled behind your nape. His gaze grazes your body through the rearview mirror. Deliberately slow is his hand resting over the open window as he drops the stub of his cigarette down, he pulls his mask down before dividing the cold night air mixing with the smoke through the misty window. You don’t know where this road leads, where he’s taking you. Of what he forced into your mouth or when he wore this negligee on you.

Gentle engine lulls you, to some elusive and ephemeral warmth, starts below your stomach, sprouts where you fear it. You were right when you thought, neither of you are what your roles are defined to be. Now he’s to lead, and you’re to follow this fleeting respite of surreal blend. Something in your blood that gets you warm, or it’s the adrenaline of this unknown place. Only Mr. Riley and you. You’re scared, you’re intoxicated. You enjoy it.

You turn your head to his side, wind blows your hair, trails over, snakes through your legs as your hands move to pull the skirt down to cover your hips, holding the satin tight between your thighs. Your own skirt is gone. So are your sheer tights, so is your underwear – he must’ve taken them off before he carried you in his car.

The sultry heat pulsates between your thighs, a yawning chasm that stirs an ache inside. Though, there’s no trace of wetness that already paints your groin, only the searing fire deep within. Your insides burn but you don't feel any strain anywhere except the pain in your neck. You still smell like your own perfume, untouched, without an intrusion of cigarette smoke on his fingertips or the weight of his hands grabbing your skin. Not a single mark marrs your flesh, not even the faintest imprint that dry, rough fingertips as they graze on supple skin. He seems to only changed you in silk, a whisper-soft fabric that clung to you, only piece that’s shielding you from the cool grace of the air. As your fingers brush over the tender swell of your breasts, a shiver dances down your spine. The satin wrapped fabric weaves you into a life that is not meant to hurt, and with each breath, a soft moan threatens its way out your parted lips, a melody of surrender to the lethargy that he trapped you in. You now have a few ideas about the pill he gave you.

Leather smells varnish, aroma intertwining with the haze of his cigarette smoke that hangs in the air. His masculine presence stands as a silent challenge to your frailty. With a delicate touch, you place your hands on your kneecaps, the tip of your tongue running over your teeth as your knuckles leave the skirt of your dress, not holding it over yourself anymore. He must’ve done the same, you imagine his fingers tracing a similar path, grazing against your inner thighs as he lowers your panties, taking them off. Grounded by a thick, scorched, labdanum base, a dark and brooding charred wood and burnt sap, floods through you as the air carries his cologne to you, your nose picks up whatever it is that gets your body wanting more, you caress yourself. 

Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

You wish you fingers were to be rougher, thicker and that your fingertips would smell of tobacco. Of something grainy and rugged instead of this slipping silk between your legs for you to rub against. Did he made you sit on his leg as he clad you in this dress that leaves none to imagination, had he rubbed you against his trousers as he put you down? 

Your breathing gets heavier, he changes the hand that steers the wheel, now the car decelerates to keep it in control, now slow enough, a person on a sidewalk would have a flash of image if they were to be as the car glides by- you know you’d do this even if there were no tinted films on the windows- you search for his gaze over the rear mirror, laden with unspoken want. You clench around nothing, mutter words of no meaning, but he knows. You whine deeper breaths, and they soon turn to lilting whimpers. 

You think about him feeding you the pill with his tongue - does he feel as you do right now? You wriggle your hips, let a moan to get yourself going, his eyelids flutter close before yours do slowly. He’s watching you; did he watch you when he stripped you naked? How long was he watching you? Your heart races with the writhing pulse between your legs as you rub your arm along your nipple, your hand moves to your core, brushing against your clit as you move your fingers against your lips, the breeze of the interior now seeping on the slick you play with your fingertips. The car sways a little out the road as you cry out a louder whimper, pebbles rolling under the tires, vibrating the seats, adding you on. 

Some part of you wants him to pull the car to the side, come to join you, grab you by the ankle and yank you out the car, do whatever he wants to you against the asphalt. Some part likes this piercing gaze through the reflection, of him biting the insides of his cheek as he groans lowly and shifts himself on his seat. From the little frame of the mirror, his free hand is out your sight, but you hear it.  Hear his belt loosening as the metal hits the strap. You hum as you increase the pressure, circling your much thinner finger around your hole before sliding in, clenching around them as you slide the latter finger. 

If he were to tell you to call him by his name before, you’d moan it. Now, all that leaves your mouth is loud and lewd sounds as the saliva clicks against your tongue, synching slow with the in-and-out of your motion, trying to reach your g-spot with the tips of your fingers. 

This won’t last long, are you sure if this is what you want?

Open your eyes, where are you going? Did you even ask? Pill wears off slow in time, fear stings beneath arousal’s guise, your slick skin sticks to your hair, to the now warm and wet cushion under you. Everyone seems to be asleep but you two, as he takes you into the unknowns of the lovers. Your fingers demand release, rubbing and rubbing hastened than your breath, ill imagery fills goosebumps on its way down to your spine, in texture of his icy fingers. Your teeth sentinels at your lips, hard against skin, against the impulse to speak his name— a bare boundary to still not cross on your book. Maybe you could’ve stopped it if you wanted, but you’re not the one driving. Truest valour lies not in defiance, but in surrender. So you do, let it all out.

It's a hushed stillness of something trembling under, the radio scratches before it turns a sepia-tone song spilling cadence, a gentle sway as you massage and pull your soaked legs to your chest, laying on your side as the road keeps hurling forward to an endless terrain.

[phramboise]

I've found your blog from suimon's recommends and I must say you are brilliant. I loved the one with König so much and I need to say why did John cheated on her I was so shocked???

Hi, I’m so so glad you found it to your liking! Please check under…

As for John cheating in risqué mistress of morbidity? Ultimately I wrote it in plan that it takes place after his wife dies, and he didn’t planned for it to. He went to get a drink, and that happened. The tag is for his inner turmoil for he cannot make peace with the fact that his wife is dead already. He feels guilty towards a person he can’t make up to anymore.

(In the work I tried to write in a way that the reader is somehow resembling his wife, physically, for him to compensate his desire:

“This girl, undeniably smells like his lover. Talks like her too.” he tries to reason with his want.

He feels he’s cheating on his wife but still wants to feel her:

“Thus, he closes his eyes, to feel her but to see someone other.”

Complementary in the dry salvages:

“He loves another, and thus he hates himself.”

He struggles trying to persuade himself that it’s not his wife, and this girl is very much alive unlike her and he’s trying to come to terms with it. He feels guilty for both of the ladies. He has a moment here checking her pulse. He’s trying to get himself back in the moment with her because this lady is not his wife, she has a pulse underneath that his wife doesn’t have:

“Through the water-stained mirror of the open lid of the locker, she watches his face as his hand wraps around her throat, rough fingers dragging along her supple skin, thumb searching for her life under its warm pad.”

I’d like to think he made it up to the barkeeper when he finally had the courage to kiss her. I’d also like to think that he’s still both hating himself and trying to hold onto the last thing that remains of his wife, smoking -see how he hates it in the dry salvages.)

So the guilt begins and he feels as if he’s cheating, why he keeps the ring on, and so on throughout the work. I hope this explained better. Thank you so much for asking. 🤍

[phramboise]

givenchy hc fw96

[phramboise]

suimon's recs!!!

