#NOPE I GOT IT

[cosmospoons]

teamed up w @makinghappy to create this

+bonus

[puppyeared]

What did they do to you

[sensitiveheartless]

Written followup to the horrors comic! It got away from me lol. Most of it's under the cut, cause this part is also a bit long.

~*~

Minutes passed by on the quiet moonlit dock.

Despite the renewed serenity of the night, Chuuya’s heart continued to race sickeningly fast. It hammered away in his chest, as if unable to fully grasp that the danger had passed.

His clothes were heavy and waterlogged, so cold against his skin that he could barely keep from shivering. Icy trickles ran down the back of his neck and dripped from his hair.

Closing his eyes didn’t help. There were far too many twisted corpses engraved in the darkness whenever he blinked. So he kept his eyes open, staring at the planks beneath them as he tried to steady his breathing.

Don’t think about it, Chuuya told himself. Don’t think about them.

Instead, he forced himself to remain in the present moment. Beneath the planks, he could hear the swell of the ocean waters, each wave lapping at the posts in a quiet rhythm. Salt filled his lungs with every breath, the heavy tang of the sea-soaked wood wafting around him.

And against his chest was Dazai’s head, a steady and grounding pressure. His ear rested over Chuuya’s heart, his arms still tight around him.

In that position, Dazai must have been able to hear how hard Chuuya’s heart was pounding—but surprisingly, he didn’t remark upon it. He remained utterly silent.

In return, Chuuya didn’t say a word about the almost crushing strength of Dazai’s arms where they wrapped around his middle. Dazai’s fingers were digging into his ribs, twin rows of sharp pressure, and Chuuya could feel them shaking.

Dazai’s hair was coarse where Chuuya’s cheek rested against it. Back in the day, before Dazai’s defection, he never bothered with conditioner. It seemed some things never changed, even in the light.

For one wild moment, Chuuya wished that he wasn’t wearing a pair of gloves—then he could bury his bare fingers in Dazai’s hair and see if it was as tangled as it looked. And, perhaps, warm himself up. Dazai was like a radiator against him, heat seeping through Chuuya’s drenched layers of clothes at every point of contact, but his gloves remained cold, the sodden leather chilling him to the bone. His joints ached as he uncurled his fingers from around Dazai’s shoulders.

Perhaps it would be worth it to just…indulge for a moment, if only to have something else to needle Dazai about. Really, the man needed to learn how to groom himself properly one of these days.

As Chuuya’s hand hovered indecisively over Dazai’s head, however, he realized that his heart rate had already evened out. While he was reminiscing about Dazai’s damn mess of hair, of all things.

Ridiculous. But that meant that there was absolutely no excuse for the two of them to remain wrapped around each other any longer. Dazai’s shivering seemed to have calmed as well.

“We should—” Chuuya’s voice cracked when he tried to speak, so he paused and cleared his throat before going on. “We should make sure it’s really gone. I don’t want that thing getting the jump on me again.”

Dazai tensed, and his grip tightened so much that for a moment Chuuya could scarcely breathe.

“Oi. C’mon, you need to let me up,” Chuuya wheezed, swatting at Dazai’s shoulder. He strained his neck to look down at the head buried against his chest, a pang of something that was surely exasperation tightening his throat. “I need to be able to reach it, Dazai.”

Dazai remained still for another long moment, then abruptly loosened his grip. Instead of letting Chuuya up, however, he pushed him down to sit on the damp planks, and rose to his feet himself.

“I’ll go,” Dazai said quietly, and strode past Chuuya towards the small, oval mirror where it lay shattered on the dock.

Right. It did make sense to have Dazai touch it first, in case it was an ability that could be nullified.

…But what if it’s not? What if it’s something like Lovecraft? Dazai will be defenseless, Chuuya thought, and instinctively started to his feet as well.

“Stay back,” Dazai said sharply, without even turning to look. He was standing over the mirror, staring down at it. “Don’t move forward until I say so.”

Chuuya scowled, but remained in place. He watched as Dazai bent down and extended a careful hand towards the shards of glass.

One tap, with the tip of a finger. Then another, less cautious tap against the side of the wooden frame. Then another, and another, Dazai’s touches moving systematically across every inch of shattered glass and broken wood.

Nothing happened.

Dazai breathed out, and stepped back. “There. You are now welcome to crush it into dust,” he said lightly, waving Chuuya forward.

His head was still downturned, his eyes cast in the shadow of his bangs as Chuuya walked past him to do the deed.

It was with deep pleasure that Chuuya pressed each little bit of the mirror into nothingness, grinding it down with the overwhelming weight of gravity.

After it was done, Chuuya scattered the dust into the ocean waters below. “What the fuck was that thing, anyway?” he asked, turning back to face the other.

When he turned, however, he found Dazai had moved to sit on the edge of the dock, his legs dangling off the edge.

His back was facing Chuuya. It seemed deliberate.

At first, Dazai didn’t respond to Chuuya’s question. The silence stretched long enough that Chuuya began to shiver again, the cold wind cutting through his damp clothes.

“…A Face Like Glass,” Dazai said at last. “That’s what the ability was called.”

“So it was a gifted,” Chuuya muttered. He walked to Dazai’s side, and dropped down beside him with a heavy sigh. “That mean the user is still out there somewhere?”

“No,” Dazai said softly. “She died some time ago, I’m afraid.”

Chuuya looked at him sharply. “What?”

There wasn’t much light by which to see, but Chuuya knew Dazai’s face like the back of his own hand. Better, probably. And he could tell that the detective’s features had gone unnaturally still.

It was how Dazai looked whenever he was unsure of how much he should give away. Typically his poker faces were more natural, but when he was strongly conflicted, he would simply go blank.

“Explain,” Chuuya said, crossing his arms. “That thing almost killed me, I think I ought to know what it was.”

That got a reaction. Dazai’s lips twitched downward and he looked away, hiding his face from Chuuya once again.

After another lingering pause, however, he finally began to talk.

“A Face Like Glass was the ability of a woman named Hardinge,” Dazai said, as blandly as if he were reciting a history lesson. “She could reflect the darkest thoughts of anyone who looked into that mirror of hers, and give those thoughts physical form. Quite literally a nightmare to deal with, as one can imagine. She was the terror of England. However, after she rose to prominence, the mirror began to behave a bit oddly.

“The more renowned Hardinge became, the more people began to fear her ability. She kept the exact details of the mirror shrouded in mystery, so her enemies were always speculating what horrors it might do to them next.

“Naturally, over time, their darkest thoughts became consumed with fear of the mirror itself. And when Hardinge reflected those thoughts, manifesting them into reality…well. You can imagine what happened.”

Chuuya’s hands formed fists in his lap, so tight the leather of his gloves creaked. His fingers were somehow even colder than before. “A runaway effect,” he said. Despite his best efforts, his voice came out rough. “A singularity.”

“Quite,” Dazai said. “The heights of human imagination should never be underestimated. The more powerful anyone imagined the mirror was, the more powerful it became. When their fears manifested, their imaginations ran ever more wild with terrifying possibilities. Which it would also reflect. And so on, and so on. The only one who could control it was Hardinge herself, stopping the runaway cycle by covering the mirror. She acted as a control for the ability for many years, preventing it from going too far.

“But one day, one of her enemies had the dubiously clever idea to turn the mirror back on Hardinge herself. Which, ordinarily, would have been a mere scare tactic. I’m sure their only intent was to make her hesitate to use the mirror by making her own fears manifest.

“However, that is not what happened. Keep in mind, Hardinge had been watching this ability of hers grow with each battle she fought, gaining strength after strength, only barely containing it with her efforts. Sometimes it must have seemed so powerful that it nearly eclipsed her own self.

“Anyone would be frightened of that. It can’t be surprising that her darkest thoughts contained the fear that her mirror would one day consume her.”

Silence stretched, frigid and fragile as ice.

“…So her own ability ate her,” Chuuya said flatly.

“Yes,” Dazai said. “And without anyone left to contain it, the mirror was unleashed.”

Chuuya rubbed wearily at his temples. “Okay. Then how did it get here? To Yokohama?”

“From what I hear, Hardinge was not popular with the Order of the Clock Tower,” Dazai said. “She had gone into hiding here when her ability overtook her. The Special Operations Division then sent out operatives to contain it.”

Chuuya raised his head. “Oh. They’re involved? Wait, does that mean…was that ex-drinking buddy of yours the one who told you all this?”

Dazai nodded, and Chuuya could faintly make out a crooked smile on his lips in the darkness. “Ango called to warn me of its escape. They had done everything they could to keep it locked away so it could be studied, but all it took was one researcher fearing that the creature had the ability to get out of its cell, and it immediately had that power,” he said, leaning back on his bandaged palms. He gave Chuuya a sidelong look, heavy with significance. “Then, of course, while Ango was briefing me on A Face Like Glass, I also got word that a certain tiny mafioso had gone out to fight an unknown monster that was terrorizing the shipyards.”

Chuuya met his stare with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, so?” he said. “It was scaring my subordinates. Someone had to do something.”

Dazai’s gaze darkened further. “Chuuya, you went alone,” he said. “You tried to face it all by yourself, without even knowing what it was. You could have —” He broke off, and looked away once more. His nails were digging into the wood of the dock, his shoulders stiff. 

Hiding again, Chuuya thought.

For a moment, Chuuya considered pointing out that there wasn’t anyone for him to call for help. Very few of the other mafia members could stand up to an otherworldly threat—and even those who could, like Akutagawa, were not anyone who Chuuya would want exposed to a fear-monster. Everyone in the mafia had far too much darkness to reflect.

Besides, Dazai had no room to scold Chuuya when he was the one who had left him without a partner in the first place.

But even as Chuuya contemplated speaking those cutting words aloud, he found himself unable to.

Because even though Chuuya hadn’t called, Dazai had come anyway.

And, if the reflections of that ability could be believed, one of Dazai’s darkest thoughts was losing Chuuya to Corruption. Right alongside Dazai’s fear of his own past self, and his fear of disappointing his old friend. That…changed some things.

Chuuya sighed, releasing a long-held weight. Then he prodded Dazai’s shoulder with a cold, gloved fingertip. “Hey,” he said. “Look at me.”

Dazai’s shoulders hitched higher, but he didn’t turn.

“What’s your deal?” Chuuya demanded, poking him again. “You don’t have to hide from me, idiot. What, you think I’m gonna make fun of you for having emotions?”

That, apparently, surprised Dazai enough to glance back at Chuuya, his brow furrowed.

“Because I won’t,” Chuuya said. “Not about this. I mean…look, before you showed up, that mirror motherfucker had already reflected a lot of people at me. The Flags, the Sheep, Murase, even N. That’s how it got close enough to me to grab me and drag me under in the first place. So if you’re embarrassed of breaking down or some shit, you shouldn’t be. I did too.”

“It’s not that,” Dazai muttered, his eyes darting away across the dark ocean waters once again.

“Then what?” Chuuya prompted impatiently, leaning closer.

“I froze,” Dazai said, his lips twisting in disgust. “Under the slightest amount of pressure, I broke. You could have died, just because I couldn’t bring myself to fire at a poor imitation of my friend.”

Chuuya blinked. “What’s wrong with that? I broke too. And you were there to pull me out of the water. I saved you, and you saved me. That’s what partners are for, right?”

That finally got Dazai to face him, whipping around so quickly it must have hurt his neck. His eyes were wide, his lips parted in surprise.

Chuuya knew why. It had been years since he had called Dazai his partner.

All too aware that his cheeks were beginning to heat, Chuuya reached out to pull the infuriating man into his arms, tucking Dazai’s head against his shoulder. “Not a word,” he growled, squeezing Dazai tightly in warning. “Make fun of me for this and I’m kicking you into the ocean.”

Dazai let out a choked noise, and suddenly he was clinging to Chuuya just as tight, his fingers practically clawing into his back.

He was shaking again. Or maybe they both were.

“It—it had been so long since I heard his voice,” Dazai cried against Chuuya’s neck, muffled and damp on his skin. “I don’t want that to be how I remember him, I don’t, I hate it…”

Chuuya closed his eyes and saw Albatross laying on the ground in pieces, staring up at him in betrayal. He let out a slow, careful breath, and held Dazai closer.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know. I get it.”

Dazai was still so warm. And Chuuya’s hands were still so terribly cold.

Making a reckless decision, Chuuya pulled off his soaked gloves and tossed them aside, then sunk his fingers into Dazai’s mess of curls without hesitation. He felt more than heard the sharp inhale against his neck, and the quiet questioning hum that followed. Chuuya ignored it and continued to card his fingers through Dazai’s hair.

“…Chuuya?” Dazai breathed.

Chuuya tugged absently at a knot. “Tangled,” he grunted. “It was bothering me.”

“Mm,” Dazai hummed, and his hands slid up the back of Chuuya’s jacket. “Chuuya’s cold.”

“No shit,” Chuuya said grumpily. “I fell in the fucking ocean, and it’s freezing out here.”

There was a soft laugh, then a strange sensation ghosted across the side of Chuuya’s neck just above his choker, almost like a pair of lips had pressed there. Chuuya’s hands tightened in Dazai’s hair, stiffening in surprise. He could only wonder if he had imagined it, unable to comprehend any other possibility.

He certainly didn’t imagine what Dazai said next, however.

“Come home with me,” Dazai whispered, his lips brushing against Chuuya’s skin once again.

Chuuya made a very strange noise, somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, and used his grip on Dazai’s hair to haul him away just enough for their eyes to meet. “The fuck?” he spluttered, face burning. “What do you mean, where did that — hah?”

Dazai’s eyes were rimmed in red, dulled with weariness. One of his hands wandered up to Chuuya’s cheek and rested there, circling the blush with his thumb. “I don’t want you out of my sight right now,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

Ah. Right. The reflection of Corruption.

Well. Chuuya couldn’t really deny that he wasn’t looking forward to a night spent alone in his own apartment. He might not dream, but that didn’t matter if he couldn’t even get to sleep. Having someone beside him might help.

And beyond all that—this was the first time that Dazai had ever asked Chuuya to stay with him.

So, dazed and still a little flushed, Chuuya abandoned all common sense and replied, “Okay.”

Dazai captured one of Chuuya’s hands between his own, and brought it to his lips to brush a kiss across his knuckles. “Good,” he murmured, and pulled Chuuya to his feet. A slight smile flitted across his features. “I think I spotted Chuuya’s dreadful hat further towards the shore. Shall we find it first?”

Chuuya’s knuckles were still tingling. “Okay,” he repeated, strangled and utterly bewildered. His thoughts were chasing themselves in circles like a pack of confused terriers, but he allowed Dazai to tow him away towards the lights of the city.

And if Chuuya’s fingers ended up intertwined with Dazai’s as they traversed the shadows…well.

The streets were too dark for anyone to prove it.

“…Wait, is there even room at your place? You’re still living in that shitty dorm, aren’t you?”

A familiar grin and a pair of twinkling eyes turned back to him as they passed through a dimly lit alley. “Hmm? Chuuya has been tracking where I live? How sentimental of you, slug.”

At least he’s getting back to normal, Chuuya thought. “Oh, shut up,” he grumbled aloud. “Of course I’d keep an eye on your annoying ass.”

A scandalized, yet delighted gasp. “Chuuya likes looking at my ass?”

“…?! Shut up! That is not what I said—!”

[akans-dead-at-sea]

It's alright

30 second timelapse:

[bluerosefox]

The Flow of Time

Hmmm *has done a lot of deaged Danny prompts/ideas*

Let's shake things up a bit shall we???

Deaged Tim!

Tim, or rather Red Robin, was turned into a child Ra's (to steal and raise him as his evil heir)

And as he's about to be saved by the Bats. He hears what was sound of a ticking clock before he begins to fall.

And he tumbled and fell like Alice falling into Wonderland.

-x-x-

"CW what did you do?" A tired voice asked

"What I had to. Should I had left him there, they would had failed and he would had lead his world from the shadows under the false Immortal's teachings....A world does not need be in ruin to be on its path of horror and destruction, Daniel." Came the response.

"Ancients..." swore the other voice under their breath.

"Raise him well and in due time his once family will find him again. He will awaken confused and questioning, his past foggy to a point in his mind. Just make sure he is ready for it. The flow of time between worlds can be both kind and cruel." We're the words said.

"Clockwork wait! What does that-"

That was all Tim heard as he tried to wake up, but he quickly fell back asleep when a hand gently petted his head, snuggled and bundled up in a dark purple cloak and the sounds of ticking clocks all around him worked like a strange lullaby.

When he woke up next, Tim found himself in a small bedroom, a guest room that once been someone's actual bedroom judging from the glow in the dark stars still on the ceiling above. But it seemed to had been turned into a spare room for guests from how there wasn't anything else personal in the room besides basic stuff.

Tim, confused and wondering where he was and how he got there jumped when he heard the door open and meet the eyes of a young adult with black hair and blue eyes.

"Hello Tim, good to see you're awake. My name is Danny Fenton and... Welcome to my worlds version of Earth I guess."

[blue-mood-blue]

I’ve grown to appreciate the aus where Shen Yuan enters the story as “Shen Yuan” - same name, probably similar face, generally able to interact with PIDW as himself and change the story through his added presence. I like the sense of “if only you’d been here, things might have been better the first time around” of it all.

And I was thinking, it’s a funny coincidence in that scenario that someone named Shen Yuan gets put into… another Shen Yuan. What are the chances? What a weird twist of fate that Airplane would pick out the name that his most dedicated critic could slip into seamlessly.

What about a version where it’s not coincidence at all?

Airplane goes to school with a kid named Shen Yuan. He’s prickly and hard to approach and a little intense, but Airplane is persistent. In fairness, Airplane is relentless - and maybe it’s a good thing that they end up being friends, because they’re a little too much for anyone else to handle. They balance each other out. They’re the “weird kids” in class and they’re okay with that, because even when they don’t have any words for it, they know they’re not like their classmates, not really. That’s okay; they don’t want to be.

Recesses and breaks are consumed with the elaborate stories that Airplane wants to tell, and all the holes Shen Yuan pokes into them. It’s not mean-spirited, though, even though Shen Yuan isn’t the kind to temper his words. It’s passionate. He cares about those stories the way Airplane cares about them, and it can’t be mistaken for anything else when they lean together conspiratorially across the lunchroom table. They’ve both got notebooks filled with details and characters and monsters. Shen Yuan’s practically got a whole bestiary sketched out in wobbly childhood attempts at art, entries fervently scrawled beside them. Airplane prattles out plots nonstop, always with the promise of shining eyes and being asked “what happens next?”

They come up with a whole world together. Airplane’s going to write about it someday. Shen Yuan is going to read every word.

Shen Yuan misses school. Shen Yuan starts missing school a lot.

Airplane goes to the hospital room instead. He doesn’t think to worry, because Shen Yuan is okay - that’s what he says. He looks okay, and he’s a kid, and it doesn’t feel real that anything bad should happen to a kid. He doesn’t think to worry. He doesn’t think to say goodbye.

It’s one of the older Shen brothers who catches him on the way up to the room one day, in the hallway just outside - snaps at him to go the fuck home, and when Airplane hesitates, pushes him into the elevator and tells him not to come back. “Tells” is a generous way to describe the way the words come out - a growl, a hiss, the sound an animal would make when a hand got too close to a wound.

(It’s not fair to name a villain after him, even if the name never really comes up in the story. He wasn’t trying to be mean. He’d lost a brother minutes before, and he was getting his brother’s friend out of the way so he didn’t have to… see. It isn’t fair, but then, none of it is fair.)

Death feels very real after that.