— listed in alphabetical order (ascending), please read respective guidelines and warnings from everyone before you read the work, the media you choose to consume is your own responsibility!

— i encourage you to check out everyone's accounts & full masterlists; they're all amazing!! :] this was the hardest thing i've ever done and there are SO so so much more people/works i'd like to add - everyone's writing is genuinely amazing and much too great to be narrowed down to a few favorites... i should have just simply linked everyone's masterlists at this point, goodness!!! but, have fun reading! :-)

&&& please consider supporting them if they have ko-fis listed <3 supporting your writers is always appreciated!!

ALWAYSSHALLOW —

coffee at midnight

higher ranked!reader x ghost

blood on my shirt, rose in my hand

BRATFICTION —

catnap

loser!könig + study stress

personaltrainer!simon

CASIIA —

his girls

newlyweds

smile for the camera

CEILIDHO —

saltwater

superstore

desire paths

CHARLIEMWRITES —

specgru (former 141) reader

squeeze me, i squeak!

bodyguard!gaz

COMFORTLESS —

in our angelhood

a place for us

all that you don’t want

COOKIEPIE111 —

bite me, love me

drink from the leche of sirens

eat with me

CORDELIAWHOHUNG —

in limbo

soft spot

laundry day

DMITRIENE —

bathing with simon

simon's sensitive ears

biker!simon

GATORLOVEBOT —

king!simon

honesty

gator's entire puppy!simon tag .!!

GHOULJAMS —

the ghost distribution system

pillow princess ghost...<3

regency au

GLOSSYSOAP —

bloody shame

unknown number

peppers

GREATSTORMCAT —

a reason to go on

club 141 au

new beginnings

HAYLEYBARNESX —

all of hayley's drabbles!!

HONESTLYHISWIFE —

honey's entire masterlist :}

KNEELINGSHADOWSALOME —

christian woman

dog

double trouble au

KONIGSBLOG —

all of orla's work!! :3

LOVEINDEFINITELY —

crave you

forever winter (if you go)

need to listen to me

LUMINOUSBEINGS-CRUDEMATTER —

coworker!ghost

situationship-verse

reaper!ghost

LUVIT —

elli's full masterlist. yeah

MELANCHOLIC-THING —

underground fighter!könig x rich!reader

voice kink könig x nsfw audio reader

everything ghost says

NAIVEGH0UL —

all of ghoul's work :3

OHBO-OHNO —

don't leave me locked in your heart

run until you feel your lungs bleeding

ghoap purge au

PHRAMBOISE —

the dry salvages

murder to excellence

only lovers left alive

ROWARN —

please love me

monster

hybrid!au

SOAP-IFY —

you're an angel, i'm a dog

gladiolus

lonely is a man without love

SOAPSGF —

mine all mine

thin walls

i'm yours

STARGIRLRCHIVE —

soft pleasuredom!gaz

book boyfriend

roommate!simon

SUNSETSIMON —

i can't pick so ... sun's entire masterlist!!

SWEETPASCAL —

someplace nice

never would have thought

husband!simon

TOJISUN —

my baby swingin'

doo-be-di-boy

with that grace

VAMPYKWEEN —

vampire!au

toxichusband!ghost

to love is to live

WORDSTOME —

shrike

kingdom come

nutcracker könig

YAWNDERU —

lorelai

k-9

haunted masterlist

YEYINDE —

coorie

stasis

down to the marrow

edit: i’m making a carrd for my recs :3 more will be added!!!

[phramboise]

only lovers left alive — simon”ghost”rileyxfem!reader

Death, gore, MDNI, smut, established past relationship, 3.3k words.

...

A fish, and a man. Both on the surface of the dirty water, both reek of ammonia and disturbed flesh. Both rotting, and stomach inflated, but the man’s are clearer in sight, vivid. More violent, primal, disgusting. As if all the colour is dulled around for him to put on a show of his defeated stage. Skin unnaturally yellow, arms sprawled out, the body still intact with his skeleton in blisters. Deranged, a man who stains the water he’s in. And a fish. Both dead, but the fish saddens her more. Both are dead, and both by her, but the fish saddens her more. 

For she didn’t even notice it as she killed it, for love is violent and much kills, but she was young enough, or maybe such emotion is foreign, novel to her. She killed it anyhow. The fish obliges, tastes the attention, in a symbiotic affection with her. But it swims more around the edges on the tank as days go by, swims higher on the surface, until one fin lays smooth on its side, not moving, until it can’t swim straight, and until it dies. 

The man is still in the water, his face down. She can see what he would look like in a few weeks, that he would decompose slower in cold, no vultures around to dig on his skin. She can imagine the soapy glaze his flesh would have, and the green, and the violet. Hypothermia. Petrification. Bisection. And a hound, it’s mouth wet and sticky, dribbling in red and saliva. She can see the skeleton sneaking out the flesh as the hyenas around shake their furs, off the blood and the water. Loyal and starving, a rabid dog in need of someone to find its way back to —

Her machete, on the other hand, is very much so alive, painting red rivulets on the snow-white ground. Sharp colour stripes off the chrome, turns into a deep velvet on earth, her hair is soiled, and her body is covered in red splotches, on her knees as she eyes the handiwork, trying to stay conscious, alert. She kicks her feet to clean the bits of the man off herself too. A roar in her ears and her temples feel like it’s her brain that’s splintered with a machete inside, eyes twitch as she stares at the man’s gouged one. And she tries to cough it off, coughs and coughs until she starts to gag, looking away from the scenery which she is the master to. She rubs her palms, rips the dead man off his gloves for hers are soaked in blood. 

She’s better a gun than she is a person. Horror in her bane, she’s a better swordslayer than she is human. A little girl with fish food, or another with a rusty machete, she’s both. Can’t say she takes pride in neither, but the man doesn’t upset her in anyhow.

;;

It takes one more night to look up without a ceiling, before you get your way back, before the static of your comm buzzes again, the familiar voice, and the authority he embodies mercilessly. The Lieutenant. A pleasant sizzle follows his voice through, your eyes shot close as you feel through the gear with both hands to reach the radio, pressing the cold plastic to your ear. He disperses the smoke in your mind that dwells about the throes of your own demise, the thought of if this is how death will feel for you. He guides you, the way through the fuming howl of the tundra, becomes your sun chariot, your servant of peace and light, meeting you halfway, and when you encounter he doesn’t ask you to cradle you, does it naturally as he sees you. Sleight of hand, you don’t bother. You need a trace to make you believe in him, a keepsake of the times where he had done it so willingly. Something to hold you back to routine, to life. You’ve been sleeping long enough, he notices. He wakes you gently, rocks you kindly with hands you’re sure that has seen much more than yours did. But he wakes you kindly, a soothing hand lands on your nape, steadies you into this realm. You don’t pull back, and you don’t notice the build-up, the tension on you. But only the release.

You don’t know why you cry. He doesn’t say it to you between countless mantras over and over of how he thought he lost you, again, but you know it eases him to see an emotion on your face, and you feel it too, however ugly you think you wail. You need to breathe to cry. You breathe to cry. You said you don’t want him anymore, but no one would breathe in your scent like he survives on it with his head heavy on your shoulder, no one would kiss the dried blood on your brow and your matted hair. You know no one would blow warmth on your cold-stiff palms, not like he does. No one would waste himself, on you. No one would lend their blood to heat yours. You never said someone would anyway.