The notebooks get shoved into a closet, and it’s not until Airplane’s moving out and one falls on him from a high shelf that he thinks about it again. He’s written things, lots of things, but nothing as ambitious as this - nothing as important. It could be good, he considers. He’d promised. Shen Yuan wanted to read it.

The problem was that no one else does, not for a long time, not until Airplane has whittled himself and his art into a corner and into such an unfamiliar shape that he has to wonder how it’s still his own face he sees in the mirror. He has to eat. He has to pay rent. Shen Yuan would yell at him, but Shen Yuan isn’t there to yell at him, and who cares. Who cares if it could have been better? The people who actually are here love it, and it’s paying his bills, and sometimes stories don’t go the way they’re supposed to and the world is fucking unfair. It doesn’t matter.

(It does. But he shoves that thought away along with styrofoam cups and soda bottles to the bottom of a garbage bag.)

Authors are not gods and their power is limited, but Airplane exercises just a sliver of what he’s been granted and gifts an inconsequential sort of immortality. He thinks about making him a rogue cultivator, maybe the kind that goes around documenting beasts and compiling his findings. He thinks about making him someone too powerful for death to touch, or too important to threaten, but when Airplane looks at the world he crafted and everything that’s become of it, it feels like the kindest thing he can do for Shen Yuan is a childhood where he’s loved, and a death that’s peaceful. What does it say about that world, that he’d kill off his best friend too early again instead of making him live there?

(The best writing he ever does is the only, shining moment of humanity that his scum villain ever displays: a lament about death that comes too early, about a brother gone too soon. The commenters praise him. The commenters flatter over how real the emotions feel. The commenters don’t get any response from Airplane on that chapter.)

Death is incredibly real when it comes for him too early, too, still hovering over his keyboard with the story technically finished and incredibly incomplete. Airplane could tell himself that’s because the written version can never be the version in the writer’s head, always shifting and with every possibility still on the table, but he knows better than that. The System knows better than that, with its condescending message about “improving” his writing and “closing plot holes” and “achieving his original vision”...

…and he’s a child again. He’s a child in his own story, he’s Shang Qinghua now without the benefit yet of a peak or cultivation or anything, and maybe he’s a little bitter, and a little scared, and…

And Shen Yuan - with longer hair, with robes, with a couple of older kids watching him from across the street, but undeniably the prickly little boy who used to sit down imperiously across from him and tell him everything that was wrong with the chuck of writing that had been handed to him last period, but with that smile that said he was only invested because he knew it could be better and they were going to make it better - marches up to him with a fire in his eyes and a frown that warns of a coming tirade.

“You told it wrong,” is the first thing he says.

Shang Qinghua wants to ask how him how he’s here, how this is possible, or maybe laugh because, yeah - yeah, Shen Yuan has no goddamn idea how wrong he got absolutely everything.

(Shang Qinghua wants to say “I missed you” and “why did you leave so soon” but he’s here now. He’s right here.)

“I know,” he says instead. “I’m sorry. It all kind of… spiraled out of control.”

Shen Yuan frowns, but then it dissipates the way it always does, and his eyes shine with ideas the way they always used to. “That’s okay,” he relents, grabbing for his hand. “We’ll fix it. We’ll make it what it was supposed to be.”

[ohitslen]

Twitter doodles!

(close ups for the first one below and a small extra as well :D)

[sunderwight]

Thinking about a bingqiu Dreamling AU where Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua are both bored deities, just sort of taking a brief sojourn through the mortal world to shoot the shit and see some interesting monster or other that Shen Yuan has heard about, when they come across a tea house and decide to take a break and do some people-watching instead.

Shen Yuan is well into something of a shut-in phase, which Shang Qinghua doesn't like, mostly because when Shen Yuan is in those phases he doesn't do particularly well either. Shen Yuan's a social butterfly, for however little he cares to actually acknowledge it about himself, and his critique of Shang Qinghua's literary masterpieces gets so much harsher when he's not getting enough enrichment.

So when they overhear one of the kitchen boys solemnly insisting that he is going to do everything in his power to never die, and Shen Yuan laments that the boy would probably regret such a wish if it came true, Shang Qinghua decides to bestow a rare bit of godly power onto this mortal and grant his wish.

He doesn't make him a god, of course, that wouldn't even be in his ability. At least, not without using up more time and effort than he's prepared to expend on this one random kid. But immortality on its own is not that difficult. The boy will still finish growing up, and will still be able to be harmed, to know hunger and pain and illness. It just won't ever kill him.

Shen Yuan sighs that it's a cruel thing to do to a mortal, especially one with such low odds of ever cultivating other skills to mitigate the potential torment of it all. But Shang Qinghua just shrugs and they place bets, that this boy will ask for the immortality to be revoked in a hundred years, or two hundred, or so on, or else he won't. Shen Qingqiu approaches the kitchen boy and flusters and bewilders him by telling him to meet him back here again in a hundred years time.

A hundred years later, the tea house is larger. The boy has grown to be a striking young man, who looks at Shen Yuan with wariness and something else, something almost like awe, as he asks what manner of creature he's made this bargain with. Shen Yuan assures him that he has no nefarious intentions, and instead asks Luo Binghe how the past century of his life has gone.

Horribly, at least at first. Binghe's mother had already died by the time they met, but afterwards he managed to earn enough money to travel to a nearby sect. Working in the tea house's kitchen was just a minor stopover along the way. Shen Yuan was wrong, it seems, about his odds of becoming a cultivator -- Luo Binghe earned entry as a disciple.

Yet, he had no success. The master who took him on was unaccountably cruel and mercurial, and Luo Binghe's attempts to cultivate failed. Looking back he sees now that there were many times when he should have died but didn't, but when it was all happening he just thought himself lucky. At least until an enemy sect attacked a cultivation conference, and he suffered mortal wounds that absolutely should have killed him (or anyone) but still didn't die. (No demon race or abyss in this AU, but there are still demonic and fantastical creatures.)

His cruel master, upon witnessing this, accused him of heretical practices and tried to kill him as well by flinging him off the edge of a gorge. The fall was terrible. Binghe lay at the bottom in a horrifying state, injured beyond reason and yet, still, he didn't die. Eventually his body recovered enough for him to drag himself out, and once he did the only thing on his mind was getting revenge. For the next several decades he managed to ingratiate himself to all manner of potential allies, forging alliances, accumulating blackmail, and convincing people that he had to be some powerful cultivator through his supernatural resilience, lack of visible aging, and a lot of bluffing. He got revenge on his old teacher, drove his first sect into ruin, and rose to prominence as a feared and respected leader of the cultivation world.

Shen Yuan listens with clear interest, asking plenty of questions and seemingly quite taken up with the story. At the conclusion, Luo Binghe admits that his actual cultivation is still mostly a matter of smoke and mirrors, and wonders if -- now that the hundred years have passed -- Shen Yuan means to strip his immortality from him.

Shen Yuan asks if Luo Binghe wants that. When Luo Binghe says no, he accepts the answer, and tells him to meet him back here again in another hundred years. Luo Binghe calls after him, but before he can ask anything more, Shen Yuan has disappeared again.

A hundred years later, Binghe arrives back at the tea house with an entourage befitting of an emperor. The tea house has also expanded. Luo Binghe orders a lavish feast from them, which everyone hastens to provide. He's spent the past several decades consolidating his power, forging alliances with key political players via several marriages, producing heirs, and crushing his enemies. As he brags about the state of his massive harem to Shen Yuan, the deity's eyes begin to glaze over. He doesn't seem impressed. He also doesn't seem to care much for the food, and eventually his attention is stolen away by a conversation at another table. The diners are discussing the exploits of a promising new poet and novelist. Try as he might, Luo Binghe fails to regain Shen Yuan's attention before the evening is done. Shen Yuan doesn't think it's a big deal -- after all, if Binghe is still riding on top of the world, he's probably not going to want his immortality gift revoked just yet!

Another hundred years go by. The tea house has returned to a more modest situation, the next time Shen Yuan sets foot in it. He waits an unusually long while for his guest to arrive, and when he does, he's almost stopped at the door by the tea house's servers. It's only when Shen Yuan bids them let him through that Luo Binghe is able to come to the table, almost collapsing against it and desperately falling onto the arrangement of snacks with obvious hunger.

Shen Yuan wonders if this, now, will be when the boy (no longer a boy) asks for the immortality to be revoked. Surprisingly, he finds himself resistant to the idea, even though it's also clear that the game has run too long. Maybe hundred year check-ins were too short? He doesn't like the implications of what's gone on, even if he's not really surprised about it either.

Between desperate mouthfuls of food, Luo Binghe explains that without mastering inedia, going hungry but never dying is a deeply unpleasant experience. Shen Yuan orders more food. Once Binghe has finally eaten his fill, he begins, haltingly, to explain his situation. His clothes are ragged, he is painfully thin, and his gaze is haunted.

Apparently, several of his wives conspired to assassinate him, despite his reputation as unkillable. Realizing that most poisons and such didn't kill him, but that he could still be incapacitated, they hatched a scheme to dose his food with a powerful sleeping agent, and then walled him up in a famous ancestral tomb. They went to great length to ensure that it was impossible to escape from. It took Binghe decades to do it anyway, digging away at the floors, and when he got out he found that his power base had collapsed. In-fighting and the incursion of his enemies had led to the deaths of all of his children, and what wives had survived had either fled or remarried. Not that he particularly wanted them back at that point, since the ones actually most loyal to him had also been killed early on after his own "death". His face marked him, to the eyes of his enemy, as a surviving descendant of himself. He was hunted down, chased across the continent and back again, until he managed to fall into enough obscurity that his pursuers abandoned the chase. Except that he has nothing, and any time he tries to regain something, he runs the risk of being hounded again. Those who might see some potential in him still remember the collapse of his recent "dynasty" and slam doors in his face, or else try and turn him over to those now in power in pursuit of a reward. Those who don't know that much see only a dirty beggar, and usually run him off on that basis instead.

Shen Yuan, almost hesitant, asks if Luo Binghe would like to have his immortality revoked.

Luo Binghe declines. How will he be able to take revenge on those who wronged him if he is dead? He has a hit list a mile long by now.

Which is definitely not the most noble of reasons to persist, but Shen Yuan finds himself reluctant to ask twice. Instead he orders more food, and then even reserves one of the traveler's rooms above the tea house for several days. By then the sky is turning grey, and Luo Binghe is losing his apparent battle with exhaustion. Shen Yuan presses the key into his hand, thinking it's probably not enough, but there are limits to how much gods are supposed to interfere and Shang Qinghua already stretched them to the breaking point with this entire scenario.

He leaves, not seeing the hand that reaches after him just before he is out of the door and gone.

Another hundred years pass. This time, Shen Yuan arrives to find Luo Binghe already waiting for him. He isn't surprised to see that Binghe's situation has visibly improved -- maybe he was keeping closer tabs on him, just a little bit, for this past while. If only to be sure he wouldn't have to warn the tea house workers to expect an unorthodox visitor again! But no, Binghe has been doing well enough for himself. No more harems or thrones, though. He dresses more like a well-off merchant now, deliberately posing as his own mortal descendant rather than as a great immortal cultivator. The food at the table looks far more delicious than usual too (Binghe commandeered the tea house's kitchen himself this time). As they chat, Shen Yuan is regaled with the exploits of Luo Binghe's travels and adventures, how even though he initially set out to claim revenge on those who overthrew him, by the time he was in a position to actually do so they had already died of the usual causes (time, illness, their own schemes backfiring, etc). Subsequently, only their children and grandchildren were left with the scraps of power they had obtained, and when one of those children employed Luo Binghe as a bodyguard, his initial plan to assassinate them eventually fell by the wayside. After all, the wrongdoings weren't actually theirs. From that point, Binghe was able to restore himself to a more comfortable life, joining his new employer on their travels until he had set aside enough earnings to take his leave before his youthful good-looks earned him suspicion. He then began investing in travel and trade, specifically cargo ships, because never spending too long in the same place or around the same people helped disguise his immortality. He had found that, at least for now, this served him better than playing the part of a cultivator. It also gave him time to try and actually repair his ruined cultivation base somewhat, and fighting pirates proved very diverting.

Binghe is midway through recounting his adventures with a gigantic sea monster, while Shen Yuan hangs on every word, when they're interrupted by the arrival of a brash young mistress, clearly wealthy and trained in cultivation. The young lady declares that there is a rumor that a fallen god and a demon meet in this tea house once a century, that they wield strange powers, etc etc, and she intends to interrogate them both with the assistance of her hired muscle and her own spiritual weapon, and discover the truth of the matter. Then she whips out, well, a whip!

Before Shen Yuan can deal with the matter, Luo Binghe is already on his feet, disarming the goons and breaking a few arms in the process. Shen Yuan is so distracted that he almost misses the whip aimed right for him, but before Binghe can catch the barbed weapon with his bare hand (wtf, Binghe, no) Shen Yuan deflects it with a wave of his fan, and then efficiently knocks the troublesome young lady unconscious. The hired muscle flees, Shen Yuan arranges for their assailant to be placed in a room upstairs until she regains consciousness, and he and Binghe resume their meal and conversation in relative peace.

Even though it's clear that Luo Binghe has not yet reached the end of his tolerance for life, Shen Yuan nevertheless finds himself strangely reluctant to part ways at the end of the night. Still, he does, because that's what is expected of him, gently denying Luo Binghe's suggestions that they find some other establishment to continue their conversation at. He also has to investigate these "rumors" that the young lady mentioned. It's probably nothing (Shang Qinghua has a loose tongue when he's drunk, and a lot of imaginative storytellers have frequented this tea house over the years) but he doesn't like being caught unawares like that. Heavenly politics are... complicated, it's best not to court unwanted attention in any capacity.

Another hundred years go by. This time, when they meet at the tea house, Luo Binghe asks Shen Yuan why he keeps it up. Why did he pick Binghe? What is he really after? When Shen Yuan fails to give any kind of clear answer, Luo Binghe shoots his shot and makes a (very obvious) move on him.

Shen Yuan, flustered, gets up and flees. Ignoring Luo Binghe's calls after him. It just doesn't make any sense! Why would Binghe do that?! He's a man who once had a harem of wives in the triple digits! Clearly he's not gay, so what was that all about? Was he just messing with him?! How dare he! Etc, etc.

Another century passes. Luo Binghe waits at the tea house, which has fallen onto hard times again. With the construction of some new roadways, travelers no longer pass through as often. Binghe listens, worried, to the proprietor's laments that this old place will probably not be around in another hundred years. He listens because he has no one else to speak to, because Shen Yuan has not shown up. Not that morning, not during the day, not come evening, and not now that it is closing time. Binghe nevertheless charms and bribes the proprietor to let him stay even after the place has shuttered.

It seems damning, of course. He pressed too hard and now his mysterious benefactor wants nothing more to do with him. Except, no, he refuses to accept that. He's still immortal. And he has gleaned enough of Shen Yuan's character by now that he thinks that even if he was rejected, he would be let down more clearly and gently than this. The more he thinks about it, the less willing Luo Binghe is to believe that he has been deliberately stood up (also, since the tenor of his confession was different from Hob Gadling's, he never delivered an ultimatum about what it might imply when they met up again).

Over the centuries, Luo Binghe has built up a few contacts with similarly strange and supernatural stories. Cultivators, sure, but also others, fortune tellers and people of strange ancestry, questionable abilities, those who have interacted with powerful beings of mysterious provenance. He makes his way to a certain gambling den, frequented often by such people, and while he flashes around enough money to draw curiosity, he collects information. Shen Yuan wasn't the only person who started paying more attention to the kinds of rumors surrounding the two of them after their confrontation with the young cultivator a couple centuries ago. And in fact, Luo Binghe has been spending many, many years trying to find out more about his mystery man. Though, too many potential deities and immortals fit his description for him to have ever conclusively figured much out.

This is how Binghe gets wind of a rumor that an eccentric occultist has somehow captured a god in his basement...

[raycatzdraws]

🥺 aa

He always looks like mmmwafflesart's Sky in my heart <3 The sketch reminded me of their art so I leaned into it with the vibrant colors. While we're here please go give Waffle's art some love! @mmmwafflesart

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

Thinking about how much Taylor probably wanted her partner to experience the show that she spent so much time creating and rehearsing, that included music they made together and he saw her write about their life and she was probably so excited for him to see it and then he just never went…And now she sings “and if you wanted me you really should’ve showed” every night and is now talking to someone that went to that show, has been gushing about it and her and it’s making me feel a lot of things.

[casgirlsam]

[jeeaark]

Lately, Greygold hasn't been using their animal companions as much. Mostly because Mama-Rachne is taking good caring of Mizora at camp and totally not because they keep scaring away the citizens. Giving her a 5-star hotel treatment, silky sheets included. Haven't heard any complaints from her yet.

[keefechambers]

NOPE (2022) → Angel's band tees

Earth (est. 1989, experimental rock) Rage Against the Machine (est. 1991, rap-metal) The Jesus Lizard (est. 1987, noise rock)

[cottagecryptic]

ngl the way the animatronics looked at Abby so fucking gentle and sweet really made my heart melt. I have always questioned how kids found them cute and not offputting at the very least and seeing that made everything click into place

[ohbo-ohno]

52% of you voted for this and I respect democracy 🫡

8.4k of ghost brainwashing soap into being his puppy without him knowing. it’s a little messy and all over the place <3

cw: explicit sex, heavy puppy play, rough and kinda mean ghost, veryyyy light dub-con (johnny is sorta coerced but he’s a willing participant), slight feminization (afab language used to refer to amab biology), super brief cbt

Ghost sees Soap in that little throat mic and just knows - that man is meant to be on all fours.

It's little things at first - he sees the way Soap is always looking for praise, the way he lights up a little at just a hint of it. A hand clasped on the shoulder, a "Good work, Sergeant" and he's beaming for the next hour.

Likewise, the lack of praise affects him the same way. He does particularly well and Ghost deprives him of what he thinks he's earned? He gets all clingy and pouty. He sticks to Ghost's shadow, leans into his space a little, tries constantly to impress him for the rest of the day. The way Johnny’s eyes flick over to Ghost every time he does something he thinks is worth praise is as cute as it is annoying.

The thing with Soap is that he wants to listen past a military point. Like yes he’s been in the military for nearly a decade by the time he meets Ghost so of course it’s sort of beaten into him that he listens to his superiors, but Soap has an innate desire to obey that Ghost just cannot ignore. And his little crush means he's looking to obey Ghost, specifically.

It's easy to make himself the center of Soap's world.

He passes him in the kitchen one morning, squeezes his front a little close to Soap’s back and says “Make me a tea, Johnny” as the smaller man pours his own coffee. He’s careful not to phrase it as a question, to walk away before Johnny can respond. A few minutes later, a steaming cup is set on the table in front of him. Johnny slips into a chair beside him and Ghost raises an eyebrow beneath the balaclava. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Johnny shoots him a look that’s almost nervous, quickly covers it with his usual bravado. “What, you mind a little company over your tea?”

“Yes. Shoo.” He turns away and lifts his mask just enough to drink. A clear dismal. He hears Johnny scoff, pout a little bit, but he disappears a moment later, shoulders a bit slumped as he shuffles over to Gaz’s table.

The next morning, there’s a cup of tea waiting next to Johnny as he pours his own coffee. Ghost smirks beneath the mask, gives an approving nod when he sees the hopeful look in Johnny’s eyes, and sits down for breakfast.

He starts to touch Soap more, when he’s been a good boy.

A “Good work out there, Sergeant” is said with a hand around the nape of the neck instead of on the shoulder. He squeezes Johnny’s thigh when he drops his morning tea off at his table, quick and perfunctory and not allowing any room for questioning. He’ll see Johnny working particularly hard in the gym and place a heavy hand on his head, running his fingers all the way through his mohawk and smoothing it down before moving on. A hand on the waist to move Johnny out of his way, a hand on the knee when he bounces his foot, the line of Simon’s body pressed against Johnny’s in meetings, all done to get his pup used to being touched by him in a way no one else has been in decades.