Adrenaline imperceptibly loses its grip on you, subsides and alters into pain. It creeps under your skin, trembles on your chin and prickles your eyes, making its presence known. Your step loses momentum as you lend your weight on him, and he grabs you with very capable hands.  

After wails turn into mulled cries, and they turn into woeful moans, he lifts your head off his chest, leans his forehead against yours, gives you a few breaths, gives your forehead a kiss, stays a few moments until your heart thumps steadily to his, then pulls back. He nods slowly as you loosen your grip on him. Pulls his mask down again, he walks you through the icy terrain in hasty affection, shelters you in the safehouse.

;

First thing he does after he settles you on the fur seat, is to take off the foreign gloves off your frostbite fingers, throws them in the rusty barrel’s fire, burns it clean. Blood sticks onto his fingers and he wastes no time taking his gloves out his pocket to wear it on your hands. Its lengthy fingers swallow yours, and you look down at the thick fabric that adorns your hands as he wipes the blood off your face. You notice he wears no gloves, and you wear his now. A silent compliance in the way you sit, you only hiss when the dried clots pull the strands of your hair as he drags the cloth slowly along your skin. He reaches, taking each hand of yours in his, examining carefully, running his fingers over the lines of your palms. A futile tremor goes through him as he kneels before you, letting out a slow, shaky sigh as he disrobes you off your soaked wet gear, clads you with his spare. He doesn’t ask for a thing in return, and you only watch the tail of his tattoo through the exposed skin of his wrist as his hands hover over your elbows. He lowers his gaze, frees his messed hair out his balaclava, his throat bobbing as he swallows. He bites his cheek in thought, and you slither your palm to his cheek. He goes still before he looks up at you, big brown eyes and fanned lashes melt golden under the fire burning at the middle of the room. He blinks, then his bare fingers skate between yours, interweaves his fingers through the gaps between your own, he nudges at the fabric that coats your wrist, pushing the cloth up with his nose so his lips meet the inside of your wrist. You let out a faint breath, and it flutters his hair as he lays his head gently on your thighs, sitting on the concrete.

You play around with the little beads of the metal of his dog tags, and he moves his unoccupied hand around the side of your leg, pressing his cheek further onto the warmth that slowly comes back to your body. Under your imperious gaze, he rests his eyes, and you sink back onto the mattress, finally breathing the way you should.

;;

The plume of the dusty covering tightens your nose, and you wake with the scent of the bitter miasma of the bloodied gloves in the fire, scorching the sticky liquid, churning in your nostrils. The air is heavy, and the interior is plain. The cold outside whispers through the uncaulked edges of the wooden window, and you rest your eyes a moment longer before searching for the abandon of Simon’s warmth,

Only to find him sitting on a log next to a woodpile outside, elbows nested against his knees, minding the floor as he smokes. Silent as you walk towards, you cut him off his smoke as you reach your hand over his shoulder, behind him. He twists around to watch you circle behind him, eyes on you as you slide your fingertips along his neck, not letting you out his sight as you sit on the smaller log next him.

His cigarette toys you between his lips, and you lean to brush your lips right above his jaw. He turns a bit more to your side, slides the log you sit on closer to his. And when you take his glove off your hand to give it to him, he only takes one to wear to the hand that’s not close to yours, and holds your bare hand with his unclothed one, then drapes his arm along your shoulders, that holds the cigarette. Moving it to your lips, eyes fixated on you, he has two vices again. You and the smoke. But you’re only here to get your only one back. Hand clasps the collar of his coat, this one is longer, a proper kiss, an impossibly slow caress on his cheek, closer to his lips this time. One that says thank you. You see his throat move when he hitches, leaves a long breath as he can’t contain it. He dulls the ember of the smoke in a second, then his hand finds your face, holding you to him by the pull of his arm threaded behind your shoulder. He steeples his fingers under your chin, moves his head, leans in, and stills when there’s only a breath’s width between your longing lips. And before he closes that, he looks at your expression. This close, you’re realer, truer, and ever so far still. Closed-eyed, waiting, wanting. He draws in your whine, holds it a second longer for his mind to never forget this moment too, along many others with you.  

How easily you got him wound up.

When he brings your lips together, his breath shudders. He surges forward, the cold tip of his nose digs on your cheek, and you taste your name as he groans it on your parting lips, hand on your chin winces, and reaches to your cheek, angling your head deeper onto him, his lips slip on yours without friction. Your hand on his collar falls down to his knee, and he turns fully towards you as you slither it up to his thigh, kissing as you hook your bare thumb around the clasp of his belt, feeling the band beneath the trousers. The rough surface sends frictions between your thighs when he pulls you towards him on the log you sit on, and you cling onto him tighter.

He parts with a sound of your wet lips separating, for a moment, brushes his thumbs on your gentle eyelids, warm cheeks. Searching for any sign on your face that disapproves, that doesn’t want this as much as he does. You only slip your cold palm under his t-shirt.

“God…”

A firm grip encircles your waist, and he scoops you bodily, rushes back in the one-room safehouse in tenacity.

You’ve been sleeping for long enough, and he always noticed. And a grasp, he pulls you forward, insistently rocks you off your sleep.

“Come here.”

Teeth on teeth, they clash and clatter and a candy floss tongue coats the cold, his arms finally find you. Both hugging you to him and soothing the windblow, but your skin is warm now, and you ache for a different fire. He devours your whiny hums, leads your hands slowly on where he wants it, where he knows you want to touch. The fire in the distance heats the side of your face and a shudder runs down your body as a soft noise escapes your lips, he keeps his eager lips on your neck, his shaky breath ruffles your hair as the hand on your back spreads his fingers, reaching to the bottom of his cloth on you, his thumb flicks the clasp of your bra, his little finger traces the waistband of your jeans, fumbling through skin and fabric. You help him, out his clothes, and stagger yourself forward to his broad chest. His eyes twinkle in the low light, and you feel your knuckles on where his belt meets his abdomen, running slowly towards, up his chest, then it’s not only knuckles, kissing as you move your hand up to his throat. He tilts his head as he takes you in, your hand with amused ardour, looking down at you, lips brushing your temple as he whispers your name onto your hair, a soft, breathy chuckle of surprise.

Until he misses your lips again, and when he does, he rises his hand to your jaw, turning your head up to him. Moving his hand back to your hair, and a little tug, he leans down.

He presses you forward without resistance from you, and you feel the worn mattress on your back, his kisses trail down your face as he follows down, feeling you with you, in a way that your past affairs feel like mockery to you. The arms around you move, are his fingers shaking?.. He’s tense, his cheek glides down your breast, plating a firm kiss on your chest, you hold onto his back and his hand dives down, under your jeans, feeling the cotton of your underwear. His forehead brushes against your jaw as he lets out a withering whimper, feeling your heat through your clothed core, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on the slick flush of your parted lips, rolling your bottom lip between his as he presses his open palm on your sopping cunt, pressing the heel of his palm on your swollen clit, tugging you in him, tugging your jeans down roughly, the button of it pops out and he almost rips the zipper, and he swallows your gasp, kisses you until your jaw can’t keep up.