He makes sure they spend time alone. Johnny works out late at night, so Simon starts to too. Makes sure they’re the only ones in the gym, and usually goads Johnny into sparring so he can spend an hour or two forcing him to the ground over and over again. Follows him into the shower and uses the stall right next to Johnny, rolls his eyes at Johnny’s light complaining and smirks at his blush, the way he tries to discreetly wash his cock even though he’s been taking group showers for years now.

There’s a day he calls Johnny over to his table at dinner. A quick, “MacTavish, here,” gets Johnny’s head jerking up along with several other people in the room, has him nearly stumbling over his feet to reach Simon’s side.

“Yeah, L.t.?”

“Sit.” Johnny obeys, dropping into the seat next to Simon as soon as the command is past his lips. “Here,” he holds out an apple. “Grabbed one without thinkin’. I don’t like ‘em, but you do. Eat it.”

Johnny glances from the fruit to Simon a couple times, so he rolls his eyes and holds it a little further. “Come on, Johnny, haven’t got all day.”

Johnny finally grabs the apple with a growing smile and says, “I knew you had a heart, Simon. Thanks.” He’s smart enough to stay next to Ghost for the rest of dinner, munching away on the apple and occasionally prattling on about something or other, none of it requiring much response from Ghost.

Simon does the same thing the next evening, and the next, and on the fourth day Johnny trots over as soon as Simon looks his way. Ghost grins beneath the mask and ruffles his hair when he sits, keeps a heavy hand on the back of Johnny’s neck for a bit as a reward.

At night he jacks off to his fantasies of the future. He stares at the dog cage in the corner of his room, spits into the palm of his hand, and strokes his cock from root to tip.

He pictures Johnny on his knees, yipping and barking and begging Simon to let him suck his cock. He pictures Johnny with a collar around his neck, a leash attached and wrapped around Simon’s hand - he jerks it harshly, watches as Johnny falls face first to the ground and fucks his ass where it’s up in the air so nicely. He pictures locking Johnny’s hands into a pair of paw mitts, tells him he can go ahead and come if he wants, moans aloud at the mental image of Johnny rutting into his paws and crying because he can’t get himself off. Securing a muzzle around his face when he’s too loud, threatening him with a bark collar and watching the way Johnny’s eyes roll back in his head. Crate training his new puppy, long nights spent ignoring the whining and growling in the corner of his room, jacking off and hearing the whines pitch up an octave higher from desperation. Pouring kibble into a bowl, jacking off over it, and watching Johnny eat it up eagerly and lick the bowl for any extra taste of his master’s cum.

Johnny and Ghost’s rooms share a wall. Sometimes, late at night, Johnny gets loud. Simon can hear him moaning and whining through the wall, nothing much more than indistinct noises but they’re noises that get him hard as steel. He hears the slutty moans for hours sometimes, thinks to himself that he’ll have to end up using the muzzle far sooner than he’d thought with such a noisy pup.

His need for Johnny grows daily, with every subtle show of submission he can squeeze from his Sergeant.

There’s a mission where Johnny gets a little uppity. Gaz and Price are on the East side of a compound they’re meant to be infiltrating, while Ghost and Soap have been assigned to the West. Ghost’s plan is to wait for the civilians (suspected terrorists, but their involvement is unconfirmed, so they aren’t KOS) to leave before sneaking in and taking the intel, but Soap had made some stupid bet with Garrick about which team could finish faster and wanted to kill the suspects right then, take the info, and get out.

It’s a low pressure mission - the odds of them dying are never zero, but they’re usually lowest on a simple recon mission like this. The safety gives Johnny a little more confidence (if that’s even possible) and has him pushing against Simon’s orders. He’s hyped up, bouncing on his toes and grumbling about Ghost’s commands when he thinks Ghost is far enough away not to hear.

The last straw is when he draws his knife, moving to storm into the computer lab and slaughter the few potential terrorists there explicitly against orders. Ghost nearly growls, grabs Johnny by his neck and slams him into the wall.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He rumbles, pointer finger slipping beneath the throat mic - the fucking collar - and pulling Johnny up by it.

“Let’s just get this done, L.t.,” Johnny growls in return, his little teeth bared as he glares up at Simon. “I want to get the fuck out of here.”

Ghost nearly smirks at his little attempt at dominance. “You follow orders, MacTavish. I tell you to do something, you do it.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, grumbles a little. “I know, I know, I should listen to my Lieutenant, yeah?”

“No,” Ghost’s hand forces Johnny back to the wall when he tries to stand straight, fingers flexing on either side of his throat. “You listen to me.”

His hand creeps up from Johnny’s neck to his jaw, fingers pressing into the hinges on either side until Johnny’s mouth drops open. A second later, his tongue rolls out to rest on his bottom lip. He gives a little whine, eyebrows furrowed, and Ghost just says, “Hush.”

He takes a minute to appreciate the sight, letting his weight rest on Johnny, his cock thickening against his boy’s stomach. He tracks a little droplet of spit as it travels down Johnny’s tongue.

“Now,” he starts, giving Johnny’s head a tiny shake when he sees the glaze starting to lay over his eyes. “Are you gonna be good and listen? Or are you gonna make me put you in your place?”

Johnny tries to close his mouth to speak but Ghost just shakes his head, tsks, and Johnny mimics the movement a moment later. “You’ll be good?” He confirms, and Johnny nods. Ghost smiles beneath the mask. “Attaboy,” he praises with a quick pat to Johnny’s cheek, stepping back and letting the pup compose himself.

“They should be gone by now. You ready to go in, Sergeant?”

It takes him a moment to stand, a little pink flush high on his cheekbones, but Johnny gets his feet under him and nods. “Yes, sir.”

Ghost has to bite his lip to stop his moan. He feels his restraint slip, stays a step behind Johnny to compose himself.

They go on like that for months, Ghost slowly creeping past the few boundaries Johnny has set up and pulling the man deeper and deeper into his orbit. He starts to see Johnny looking up every time someone enters a room, suppresses a smirk when he visibly brightens at Simon’s presence.

He gets him used to being touched, to a controlling hand on his neck, his shoulder, his wrist, his thigh,a tug on his earlobe when he’s being a brat, the rare flick to the tip of his nose or between his eyes. He takes note of the way Johnny stiffens when Ghost is near, the way he relaxes completely when he finally feels his touch.

He keeps Johnny a little unsure of his feelings, sometimes even letting him feel his erection when they spar - or letting him see it when they shower - but never taking anything in a sexual direction or even implying he’d like to.

Post mission, Simon has a concussion. Johnny’s been assigned to keeping him awake, and the brat takes the job seriously, prattling on endlessly about subjects that Ghost couldn’t care less about. The pounding in his head makes him murderous.

At one point he can’t take it anymore, he slaps a hand over Johnny’s mouth where the man sits next to him (Johnny leaned against the armrest, Simon sitting in the center of the couch and spreading his thighs enough to touch Johnny’s and make him shrink away just a bit). He glares at the younger man, bites out “Just shut up. Stop fuckin’ barking, MacTavish.”

Johnny’s eyes narrow, and a moment later his tongue licks across Ghost’s palm. He only curls his lip in response, tucks two fingers into Johnny’s mouth as payback. He pushes just far enough to trigger his gag reflex, then pulls back a few centimeters. When Johnny tries to start talking around the digits, Simon stuffs a third between his teeth. There’s a moment when Simon thinks Johnny will fight back, will grab his wrist and shove it away from him. But he doesn’t. He sits there like a good boy, goes all relaxed after a moment and forces Simon’s hand to follow his head when he leans back a bit.

They sit like that for a few hours. Eventually Johnny’s teeth start chewing lightly at Simon’s fingers. He doesn’t mind, the motion helps him stay awake.

They pull apart in the early hours of the day, when soldiers around base start waking up. Simon pulls his fingers out with a rumbled, “Good boy,” and neither of them say another word about it.

It doesn’t become a regular occurrence, per se, but Simon takes the opportunities available to him to start on Johnny’s throat training.

They’re the only two in the canteen after a stressful debrief, and Simon catches Johnny staring at his fingers. He asks, “You want them?” and gets a little shocked look from Johnny. He scoffs lightly, lifts his hand and poises two fingers right in front of Johnny’s lips. “Go ahead.” They sit like that until Simon finishes his meal, and walk to their rooms together.

Another time Johnny is overhyped from a good workout. A long day of training rookies ending with loss after loss on the sparring mat with Ghost leaves his body near vibrating with energy. Simon corners him after his shower when he sees Johnny start scratching at his arms. Pushes against his shoulder, gets him pinned against the wall, the only things between the two of them the matching towels wrapped around their waists. Ghost doesn’t explain, just shoves a few fingers in Johnny’s mouth and gives him a stern look when he reaches for his wrist. Johnny gives in a moment later, and they spend nearly half an hour just like that. Johnny’s calmer when they seperate, that volatile energy just beneath his skin soothed for a bit.

His breaking point comes after a rough mission. Price had taken a knife to the thigh, Kyle’s arm was strained enough that he needed a sling, Ghost had nasty bruises across his ribs, but Soap had managed to escape the mission completely unscathed - a fact that left him restless and angry.

He paces endlessly when they get back to base, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth in the abandoned common area of the 141’s wing. Ghost tracks him from his spot in Price’s recliner, notes the tension in Soap’s shoulders and the twitches in his fingers.

When Soap starts scratching at his hair, hand running over his scalp endlessly and leaving light red lines in his wake, Simon sighs and decides he needs to step in.

“C’mere, Johnny.”

His Sergent jerks up at Ghost’s voice, almost like he had forgotten he wasn’t alone. He’s moving just a heartbeat later though, steps right up between Ghost’s thighs and trains his eyes on the chair over his shoulder. Simon leans forward, bites back a groan at the ache in his ribs, and uses a finger to push Johnny’s chin up.

“Eyes on me, pup.” He examines his boy closely, takes a few long moments to try and read his thoughts through his eyes. “Need me to help you relax?”

Johnny’s brows furrow for a moment before he speaks. “I-” he tries, but stops and jerks his head to the side a bit. “I- yes. Yes, sir. I don’t know… I can’t fuckin’... I-”

“I know,” Simon reassures, running a thumb over Johnny’s bottom lip. “I know. I can help you. Go ahead and kneel for me, Johnny.”

And he does. Perfect boy that he is, he drops right to the floor between Simon’s knees without hesitation. He can’t help but smile at the sight of a stressed Johnny right where he’s meant to be, relaxing back into the leather with a grunt.

“Now. You want somethin’ in your mouth? Somethin’ to suck on for a bit?”

Johnny nods, relief palabale in his expression, and reaches a hand towards Simon’s wrist. “Uh uh,” he scolds, moving both hands from his thighs to the arms of the chair. “I want to keep my fingers tonight. Might have a smoke in a bit, read the paper. Can’t do that with you slobberin’ on ‘em.”

Johnny gets that confused look on his face again. “What else then?” He asks, a hint of frustration bleeding through.

Simon doesn’t give him the stern hand he’s subconsciously looking for, just tilts his head a little and telegraphs his expectance with his eyes.

“Nothin’?” Johnny spits, lip curling a little in his own anger.

“You can figure it out, pup. Don’t think too hard.”

Johnny huffs, falling back to sit on his ankles and scan Ghost’s form. His eyes stop right below his belt, before jerking up to his eyes again and tilting his head a bit. “Well?” Simon asks.

“Your…” Johnny swallows, then continues. “Your cock, sir?”

Simon just tilts his head a little more. “What about it?”

Johnny huffs. “Can I suck your cock, sir?”

He smirks beneath the mask. “Try again. Ask nicely.”

A little whine spills from Johnny’s lips, his hands moving to rest on Simon’s thighs. “Fuck. Please, can I suck your cock, sir?”

Simon lets his head fall back to the seat. “Sure. If you really need to, puppy.”

He’s hardly gotten the permission out when Johnny starts pulling his belt off, his cock in his mouth a moment later. Johnny groans when he sinks down, taking his full shaft in one go.

Simon jerks a little with a curse. “Fuck, Johnny. Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

Johnny winks up at him, a little upturn at the corner of his lips. Brat.

“Fuckin’ slag,” Simon sneers, one hand locking in Johnny’s hair and holding him down so his nose is buried in Ghost’s happy trail, ignores his muffled gagging. “Shoulda known you’d be so experienced. Sucked every cock on base, soldier?”

Johnny whines a little at that, tries to shake his head but Simon’s grip prevents it.

“Quiet,” he growls, pushing Johnny deeper for just a moment before letting up. “You wanted somethin’ to suck on, so suck.”

And he does. They sit like that for a while - Simon smoking a cigarette while receiving the slowest, most torturous blowjob he’s ever had. Johnny’s sucking lessens as he realizes Ghost won’t let him move his head, and as the minutes pass he moves on to truly cockwarming him. Just a soft wet heat around Simon’s dick. His eyes glaze over a bit, go half-lidded as Ghost’s fingers shift to stroke his hair.

And then Johnny fucking bites him.

Simon’s got him thrown off his dick as soon as his teeth press down, his own teeth bared in a snarl. He opens his mouth, ready to put Johnny firmly back in his place, when he sees the confusion on his pup’s face.

He’s fallen back on his ass, and his eyes are still only half open. He looks up at Ghost like he hasn’t got a single clue what’s going on, like he’d do anything Ghost says in that moment because he can’t quite think for himself. And he sticks the tip of his tongue beneath his little fangs, starts gnawing a bit.

Ghost sighs as he falls back into his chair, hand coming up to pinch his nose. “Johnny,” he rumbles. “You dumb fuckin’ mutt. I said somethin’ to suck not somethin’ to chew.”

Johnny doesn’t respond - Simon isn’t sure he could respond, even with clarity slowly coming back to his eyes - but he does move back between Simon’s legs, hands tucked onto his own knees as he rests his cheek on Simon’s thigh. He sighs, reaching forward to rub Johnny’s ear as he considers what to do next.

“Pup,” he hums, giving the ear between his fingers a harsh tug to try and get his attention. “That was very bad. What do you say when you’ve been bad?”

The glaze over his eyes disappears more and more, but genuine confusion still seeps into his expression.”What?”

Ghost sighs, like he’s going through some horrible inconvenience. “C’mon, puppy. Use your little brain for just a second. What do you do when you’ve been bad?”

Johnny leans back a bit, hands coming up to push at Ghost’s shins. “Lieutenant, what-”

Simon cuts him by yanking his head back by the roots of his hair, leaning over until his face hovers right above Johnny’s despite the pain in his ribs. “It’s a simple fucking question, Johnny. What do you say when you’ve been bad?”

There’s a spark of panic underneath the confusion, but Ghost only leans closer. “I- I don’t-”

Simon blows a sharp breath through his nose, uses his free hand to give Johnny a harsh little smack on his cheek. “C’mon. You can go dumb on my cock again in a minute, but answer me first.”

“I-I’m sorry,” he finally gets out, looking up with a wounded expression on his face like he’s been done all kinds of wrong.

“Good. What are you sorry for?’

“For…” Johnny’s eyebrows furrow, and Simon gives him the time he needs to piece things together. “For biting you.” A sharp look from Ghost, a lifted hand, and he’s quickly correcting himself. “I’m sorry for biting your cock. Sir.”

Simon finally leans back in his seat, moves Johnny’s head forward with him. “There you go. Shouldn’t’ve been so hard to figure out, but we can work on that. Now - why don’t you apologize properly.”

Offense colors Johnny’s expression, lips opening to protest, but Simon just tugs him right up to his spit-slick erection. “C’mon,” he instructs. “Kiss it better, pup.”

Johnny winces a bit, but dutifully opens his mouth wider and leans to take Simon’s cock between his lips.

“Nuh-uh,” Ghost scolds, pulling Johnny to the side of his member instead. “I don’t trust those teeth of yours right now. Kiss it right.”

He winces more, but purses his lips and presses them to Simon’s skin while casting a weary glance up to the bigger man.

Ghost shakes his head again, grip tightening a bit in Johnny’s hair. “Nope. Kiss it like a proper puppy, go on.”

It takes a second for Johnny to understand, then to come to terms with what Ghost is asking. He squirms a little on his knees, tries to pull away from Simon’s grip for a second, but eventually he sticks his tongue out and licks the side of his cock.

“There you go,” Simon praises, loosening his grip and petting Johnny’s head in reward. “Good boy. Go ahead and show me how sorry you are, maybe I’ll let you have a few of my fingers if I think you’ve earned them.”

He makes Johnny apologize for ten minutes, watches the clock on the wall when he can stand to tear his eyes away from Johnny’s display. It doesn’t take him long to get into it, licks and kisses becoming more and more enthusiastic, even slipping down to lick at Ghost’s balls. It’s quite the apology.

“Alright,” he eventually groans, guiding Johnny’s lips to the head of his cock. “Go ahead and suck me off. Let’s see if you can earn a reward.”

He gets Simon off in record time. That same glaze covers his eyes again but the lethargy doesn’t return - instead, Johnny bobs his head rapidly, taking Simon all the way to the hilt nearly every time and massaging the underside of his cock with his tongue. He doesn’t bite again, but the intentional little scrapes of his teeth have Ghost fighting not to buck his hips. He’s clearly enjoying himself too, because his little moans and groans send vibrations down Simon’s cock that leave him curling his hands into fists against the armrests.

Ghost guides his head for his last few thrusts, holds Johnny down on his cock and comes right down his throat. He moans a little louder than is probably wise considering they’re in a public space, but watching Johnny’s eyes flutter shut at the sound is worth the slight risk.

Simon lets him pull off in his own time. Johnny takes a few seconds, swallows on his way back up, but he sits back on his heels a few moments after Simon’s finished.

There’s a heavy moment where the only sound is both of them panting. Ghost holds his fingertips in front of Johnny’s lips as an invitation, flicks his eyes down when they aren’t soaked immediately.

Johnny’s restless on his knees, shifting back and forth a little nervously and staring at the center of Simon’s chest.

“What is it?” Ghost finally asks, when the silence stretches long enough for it become clear that Johnny won’t be speaking first.

His eyes dart up to make eye contact, then down to his chest again. “Sir… I want… can I get off too? Please?”

Ghost nearly moans louder than he had when coming.

“Good boy for asking, Johnny,” he praises, petting the pup a few times and cooing at the way Johnny leans into his hand. “You need permission to come from now on, yeah? Here,” he moves his still-booted foot between Johnny’s spread knees, lifts his heel to push into his crotch a bit, smiles at the sharp jerk and whine it elicits. “Grind on this puppy. Take as long as you need.”

Johnny’s pupils are fully blown when he looks up at Ghost, the saddest little crease in his forehead and pout on his lips. Simon’s glad he’s got the mask, so Johnny can’t see the way he beams. “C’mon,” two taps of his steel-toes on the ground. “Thought you wanted to get off? I’m not stayin’ here all night, pup.”

That gets Johnny jolting forward, one hand curling up behind Simon’s knee to anchor himself and the other resting on the chair between his thighs. He thrusts tentatively a few times, eyes squeezed shut and forehead pressed deep into Simon’s knee. Doesn’t even think of wrapping a hand around his own cock.

Ghost lets him hide for a bit, but once Johnny’s hips start really working, once he starts letting out little moans and his hands start twitching, he grips Johnny’s chin and rests it on his knee, so he’s looking up at Ghost and his scrunched up face is easy to see.

“Hmm,” Simon hums, running a hand over Johnny’s head and scratching a bit behind his ears. “There you go. Good boy, Johnny, humpin’ my boot. So good for me.”