Forever, just one more try than never. Maybe there is a way for you, not one of pleasantries, one without him if you try hard enough. For now, though, you stay engrained in the facets of his life, between whorls of his fingertips and everything else that caresses you of him. There is no way for you to leave, no way that you are not embedded in his devoid heart. His heartbeat mirrors yours and he has your breath to breathe in, and you feel it. You feel him everywhere, under the yellow hue of the barrel’s fire, under his body, over the lilting shadow on the wall, fingers deep inside you. Where his silhouette ends, yours begin, and he means it. Promises it, prays it, beneath honeyed words, in rhythmic intonation as he gives you every inch of his love. And you give such sweet noises that trickles down his earlobe, gently grazing with your teeth, drawing out antsy whimpers. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You were going to kill him one day. All with this exaltation he willingly offers at your feet, with the idolatry that evokes within him in your cashmere walls, if not with the way you suck him in, hold and pull his digits deep inside you. You overwhelm him, exhilarate him. “Aren’t you?”  

He keeps on, keeps on until you don’t feel like you are the ruler of your body, until you feel nothing but the transcendental bliss as you let out your high on his fingers, feel the coil in you arch, tighten and snap like harp strings. No one in the world has ever missed anyone like this. Lucky you.

He hums, and cradles his large palm on the side of your face, an unconscious spell moves and rests your head to it, he just smiles. He moves his drenched fingers along your lips, smears your essence on your parting lips, and invites his fingers in your warm mouth, threatening an oral fixation. Then he drags them out, pressing on your bottom lip, his wet fingers draw an invisible line that raises goosebumps on its way over your naked body, resting on the plush of your hip as he tastes you on your lips.

You nodded yes as he first asked you, and he acknowledges again. “You are… mmm… yes, you are.”

He keeps humming with his mouth slack on yours, entwining his hand along your thigh, switches your body on his. He’s not one to tell you with his words, to use and waste him, violate him softly, ruin him for anybody else as a kind coalescence of yours, but he tells you to “Keep going….  just­— fuck! Fuck, baby… keep going…”, an assuring gaze that is ice down your spine.  

And once, you heard as he thought you were sleeping, that he really, really, likes you. Very much, he added then. You grin at the memory, and how it picked this time for retrieval, thinking you never heard him. You clench yourself around his cock, steadying your palms on his shoulders, fuck him the way he tells you through the way his cut nails dig deeper onto your hips, reaching his palm along your spine as he pulls you toward him, kissing your lips, can’t keep sync as you ride him mercilessly. And you do, and you are.

—

He tells you things no one would dare say with their eyes open, and touches you, shows you yourself in a way you have never seen, all your beauty when the witnesses of your psyche are gone. Now, you feel the ghost of his touch along your back, fingertips massaging your nape, carding your hair, contemplating deeper. He lays beside you, pressing his nose on your shoulder blade as he steals a little kiss of your sumptuous skin.

“You asleep?”

-you take long enough before you decide to answer, so he just slips out an I love you.-

;;

Seeing snow lessening as the SUV drives away soothes her nerves. Watching an old man as he watches an old couple, hand in hand as they walk away. The strident, speedy bow of a violin, both pierces through her. Horses on a flatland, a singing smile and being someone’s Phaedra. Two coffee cups in one sink. Running around until the throat breathes sour, matching shapes on your childhood house’s ceiling, reading an old journal of yours. Two healthy fish in a full tank — mind alters the memories in coping. Balmy winter trees. Seconds and seasons. — like the day, just like the night. Like death, chasing them all. Like the never-ending games, all will end. You can’t hold the dying sun as it moves further away off your seat, but you can slant back in the backseat of the vehicle, looking at the driver’s seat, to him. Even better deal, you slide to the middle of the seat, resting your palm on the back of his seat, inch your face to his neck, and he drives. Breathe the vestiges of your scent off him in, press a placid smile on the tattoo of your initial under the fabric of his mask. Maybe you’ll not only love the winter days anymore.

[phramboise]

KATYUHA ur username change!!! :} so pretty

Thank you angel 🤍

[phramboise]

hades! konig and persephone! reader

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. abduction, voyeurism, dubcon, not very explicit smut.

notes: this has been on my mind for an eternity actually thank you sweet anon for finally encouraging me to write it out! if you celebrate, merry christmas! and if not consider this just a lil gift for absolutely no reason apart from for being my first Kö request. 💕

A hollow grows within him the moment his gaze meets hers. A chance crossing whilst collecting a rare offering of fruit laid out just for him. Most mortals wouldn’t beckon his attention, and the gods often left him just as well. He knows better than to take insult and become reckless, though… recklessness comes as easily as breathing when his stare settles on her across the glade. She twirls in silent dance, pirouetting carefully as if to avoid crushing the nature that springs up, brushing against her soles. Her voice picks up in a song when she notes the figure watching her from a distance, her cadence no less beautiful than any choir despite the flighty waver in her tone.

When the nymphs rise up from the stream to listen, he stands transfixed for a moment as they pull her in with them for a more elaborate dance, voices all melding until they break into a chorus of giggles and stories.

It should have been left at that.

She walks an earth made for her; flowers blossoming beneath her bare soles, each root extending for just a chance to brush against tender flesh, a breeze that flits gently against her hair. The daughter of Demeter, something unattainable, too precious to be dirtied by the howling abyss below her feet.

He is tethered to darkness and unknowns, an enigma with dried blood beneath his fingernails; the only songs he hears are screams. He’s since stolen flowers from the meadows she dances in. Beautiful peonies and soft green things that smell sweet. Flowers don’t bloom in the dark, they wither and dry.

Days are spent in melancholic longing, nights his roaring grief melds with the wailing of lost souls. Ugly and tainted noises that he dreams will reach her ears, that she will come to him with her lashes wet with tears, wrap him in her arms and quiet all but her own voice as she tells him that he’s more beautiful than her rivers and her blooms.

Yet, she never does.

König takes it upon himself to walk the land of mortals, teemed with life and pleasures more often now. He pulls himself from below with unnatural fire behind his eyes, a horrible, yearning abyss in place of the feathery, clumsy love that he’s watched so many others allow for themselves.

She notices him while he watches her bathe amongst the nymphs, stood upright and imposing beneath the shade of a tree. Each time, while the nymphs shy away with giggles and hands curled over their breasts, she merely keeps her eyes on him; lips-parted and pulse raging. He knows, would swear by it, that his obsession is not entirely one-sided.

Once, she chooses to wave at him, a demure flick of her wrist while his stare remains fixed upon her. The droplets of water from the curve of her neck, down to the swell of her breasts and the pebbled nipples there— down, further into the water that envelopes her and sends his mind to flicker, a roaring flame building from his chest to his groin.

All of his frustrations pale and cower at the fantasy that he just may be able to grant himself the liberty of sinking into something writhing and warm from just one, simple gesture.

He knows he’s fucked, because his first thought after the lullaby of attraction subsides is to poke her just a little; prod her and see what makes her cry the hardest, blanket her in the shadow of himself and pick her apart like a vulture to a cadaver, do things to her that no man ever has or should. It’s not right, and he has to force himself to turn away, the fabric of the veil obscuring his face as he slinks back into the dark where he belongs. Away from the untouchable maiden who seems to haunt him endlessly with her teasing.