He gets off quicker than Simon expects, only a few more thrusts and Johnny’s hips jerk to a stop, a moan falling from parted lips.

They both stay like that for a bit. Ghost, relaxed back in Price’s chair with a hand on Johnny’s head, and Soap, knelt between his Lieutenant’s knees and leaning most of his weight on his calf. Eventually Simon pulls them both up, guides a drowsy Johnny to his room, sends him off to bed with an affectionate squeeze to his neck and a final, “Good boy.”

Johnny avoids him for a few days. He still makes Ghost’s tea in the morning, but instead of lighting up when Ghost enters a room he’s quick to leave it, standing across the room from him during briefings. His sudden aversion and nerves pisses Simon off a bit, but he tells himself to just be patient, to let Johnny work through his thoughts on his own time. Or at least for another day or two.

It takes three days for Johnny to break. It’s that third night that he knocks on Ghost’s door, the halls already empty and silent.

He looks disheveled, hair completely askew and his worn t-shirt and pajama pants both sitting awkwardly on his frame. He’s got this stressed look in his eyes, pin-sized pupils, and a harshness to his breathing. Simon doesn’t have to do more than raise an eyebrow - no mask this late at night - for him to start begging.

“You fuckin’… you said I had to ask.”

Ghost plays at confusion. Cocks his head to the side a bit. “Ask for what, Johnny?”

Johnny snarls, hands fisted where they rest on the doorway. “To fucking… fo fucking come. You said I had to ask, and now I can’t- I can’t fuckin’ get off, L.t.”

He looks so desperate, the poor thing - cheeks ruddy, eyes a little teary and red, the harsh line of cock clear as day in those flannel pants. He looks a bit like he’s coming apart at the seams, so Ghost has mercy and finally steps aside to let him in, locking the door behind them.

“You need permission.” Ghost leans back on the wall, crossing his arms across his chest and one ankle over the other.

“Yeah,” Johnny scoffs with a little half-laugh. “My bloody cock seems to think so.”

“No. You need permission, because your pleasure is mine. Because you are mine.”

“My pleasure is- what?” Johnny’s forehead creases and his lips curl. “What the fuck are you on about? I don’t fuckin’-“

“Then how come you can’t get off?”

“Because- it’s- och, awa’ an bile yer heid, I can get off just fine on my own any other day, don’t need permission- “ he sneers at the word “- from any bastard. ‘Specially not you.”

Cute. Puppy’s throwing a little tantrum.

Ghost just raises an eyebrow, glances down at the tent in Johnny’s pants. “Go ahead then.”

Soap’s head tears back a bit. “What - get off? Here?”

“Do you need it in Spanish?”

Johnny just scowls, glances away from Simon and pushes his pants down just enough that the waistband hooks under his balls - it’s a testament to his own desperation that he hardly even thinks about Ghost’s order. His cock bounces straight up to his stomach, a dark red that’s nearly purple.

“That looks like it hurts, Johnny.”

“Cause it fuckin’ does,” Johnny snarls, wrapping a harsh hand around his noticeably slick cock. His strokes are tentative at first, but quickly become fast and almost careless.

Ghost watches with a careful eye. Johnny’s got no finesse when locked in his own need like this, doesn’t bother to tighten his fist at all or even twist his wrist on the downstroke. Just holds his fingers together and fucks the little hole.

Notably, he doesn’t finish. Keeps glancing up every time he seems to get close, and it’s like the sight of Ghost brings him back from the edge, stuck unintentionally edging himself again and again. It makes him feral, makes him whiney and a little teary, and Ghost wants to swallow him whole.

After a few minutes Johnny rips his hand away from his cock with what seems like a Herculean effort, smacking his palm against his thigh. “See? I can’t fuckin’…”

“Come,” Ghost finishes. “It’s because you don’t have permission. That stupid little puppy brain of yours knows that, even if you want to pretend you don’t.”

“Then-“ a little animal noise of desperation, and Johnny gives himself a fast and hard stroke before throwing his hand off again. “Then gimme permission.”

Ghost tilts his head back, shows off the long line of his throat. “Why should I? You haven’t been very polite tonight, puppy. Most I’d give you is my leg to hump, but with your attitude I’m not sure you even deserve that.”

Johnny stumbles forward a bit, falls to his knees a step away from Ghost. “No, no, L.t., please, I’ll take anythin’. Need to come so fuckin’ bad.”

Ghost just shakes his head with a sigh. “That’s not my problem. I’m still not seeing anything in this for me.”

A high keen slides from Johnny’s throat, one that lights his face up red and makes him avert his eyes until he works his courage back up. “I’ll… I’ll suck your cock?”

The scowl on Ghost’s face isn’t manufactured. “That’s something you ask for, Johnny. Suckin’ my cock is a prívelege for bitches like you. You askin’ for that?”

Johnny scooches forward on his knees, balls hanging low and heavy beneath his thick cock. “Ok, ok, fine - please, please let me suck your cock, sir.”

Ghost tuts and shakes his head slowly, but sets his feet at shoulder width and stands from the wall. “No, Johnny. You get to beg like a dog. Y’know why?”

Little tears bead at the corner of his eyes, but Johnny only shakes his head a little in response. Ghost bends down, locks a hand around his boy’s throat and keeps his face directly above him. “Tell me why, Johnny.”

“L.t….”

“Don’t whine. Tell me why you’re gonna beg like a dog for me.”

Johnny stares up at Simon like he’s destroying his whole world and rebuilding it at the same time, like there’s nothing that exists outside of them in this moment.

“Cause… cause I’m a dog?”

“That’s right,” Ghost purrs, stroking his hand up and down the column of his boy’s throat. “You’re my dog. So go on. Beg like a good boy and I might let you have a taste of my cock.”

Johnny’s eyes squeeze tight for a moment when Simon stands back up. He takes a minute, then opens them and flicks his gaze from Ghost’s cock to his face.

He lifts his hands, folds his fingers in half and tucks his thumbs to his palms, and holds them out in front of his chest, hanging limp like a pair of paws. His knees spread a little, lowering him further to the ground, and a moment later he opens his mouth, little pink tongue unfurling to rest on his lip.

“There ya go,” Simon rumbles, reaching to massage his cock through his sweats. “Go on. You’re doin’ so good, boy.”

Johnny whines at that, catches on to what Ghost wants when he tugs his pants down and pulls out his heavy cock. A heartbeat later he starts whining endlessly, little high pitched noises straight from his chest, wiggling around on his knees and leaning forward like he’ll sneak a taste.

“You want this?” Ghost asks, grabbing Soap by the hair and pulling his face to his dick. “Huh?” He doesn’t let him lick it, but thrusts his hips so he’s covering the mutt’s face in his precum. Johnny keeps up his begging, eyes desperately tracking the head as it rubs around his face.

“Alright,” Ghost snickers, pulling Johnny back and lining the tip of his cock with his lips. “Paws between your legs, puppy. No touching.” His first brutal thrust past Johnny’s lips muffles his whine.

He takes control of the blowjob this time, less Johnny sucking his cock and more Johnny getting his face fucked. Ghost doesn’t take into account his pup’s comfort, just pushes and pulls his head in the ways that feel best. He lets it drag on longer this time, enjoys the cockdrunk look in Johnny’s eyes.

The gagging sounds are salacious in his otherwise silent room. Johnny might be an experienced cocksucker, but Ghost knows how to push past his boundaries in any context. He doesn’t give him a chance to breathe, let’s Johnny find the ebbs and flows of his pace on his own. If Ghost cranes his head to the side he can see a little puddle of drool on the ground beneath them.

He doesn’t come down Johnny’s throat this time. He pulls out and jerks his cock quickly, watches the spurts of cum cover Johnny’s flushed cheeks and long eyelashes. He squeezes every last drop from his cock, gives his boy a proper facial.

It doesn’t take long for Johnny to start squirming around. He doesn’t speak - smart boy - but he whines and moans, looks up at Ghost with those pathetic puppy dog eyes and ruts into the air.

“Alright,” Ghost sighs once he’s come down a bit from his high. “Go ahead puppy, you can hump. No touching yourself though, be a good boy for me.”

Ghost is nearly knocked into the wall behind him with the force of Johnny mounting his calf. He gets both arms wrapped tight around Simon’s thigh, his face buried into his wet cock and his hips working furiously to get himself off. Ghost can feel Johnny’s dick through the fabric of his pants, feels his own cock twitch a little at his pup’s desperation.

Johnny finishes even faster this time than he had last time - only to be expected after three days of edging himself. His pupils are blown wide, jaw hanging loose and drool slipping from the corner of his lips.

Ghost gives him a second to recover, then steps away. Poor Johnny falls forward, nearly smacking his head into the wall before Simon catches him by the neck.

“Clean up your mess, puppy. You slobbered all over the floor.”

It’s a testament to how far gone Johnny truly is that he doesn’t hesitate, ducks down on his hands and knees as soon as Simon commands and starts licking the filthy floor.

Ghost hums, runs a hand down Johnny’s back and to his ass. He crouches down behind the boy, pulls his pajamas the rest of the way off so they’re loose at his knees.

His hole is a little slick, like maybe he wormed a finger or two in there when he tried to steal an orgasm. Not very well stretched, though, the little rosebud looks virgin-tight.

Ghost rumbles audibly as he spreads Johnny’s cheeks, blowing a little breath over his hole and relishing the sudden yip, the little buck of his hips.

“Nice and clean back here, Johnny. You’ve got a right puppycunt.” He emphasizes his words with a harsh slap to the little hole, using the flat of two of his fingers.

Johnny moans, a mix of pleasure and what’s probably humiliation. He starts to lift his head up, but Ghost shoves him back down by the back of his neck. “You’re not finished with your job, dog. Keep licking. What I do with your pretty little hole shouldn’t distract you from your orders.”

Another whine, another smack. Ghost appreciates the slight redness on his crack starting to appear, gives the vulnerable area a few more harsher taps to emphasize it. The puppy moans and groans away, but he doesn’t lift his head again so Simon lets him be.