The giggles and splashes of the nymphs whisper through the air like the chirping of birds. Though, one voice stands out above the rest of the noise, causes him to halt in his tracks.

“Why does he never speak to us?”

Her voice, so sweet, asking about him when she should be speaking of nothing but the beauty surrounding her, the warmth of the sun and never the cold darkness of the moon.

It’s eating away at him, he realizes, when he can no longer satisfy himself. Nights lain in a haze, staring up at blackened walls with his length in hand. All it takes is the memory of wet lashes and a soft smile, usually. Her beauty is enough to bring even him to his knees, yet, he finds himself instead on the brink of hysteria the first night he finds a vision of her is not sufficient enough to reach the brilliant white haze of a climax.

The thought of stealing her away from her world of beauty to drag her down into the dark with him fills him with both elation and a terrible guilt. Zeus himself is no different; the thought shouldn’t warrant a seeping coldness in his veins, nor should it have caused him to spill his seed into his hand with only a mere flick of the pad of his thumb over his tip, yet it accomplishes both. A waste, when it should be buried deep inside of his beloved.

It takes only two nights for him to plot, to have Gaia choose to favor him, and on the third day the Narcissus flower blooms, pretty and golden. It echoes false promises, softness and beauty beyond even the daughter of Demeter’s imaginations. She will hate him, she will. Her very soul will sour the moment she lays her eyes on him next, but eventually… she will come to understand, return his love with a whisper of her own. Lightly, at best, but it would still be more than he had ever known.

He watches the roots of the plant from below, a pinprick of warm light shining down. The thumps of footsteps overhead, shaking down loose soil like raindrops, giggles like crackling thunder. She’s roaming about with her nymphs again, gentle with her and all of her beauty. After watching her for so very long, he’s more than certain they will be braiding the flowers and falling asleep after fits of laughter with the taste of fruit on their tongues. Only, she’s condemned herself by being so predictable. She will fall, not into soft grasses with a woman’s arms thrown over her, but directly into his own. She won’t eat the fruit of the earth, but drink his wine and allow him to lose himself in her flesh, bedded down against the pelts of beasts and blackened out by shadows.

The wait isn’t long. Her voice breaks through the quiet of the earth below her feet, seems to light up even the space between the two of them as her footfalls halt only several paces away.

“Look at this one!,” she calls out.

Several steps follow after her as one of the ladies of the river comes to join her. He imagines the smile on his beloved’s face, the way her body curves as she kneels down to his trap and his fingers twitch in anticipation of what’s to come.

“Maybe not that one, sweet,” the nymph warns. “There are prettier ones by the bank.”

König can feel his jaw tighten, eyelids pausing to narrow up at the small light as he tries, forces himself to believe that this was fated. She wouldn’t turn away— she couldn’t.

“No... just look at it. We’ve not seen one so lovely since last spring.”

“What if someone else planted it for themselves?”

“But… I want it.”

She sounds so pitiful, so gentle, and he can feel that swell of heat curling inside of him again. The urge to simply love her feels all-consuming with each word that passes from her mouth.

The two above giggle to themselves at her mischief, before finally, the roots begin to move from a gentle tug above. In a matter of seconds, the entire plant has been uprooted. For a daughter of nature to not long for its beauty would be unrealistic, yet he still exhales his relief. The earth riots beneath the women’s feet, splintering cracks and loud discordance echo through the valley. The nymph’s shrieks join the disarray as her featherlight footfalls lead her far, far away from what belongs to him: the dark, the rot, and now her.

With so little time to react, she falls headfirst into the abyss, clutching the narcissus tightly between her soft breasts. Waiting arms are raised to the glimpse of sun and beauty to catch her as he pulls her tightly against his chest, tucks her head against a broad shoulder and grasps at her waist. Whatever he had imagined her flesh to feel like paled in comparison to her warmth, the softness that gives with each press of a digit that makes her tense beneath his touch.

She’s crying, shaking, terrified as she weakly raises her head and offers him a smile. It’s the kind of smile that screams savior, and he can’t bring himself to correct her. No one has ever looked at him with such tenderness.

Everything quiets the moment she looks up to him like that, after condemning herself to him as though she knows nothing of men and gods. She looks at him like he’s an angel, in turn he bites his tongue so hard he can feel the pinpricks of blood and soreness blossom from the wound. He knows he isn’t good, but the heavens have got their filth, too.

“Thank you.” She speaks in a whisper as the world above falls back into place, blanketing them both in shadow and the scent of soil and brimstone. Politeness seems unnecessary, now, though he places her gently onto her feet.

He’s far too mesmerized to stop himself from dropping to his knees in front of her and trailing a hand from her knee to her thigh, squeezing flesh so warm that the very feeling lingers pleasantly against his palm.

If a god couldn’t pluck him from this emptiness and set him on a right path, perhaps a goddess could, as he has always imagined. It’s only confirmed the instant he realizes she isn’t flinching away from his touch.

“I didn’t save you,” he explains calmly.

He’s struck down titans, claimed rulership over the underworld, and yet nothing has made him feel smaller than the fretful look in her eyes as she looks down to him kneeling before her like little more than a common man. As if to provide comfort, selfishly to himself, his massive hands drift higher to rest on her hips still wet with river water and blades of grass clinging to her just as he has longed to do. For what’s felt like an eternity of waiting, of pining, only to have it end with something as simple as a flower.

“I brought you here.”

She’s still beautiful when she cries; a palm is clasped over her mouth, eyes swimming as she trembles in his grip. Of course, she knows what this is about without ever having to ask, yet she still does as if to plead him to tell her that her thoughts are all wrong— that she’s safe and will return to her lovely friends, to her mother that would assuredly be worried sick and furious.

The rise to his feet feels like a mile long stretch, whilst he keeps her caged between the dirty wall and the vast expanse of chest. He shushes her with a gentle tone, wipes her tears away with the ghosting of fingertips before pushing up the veil covering his face to lie claim to her mouth as though his very life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. Though he did not fear Demeter, nor his brothers should she call upon them, he feared not having this ethereal, gentle thing at his side. He feared the creep of loneliness that ravaged his bed each night.

She sighs against his mouth, but does not reciprocate. Everything about her is tense and stressed, a wild mare preparing to kick out for the first time. His tongue lolls out to lap against her soft lips, just twice before he forces himself to part from her.

His beloved brushes away stray tears from her cheeks with the meat of her palms, shivering just a little as she tries to force herself to straighten up, appear braver despite the way she teeters on the edge of falling apart so easily before him. The heavy gaze of obsession fixed upon his face turns further predacious when she apologizes for not being able to help herself in response.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” she explains, holding out the ruined flower to him in one, shaking hand. She protests in her own way, eternally kind, but it all falls on deaf ears as he brushes the petals from her palm and takes her up into his arms again. With an arm beneath the backs of her knees and the other wrapped tightly around her middle, he leads her deeper into the underworld.

A mere taste wouldn’t do.

Her protests are nothing more than soft sniffles when he does take her to his bed of pelts, her arm even thrown over his shoulder as her body presses tightly to him. He thinks for only a moment that he could take his time, stop this all before she truly does grow to loathe him, but the descent into the bed only fortifies his resolve; his belief that this gentle woman of the earth, who smells of magnolia and clear waters belonged entirely to him. For now and forevermore.

“You are to be my wife.”

That quiets her for a moment, her eyes finally meeting his once more as he hovers over her, a palm to either side of her head. She has a mind to shyly curl her hand against her chest then, centered between her breasts which rise and fall with each flighty breath. It’s not panic, but more— curiosity, a misleading thing that he takes to be acceptance until she graces him with a mere murmur of her voice again.

“I don’t belong here.”

König knows that she doesn’t belong in a place like this, for all her grace to be lost to the cold, the rot; his kingdom is nothing but a wasteland riddled with the dead and subjects who take up the mantle of cruelty in his stead. The thought of actually allowing her to go instills rage and melancholy so quickly, he curls his fingers into the fur below to keep himself from flinching.

“You will.”

A digit reaches to trail across her bottom lip, tentative, but the need to touch overwhelms him past the point of caring for much else. To his amazement, she still does not push him away.

“How could that be?”

He doesn’t respond.

More than bedding her, a matter more pressing pushes to the forefront of his mind. Though he knows the likelihood of anyone being aware of her disappearance is nonexistent, a mere whisper from the beaks of crows by this time, he would do well to ensure that she wasn’t leaving. Just as every other soul resigned to dwell here with him, she too would remain.

“You’re famished,” he whispers the suggestion as he splays a palm out over her bare abdomen, only backing away enough to allow her a small length of space between them.

Her concerned stare shoots from his palm to his veil in an instant before she weakly nods her head and props herself up on her elbows.

“Quite… yes.”

She allows herself to be pulled into his lap without a fuss, doesn’t make mention of the hardened cock beneath her. His mind is swimming with the fantasies that kept him tame on so many nights without her as he presses his nose against her temple. A shallow intake of breath, and her lips part readily for him as he pushes the sweet pomegranate seed into her mouth, savoring the brush of her tongue against his fingertip. She eats without thought, never knowing how she’s tethered herself to his plane.

There’s an offering of sweet wine followed by a gathering of honeysuckle for her to sip the nectar from as well before he’s convinced she’s pliant enough. Despite the desire raging within him for all of this time, he would not be cruel to her. The thought of hurting this sweet, little dream doesn’t excite him. It’s her love that he wants, not her anguish.

He lies her back with sweet whispers, gentle caresses as he listens to her murmurs in response. She speaks of the stories only small creatures would know; the way the winds change and the rivers flood, the prettiest places she’s been. No fruit has ever tasted sweeter to her than the pomegranate, and nothing has ever filled him with such emotion as the moment he penetrates her.

He speaks to her through it, tries to, whilst he’s overcome with a pleasure that assuredly no other has ever had the blessing of. She affixes herself perfectly to him, clinging to him as he takes her with gentle thrusts. Gritted teeth and barely contained grunts are met with dulcet mewls as her hands reach for his. His heart aches, truly, at the knowledge that she isn’t meant for this place; his kingdom is nothing but suffering, and she belongs beneath the sun in meadows of flowers. His last thrust is deep, reminds him of the places he dares not tread often, the domains of his brothers, pillow soft clouds and a heaven far above, lost to him.

It’s her consoling him when he fills her to bursting with his seed— delicate arms curling around his head, cradling him against her breasts as she silenced the tears he hadn’t even realized he had shed. He had damned her, yet her soul had not soured; not all flowers withered in the dark.

The endless night is easier on his beloved after the first. She visits with the other souls and comes to him for comfort when the screams and cries in the darkness become too much to bear. She’s less fragile than he had anticipated when she demands he bring her home, and those demands so often end with little else than König taking her into his arms to lead her elsewhere. The underworld can be beautiful too, when seated upon a throne being hand fed by a man that knows little more than to blanket her in as much softness as he can muster. He tells her of the titanomachy, of the white tree, of anything to keep her entertained. His tongue does not shy from telling her that he loves her, too, often met with a shy glance or a soft giggle. Not outright disdain, and for now it feels enough.

She cries often, in longing for her mother and her friends, though never over this love she had never sought herself. Her loneliness only fuels her need for comfort. Selfishly, he believes that he’s saved the night she willingly wraps her arms around him, pulls him close and falls asleep nestled against his chest.

— — —

With the reliance on mortal offerings and Demeter’s anguish having been brought to light with seasons of failed harvests, it was only a matter of time before she was forced away from him. The months without her feel dreadful and empty, but he doesn’t dare disturb her while she walks the earth at her mother’s side. The agreement was beneficial for all of the gods and goddesses, and he knew better than to tread upon it by rushing to her like little more than a pleading dog. When winter took hold, bathing the lands in its icy touch and withering the plants she cherished and freezing over the rivers her nymphs played in, she would return to him as she must.

Each time is different. His beloved is not simply a thoughtless vessel as many of his subordinates. She is the most incredible thing he’s ever had the joy of meeting.

When she returns in tears, calling to him for his comfort he does not hesitate to kiss them all away and remind her that her summers will return and everything above will be just as it was on the day that he brought her below.

Sometimes, she’s angry, jealous even. She asks him often why he doesn’t come to see her while she’s away. He is her husband, after all. Was there anyone else in which he spent his nights with? Someone fairer than even she? The satisfaction of seating her on his cock, satisfying her as she does him on their shared throne far out rivals even ruling the domain itself. He would do anything to prove to her that she was his only; the sole thing he even thought of whilst her mind was filled with new songs and tales from the nymphs she spent her time away with.

Never has she returned with a gift.

Yet, she stumbles back into his realm clutching a small satchel, dripping with the scent of a juice sweet and familiar. A pleasant smile paints her features as she seats herself next to him on the throne. The bench of marble felt far too vast and dreadful to hold someone so delicate, the sight is something he’s grown accustomed to; emptiness is replaced with familiarity seeing her interact with anything here. It may not be home to her, but something in the way she looks to him— as she always had with tenderness, makes him question if a part of her sees him as home.

“I’ve brought something back for you,” she chimes as she pats her thigh.

Each time was different, but it had never been like this before.

He pulls himself to her side before slumping down to rest his head against her, tracing his fingertips along the length of her leg as his gaze drops almost sheepishly.

“Did you?”

She hums in reply, plucking one of the seeds from the satchel before slipping her hand beneath the veil to feed him. His lips part as he takes in the flavor of the aril, the honeyed taste almost akin to the look in her eyes.

“Just like…” She trails off for a moment as she lowers her head to press a kiss to the cheek of his veiled face. The delicate laugh that follows is unlike any he’s heard from her prior, it’s unique, saved solely for him.

“The six that I fed to you?” He asks her quietly, as he pulls himself away from her to meet her eyes directly. The air around them feels thick, loosely charged with a feeling that he can’t quite place; an intensity that he’s never felt before. Any groaning or wailing off in the abyss is silent now, just quiet words spoken.

Things have always felt warmer since her descent, but he’s learned to not expect anything more than she was willing to give. Still, hope cinches his heart tighter than it ever did prior. Even in battle, slaying his father alongside his brothers, he had never felt his heart race the way it does now.

She nods her head, opening up the satchel just wide enough to reveal the other five arils.