He spreads his cheeks again, leans in and licks from Johnny’s taint to his hole. He digs in there, tongue prodding into the tight little bud and spitting so he can slick his own way

Johnny’s squirmy beneath him, but Ghost’s tight grip on his ass keeps him still enough, so he lets him be. He stays head-down-ass-up, and that’s all that really matters.

Ghost eats his boy out as sloppily as he can. He doesn’t plan on going far enough to grab lube, so what Johnny gets from his mouth is all he’ll get to ease the stretch.

He slips a finger in eventually, a stretch that has Johnny moaning like a bitch in heat. He can’t help but smile, bites the meat of Johnny’s ass to keep from laughing. A second finger slips in easily, and Ghost takes his time properly stretching him for a bit. Wouldn’t want to hurt the new puppy so soon.

Johnny isn’t content with the pace for long. As soon as he’s adjusted to the stretch of Ghost’s thick fingers, he’s wiggling around again. This time he pushes himself up on his hands, tries to glance over his shoulder.

“Pl-please, please, sir, need you, need your cock so bad-“

A snarl tears from Ghost’s throat. He leans forward enough to slam Johnny back to the floor, ignoring the shout of true pain from the man. He quickly moves back and grabs Johnny’s half-hard dick, tugs the useless thing straight up to his stomach with one hand and uses the other to land a series of blows against his balls.

Johnny starts wailing, face still on the floor but the rest of him clambering to get away. “Si-Simon-!”

“Shut the fuck up, boy. You don’t get to fuckin’ talk. Dogs don’t fucking talk.” He punctuates nearly every word with a slap, relishes the way he starts to sob and go limp from the onslaught.

“Bad boy, Johnny,” he finally says, stops the mini-punishment with a final open-palmed smack. He keeps Johnny’s balls in a tight grip, tugs them down another minute. “Very bad boy. You don’t speak without command, understood?”

He can see Johnny nodding against the floor, can see the whites of his eyes and the stiff line of his shoulders. But he doesn’t make a sound.

“Not good enough. Tell me you understand - properly.”

Johnny whimpers a little, shuffles his knees back and forth and looks over his shoulder at Ghost with the most confused look in his eyes.

Ghost decides to take mercy on him. With a sigh, he explains, “Bark, MacTavish. Bark for me.”

And he does. Perfect, sweet boy that he is, he opens his mouth and starts barking for his master. Little puppy sounds from a puppy boy, music to Simon’s ears.

“There it is. Alright, you’re forgiven, puppy. Keep workin’ on your mess while I stretch your pretty pussy for my cock.”

There’s another moan at that, but Ghost sees the way his cock twitches up against his stomach. With a smirk he goes back to work, skipping a third finger in and drawing a moan from Johnny.

He doesn’t waste much more time stretching Johnny, spreads his fingers wide a few times before pulling out and shuffling closer - his knees between Johnny’s spread thighs so the smaller man can’t close his legs.

He strokes a hand over Johnny’s hips, gets a good firm hold at his waist and gives him a little shake. “Be good now, Johnny. Keep your cunt loose for me.”

He slides into Johnny’s heat in one long stroke, head rolling back on his neck and a groan coming from deep within his chest. Johnny tightens up almost immediately, moaning beneath him, but Simon keeps a steady pressure and sinks balls-deep in only a few seconds.

He doesn’t give Johnny any time to adjust to the stretch, tightens his grip on the pup’s hips and fucks him at his own pace. He isn’t nice about it, punching himself deep into Johnny’s guts and carving a space in his cunt that’s Simon shaped.

Johnny yelps a little, wiggles in his spot, but Simon’s got a good hold and he isn’t going anywhere. Keeps fucking him how he wants, and a few thrusts in Johnny goes limp beneath him.

“Like that, boy?” Simon growls, hunching over and placing his lips right at Johnny’s ear. “Like me fucking you deep in your puppycunt? Huh?”

Johnny doesn’t even need any prompting to start barking again. Ghost knew he’d be the perfect puppy once he had someone to show him how he’s truly meant to act. Just a needy little bitch, begging for cock and someone to keep him in his place.

Ghost tucks a hand into Johnny’s hair, holds his face to the floor and puts his back into fucking him.

“That’s a good fuckin’ dog, my good boy, Johnny. Feel so tight around me - perfect little hole for me, huh? Little limp doggy for me to fuck? God, you feel so good around me. Fuckin’ perfect cunt, made just for me. Bark for me some more, Johnny, go on - yes, yes, just like that, c’mon, good boy, such a good boy for me, fuck-”

Ghost’s hips jerk to a stop deep inside Johnny, his cum planted as far into the boy as he could get it. He rests his forehead against Johnny’s shoulder while he catches his breath, the sound of Johnny’s whimpers and moans fading in and out.

He gathers himself a few heartbeats later, straightens up and pulls out. He watches the way his come slides out of Johnny’s fucked open hole, pushes his thumb in the stop the drip for just a moment.

He gives a perfunctory little pat to Johnny’s ass, commands “Stay” before standing and ambling over to his dresser. He tucks a few things into the pockets of his sweats, twirls a little tail plug around in his hand.

“Good boy,” Ghost praises when he turns back and sees Johnny hasn’t moved a muscle. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, but instead of moving to jerk himself he just lays there, looking a little dazed and confused. “Listen so well once you’ve been fucked dumb, huh, Johnny?”

There’s a little whine in response, and Ghost just chuckles as he kneels behind Johnny again. It takes no effort to slip the tail plug into his hole, keeping all of Ghost locked right inside Johnny - right where he’s meant to be. The pup hardly even notices past a little shift on his knees.

Ghost sits him up slowly, grabs him by the shoulder and pulls until he’s resting back on his heels and looking up at Ghost. The tail hangs low between his legs, right beneath where his dripping cock bobs in the air.

Johnny opens his mouth, starts to speak before Ghost hushes him to keep him out of trouble. “You been so good tonight, Johnny. Gotta be good a little longer for me, yeah?”

Johnny nods a little, brows scrunching together. His hand creeps toward his dick seemingly unconsciously, and Simon bats it away like it’s nothing more than a bothersome fly.

“No touching. Now - do you want to stay the night with me, or go back to your room? Bark once for my room and twice for yours, puppy.”

It takes a minute, a little tap to Johnny’s cheek to bring some coherence back to his eyes, but he lets out a little woof eventually.

Ghost doesn’t bother to hide his smile, strokes over Johnny’s head in soft little pets. “That‘s my good boy. C’mon, let’s get you ready for bed.”

He’s careful not to let Johnny move out of his puppy headspace. Keeps him on his knees with a hand on the shoulder, guides him with soft little taps to the side as he crawls over to the crate in the corner.

Johnny pauses at the sight of it, breath hitching as he looks up at Ghost. He’s got this look on his face - a mix of confusion, fear, and arousal - that makes Ghost think he might be able to come another time. Again, he opens his mouth to say something but Simon stops him before he can.

“You’re doing well, Johnny. Don’t fuck it up now, yeah? Now, puppies sleep in their crates before they’re trained - you sleep in my room, you sleep in the crate.”

Johnny keens, leaning away from Ghost’s hand on his neck a little and ducking his head low. Ghost just tuts, kneeling down in front of him. Johnny’s already made his decision - the correct one - and he’s not letting him go back on it.

“You’ll be fine, Johnny.” He soothes. “I’ll be right there in bed, not even six feet away. Crate’s got all you need - a nice mattress, a blanket, even some puppy pads if you can’t make it through ‘til morning. You can be good for me for one night, yeah pup?”

He doesn’t get much more than a slow blink and a hesitant nod, but it’s enough for him.

“Good. Now let’s get you in the right gear, so you don’t do anything silly like try and jerk that useless little cock of yours. Gimme your paw.”

Johnny whines at the derogatory language, but doesn’t fight when Ghost manhandles his hand into a black pup mitt, one that covers his skin from fingertip to wrist and doesn’t allow him to uncurl any of his fingers. He repeats the process with Johnny’s other hand, can’t help but smirk a little as he gets used to the weight and feel of them.

He gets a feel for them with his nose, brushing against the entirety of the glove like a real puppy might sniff a hand. Ghost lets him gnaw a little at the rounded tops, quickly locking a cock ring around Johnny’s rock-hard dick.

That gets his attention, gets Johnny jerking up and whining.

“Settle,” Ghost rumbles, letting a bit of sternness into his tone. “Your orgasms are mine, and I don’t want you coming again tonight. I’ll reconsider in the morning, but I’m not dealing with your humpin’ and moanin’ while I’m trying to sleep. Don’t pout.”

Johnny pouts, but Ghost is a generous owner, he lets it slide. This time. His poor pup’s done well with everything Simon has had him do so far, and he’s got a long night ahead of him.

He swings the crate door open and gestures to the dark interior. “Go on, boy. Go ahead and get comfy.”

Johnny goes with just a little pressure at his nape, but he can’t seem to resist whimpering and whining the whole time as he crawls forward. Simon locks the door, hooks a combination lock on the bars to make sure his puppy won’t get out before Ghost lets him.

He draws a blanket over the top and two sides of the crate, leaves the front open so Johnny will be able to see Ghost in his bed. He hunches over the crate one last time, dips his fingers through the bars to scratch at Johnny’s head.

“You’ve been a very good boy, Johnny. We’ll get you something nice in the morning, yeah? Just gotta stay here, quiet, for the night. Can you do that for me?”

Johnny gives a little nod, but a quick yank at his hair quickly has him correcting himself and barking once instead.

“There’s my good boy. Alright, sleep well.”

He gives one last little scritch to his boy’s scalp, then turns and gets into his own bed. The sound of Johnny shifting around and trying to get comfortable, his little whimpers when (presumably) his cock brushes against something - it’s the perfect lullaby for Simon to fall asleep to.

[lifemod17]

Trying (and failing) to be normal about the PEELED NECK

📸: adamross