“I don’t think that I understand.”

“You should.”

He mulls over that for a moment before the fog finally clears. Any doubt that he had is remedied by a mere two words. He stares at her dumbly, searching her eyes for any hint that this is some horrible, cruel trick; that the implication is something he’s horribly misunderstood.

She couldn’t possibly come to love him… could she?

“To tie you to me,” she says softly.

The smile remains on her face when she closes the distance to kiss him. Not over the veil, but beneath it this time.

Her descent was one of a selfish longing, and his felt as though he was plunging into a world of flowers.

[phramboise]

L’heure bleue on a bad day, black and milds on a good, waltzing on her skin. Russian cream and your shampoo, along with the undeniable dust. She’s smiling today, eyes shady, and you taste the citrus sugar of her lip balm, and her blackberry tea, persimmon. Whistles Oui Oui Marie only because it has your name in it, and slithers around the house like the ghost she is, vanishes up the stairs. The dog is sleeping still, and her so called friends never called after.

heart's blood in ink — lieutenantjohnpricexfemale reader

you’re half of the flesh, and blood makes him feel whole

minors please do not interest, angst, very detailed substance use, addiction, strong language, blood, illusions of smut, descriptions of a physically weak reader. 1.5k words…

…

“Do you mind?”

“Of course I do.”

“Fuck off then.”

Says her, pulling out the little clear zip lock out the cardholder of her wallet, turning it inside out, rubbing the empty contents pooled around the corners along her runny nostrils, and following behind him as the package slips off her hand, onto the floor.

That’s expected, and him knowing she will follow behind, his steps are slower than usual for her to catch up, looking askance at her slanky arm around his much larger one, and sighs as he wraps that arm around her shoulder, pulling her side towards his until they meet.

“Getting worse?”

Her humming yes, he breathes in her perfume as she stuffs her wallet back in her bag. He takes it off her arm to carry it himself.

Tightening his hold on her, he turns them both back over the street where they came from.

“I’ll get you a spray.”

No answer. Only a slight squeeze on his hand which holds her shoulder, walks alongside of him.

…

Never once he asks her why she snorts, or tells her to quit it, but sometimes, most times, as she cathces him siphoning the bags, and even as she undoubtedly dives her hand in the toilet to grab the pearl dust back and fails, they argue about it. Never tells her to quit it, but always telling her some way. Fuck off then! she shouts, but just like her lover, she also means things which she speaks not about.

Burnt and wet, her stillettos clack against the pebble sidewalk as a few homeless burn things to warm up in the distance. Street lights work every other day in this part of Liverpool, and there’s rust to breathe when there’s no oxygen. Perfect excuse for her. It’s this city that clogs her nasal vessels, this place is just not her lucky city. But even in summer, and even when people don’t burn synthetics, her nose is always runny.

How come you’re the only one who’s sick each season then? You’re just making that up.

Slowly pushing open the door of her maisonette, -her maisonette that he pays the rent for- her borzoi inside still sleeps soundly on her only couch. She slips out the leather jacket of his, and it falls on the dusty floor with a clanking sound of its zipper, and he makes no effort to hang it either, follows her dainty steps towards the kitchen, placing a few dabs on the sleek fur of the dog, on his way.

“Let’s see if that’s any better.”

It’s not the cold that gets your nose running.. “Here, let me…”

He leans over her to get equal on her height, but then smiles, his strong grip puts her on the kitchen table with both hands on her sides, sitting on the chair himself to look up at her face. Delicate feet land on the cushion of his chair, between his thighs as he spreads them, sliding further on his seat until her cool skin teases the stitch of his trousers. They both grin like idiots— that is, until their gaze breaks with her coughing, which makes him slide the thin pipe of the spray up her nose, spraying it through her nostrils as she holds her breath, feeling his other hand on her thigh. She rubs her nose, and he hates that such simple gest reminds him of something much more distasteful, for he always sees her do it.

It’s one of those days, where he once more realises of her frailty. The spray is halfway dripping out her nose as she wipes it away, but that’s not all, it’s not only a clear liquid that stains her hand, it’s more than that, it trails down her palm, wraps around her fingers in rivulets. Still looking at him -and because it’s not very rare now-, she does not notice her nose bleeding. His little smile dies on his face, and the chair creaks as he harshly pulls back, not in anger but in ruin, defeat. She looks down at her fingers, not even able to smell the copper, and they both know the reason of her weak sense of smell is not her “cold”.

Pinching does not help with her case, it makes it worse, for her vessels are already swollen with cocaine, pressing only hurts, makes blood gush out stronger. She only breathes in the blood, and coughs the rest on the napkin he hands her, staining the rough paper. She avoids his weary gaze as he leans back on his chair, tilting his head back up the ceiling until her troubled face exits his peripheral.

What would get her to understand? Would one day if he were to flush down all her little bags, leaving only catharsis to her get her to understand? If he were to pull out her wig, tell her somehow that even when the lights are low, she wears sunglasses for her eyes are sensitive and it pains him to not see her pupils, even when they’re dilated all black in rush, cocaine eyes, would she finally quit if he were to tell her it feels like hugging a skeleton holding her?

Do you think I want this to happen?!

She’d freeze all over, and her nose would bleed again as blood rushes to her face, crying, and some more hair would fall as she would throw her wig to some distant corner of the room. She’d cry more for that.

And as he gives her a soothing hug, why do you make me cry if you’ll hug me in the end? Fuck off, she’d say, and rub her bloody chin on his shirt. They’d make love and wake up to the next same day.

He does not ask her to quit, and she does not wait for such offer.

He rises from his seat, walking towards the little balcony, waking the dog deliberately to fill the displeasing silence. For it to run and defeat the ghosts around. It simply lays by the couch.

Night goes on so very slow, and his uncomfortable silence gets interrupted as she walks in the balcony, leaning against her arms over the railings, looking down before turning back to him.

Full moon, he’d watch her as she snakes her arms behind his neck, kissing his cheeks sorry, and he’d tilt his head for their lips to meet, she’d feel his tongue in her mouth, and his taste would suppress the ting of blood mixed with mouthwash she uses religiously. For him to not taste it too. She’d shed tears as they kiss, and he would catch them between his lips. He’d imagine her undressing, taking off his clothes later, slipping into the bed with him. An indolent sigh. She’d imagine his heat entering each nook. She’d cry, and he’d kiss each cranny where only the sun kissed. All day he’d think of her.

She’d promise to quit later in the night, as the effect wears off, but she’d always need another reminder of it’s highs, another sniff. She’d take pills to fall asleep and he’d smoke the cigars she bought for him, saying it looks better than cigarettes, I smoke them for the looks. They’d exchange the smokes between their welcoming lips, sealing it with a kiss. She’d steal it off his hand, smoking the rest as she’d sing him to sleep, some low blues. He’d let her.

They even have a sick bet between them; who’d die first? He says it’s himself to not upset her, and she says it’s him for there’s no way she’d die before a man who goes battling -and to not accept the inevitable-.

No one wins this bet.

If he were to see himself down the street one day, he would have a many few words with him. Having no lessons of what had befallen on you, isn’t it already enough to try running when this last love hasn’t died yet? Isn’t it enough ruin already? Do you not think? Do you think you can ever forget about her?

If he were to see her walking down the street on another day, he would tear the face of death after her, spinning. She would laugh at him, and walk away, away and far from him. He would follow behind.

…

If he were to ask her though, she does it because she’s done with this world, and she cannot carry him along to the world she’s running to. This fire ain’t worth accepting with open arms, thus she’d given up from this world, she’s done with it. But she’s leaving him behind, and that kills her faster than this white crap. Her only prayer would be him never dreaming of her after, she wouldn’t mind if he were to forget about her. In the lowest deep of a lower deep, the hell she suffers feels like heaven, and that’s what she would tell him if he were to ever ask.

…

Now laying under this lady with similar features she had but somehow looks a whole lot of different, he’d imagine it’s her who he just made out with, and as the lady asks so politely with her sultry voice, can I take a puff?, he’d tell her to sleep.

[phramboise]

murder to excellence — königxgn!reader

you know he’s going to pull the trigger eventually, how kind of him to wait a little longer. 💋

detailed torture (?), angst, hints of lovers to enemies, blood, character death, strong language, MDNI, 888 words, no gender related affirmations, no “y/n”s

“zehn,”

Everybody knows he’s cruel. Now that you’re tied onto the chair with ropes cutting your joints, you are once more aware. With his figure looming over you, his head almost brushes the light bulb hanging down the ceiling, he could kill you on the spot. He could crush your skull with his bare hands and it would be no sweat to him, he would sickly enjoy it. A ruthless monster.

“neun,”

Your body winces in pain, the knife draws down on your skin, a trail of blood follows along. He tuts, such a pity, he says. You shake uncontrollably, fever takes over you. Such waste you will be. Blood drips down your chin with every drop of rusty water leaking from the ceiling above your head. They move in sync, both taking the heat off your body, sending you into a frenzy.

The room smells like dust, coppery with blood pooling around your heels, wall paint and gunpowder. This is the end, you think. Would you even survive at this state even if he were to let you go? You highly doubt that.

“acht,”

“It’s infected.” He digs deeper into the bullet wound on your shoulder with the metal pipe in his hand, it throbs, and you can smell the wrenching liquid if you lean your head towards it. It feels like your heart pulsates all over your body, “How long has it been? The bullet’s twisting inside you. You’d need this arm amputated to live. That is, if you tell me what I want.” Shut up and just end it already.

You’ve lost feeling on your fingertips of your injured arm days ago. Feeling it with your other hand, the skin is cooler, and you don’t even feel a single tingling, not even when you pinch it with all the remains of your power. It’s obvious that he pities you, he didn’t even bother tying your hands together. He knows you cannot make it.

He’s not halfway done yet.

“sieben,”

Your ears ring as he slaps your face, the leather of his gloves imprinted on your cheek. Your head falls down. You feel the soft flesh bleeding inside your mouth, seeing the teeth on it now lay on the concrete floor. Tongue dancing over it, now blood fills your mouth too. It’s surprising that you have this much of it in you.

Is it better to speak or to die?

You never try.

“sechs,”

He’s not that gone in the brain, he does not enjoy watching you groan in pain, maybe just a little, for the limitless authority it provides. He can do anything he wants to you. He could waste his bullets on you, he could reload and do it over and over even with one being enough to kill you. He could take the air off your writhing throat, make you go limp with one hand wrapped around your delicate neck. He can just snap it, he can just slit it.

“fünf,”

Then, what’s stopping him? You’re not the vision he imagines in his dreams anymore, no. You’re a traitor. A bloody spy with a regret-filled past, tearing things just for the thrill. Look at you now. Tied helplessly for months. “Just tell me what I need, I’ll spare you. I truly mean to spare you.” You think he means it, that he’s beneath you, even now. He does not, and he surely isn’t.

Those days are long past gone.

Still, you’re one tough shit. Never parting lips, never making a word out. He decides to ask first. He’s been meaning to. Your lips twitch before putting on a smile as he tries to shake his thoughts off.

“Why?”

“It’s nothing personal, Liebling. Just business.” Last sentence can’t make it vocal, coarse feel of your throat barely makes it above a whisper.

He’s not good at reading people. All his life he believed the words they say are the ones they truly mean. He doesn’t get better this time either. He doesn’t need to anymore.

You’re the monster. A fucking siren that lured him into possessions he never thought he would experience, thinking you would get away without him realising you’ve been fooling him all this time.

He’s recluse indeed, but never is a coward.

You think you win. Can you ever?

“vier,”

He’s in a haze. He knew from the beginning what you are, yet he couldn’t stop himself from partaking in the compulsion you offer. He felt it on your skin, tasted it on your lips. The more venomous the feeling, the more it ignited.

Back then. Now he’s aware. That wasn’t love. That was an illusion. He was desperate back then to feel something, and you were there, giving it to him. He mistook it back then.

Not now, no.

“drei,”

Your head moves up as he grabs your chin firmly, lifting your head more than harsh, eyes meeting yours. You see, there’s no remorse when he looks down at you. Once with compassion, now with hatred. You missed the thin line, went overboard. You lost.

“zwei,”

You see the slight tilt of his head, and the twitch at the corner of his eye. Forehead meets the muzzle of the pistol, the one you gifted him, it’s cold against your skin.

He’s never felt worthy of love anyway.

“eins.”

He pulls the trigger.

...

[phramboise]

one shots

⡷⠂collector* 🔗 3.1k words :: latest

SIMONRILEYXFEM!READER- Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? Find nourishment in the very sight of you? You think so. But would you see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?

⡷⠂ murder to excellence 🔗 0.8k words

KÖNIGXREADER- you know he’s going to pull the trigger eventually, how kind of him to wait a little longer.

⡷⠂ heart’s blood in ink 🔗 1.5k words

LIEUTENANTJOHNPRICEXFEM!READER- you’re half of the flesh, and blood makes him feel whole.

⡷⠂ only lovers left alive* 🔗 3.3k words

SIMONRILEYXFEM!READER- you’ve been sleeping for long enough, and he always noticed. maybe you’ll not only love the winter days anymore.

⡷⠂ risqué mistress of morbidity* 🔗 4.1k words

CAPTAINJOHNPRICEXFEM!READER- My risque mistress of morbidity—  how you have silenced my insanity!

⡷⠂ the dry salvages 🔗 0.7k words

CAPTAINJOHNPRICEXFEM!READER- is it smoking he hates?

⡷⠂ story to tell on your skin 🔗 0.7k words

JOHNPRICEXFEM!READER- a little comfort blurb.

* means for nsfw, and many of these revolve around negative themes, so thread carefully. Please mind the tags.

in progress

⡷⠂de profundisJOHNPRICEXFEM!READERred for filth141XFEM!READERsugarhiccupSOAPXGHOSTXFEM!READERwhite nightsJOHNPRICEXFEM!READER

[phramboise]

Hi! I just came across your works and Oh. My. God? 🫠

You have the most beautiful writing I have ever seen. Definition of UNDERRATED. 😭 Do you plan on making a masterlist? 🥹 No pressure ofc!

Hi. You are an angel, I can’t articulate words to ever describe how reading this made me feel, thank you dearly.

For the masterlist, I plan on it, I’m trying to post it as soon as I can. 🤍