Lord.
Lord.
deep end
price x transmasc!reader | 7.9k | AO3
cw: dubcon (power imbalance, price steamrolling reader), hints of daddy issues/mild daddy issues for those who want to see them, abrupt ending, age gap, alcohol, masturbation, praise kink, hand feeding, fingering, oral, anal sex a/n: clit, cock, and cunt are used to describe genitalia of reader's body. reader has top surgery scars.
There’s something to be said for the kind of work that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.
It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours—a modest business with your name on the side of a sun-faded van, stocked with gear, and enough regulars to keep the bills paid. That’s more than a lot of people can claim. It keeps the lights on. Affords you food and pride, both. Proof you’re getting by.
This little operation, humble as it is, at least gets you outside. And on days like this, that’s a gift. The cirrostratus looks like pulled strands of candy floss overhead, and the breeze takes the edge off.
You tip your head for a moment to admire the clouds, then tug the brim of your sunhat. It’s too big, like everything else you’re wearing. The clothes came out of the same catalog you order your gear from. A stiff, white button-up with your logo on the pocket and shapeless red shorts that skim your knees. Cheap. Chafes in all the wrong places, but expensable.
You scratch absentmindedly near your navel and guide the vacuum along the pool floor in methodic passes. The water is clear, the motion soothing. Slips you into a quiet headspace.
It’s satisfying. Calming. The zen and predictability of a repetitive task cannot be understated. Lulls you into a lovely state of not-quite-daydreaming.
So, you don’t hear Mr. Price the first time.
“You with me, lad?”
The vacuum handle nearly slips as you twist around too fast, your foot catching the edge of the pool. You wobble, free arm flailing for balance. Mr. Price steps forward instinctively—poised to surge across the yard. You manage to steady yourself, weight rocking back in time.
Both of you exhale at once.
He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it across his beard.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.”
“I gathered.”
You switch off the vacuum, the underwater hum fading. “Was there, uh, something you needed, sir?”
His sunglasses are too dark to tell, but you feel him sizing you up, same as he did when you arrived. He hadn’t said much then either, just opened the door, looked you over from head to toe, then gestured toward the side gate with a grunt.
You don’t know what to make of him. In truth, you rarely give your clients much thought beyond big house and lucky bastards. If you see them at all, it’s through the windows.
This is your first time at his place, and you’re still formulating an assessment.
You don’t know if Mr. Price has a family, but his house is big enough to accommodate one. There’s a sporty car parked outside his garage. A sprawling garden, lined with hedges, mature trees, and a wrought-iron fence. No immediate neighbors butting the property line.
And, obviously, a pool.
What sets him apart is that you met him, and not a housekeeper or assistant. Clients typically let others handle the scheduling and small talk. It caught you off guard, putting a face to the voice, and matching the face to the owner’s name.
Still, your gut says to treat him the same as the others. Another man accustomed to obedience. So, you straighten and lift your chin.
Your change in posture seems to amuse. The corner of his mouth lifts.
“I asked if you needed water.”
Your eyes flick to your bag and your beat-up thermos, plain as day. He had to have seen it. Which means this isn’t really about concern. You’ve done this dance before. A casual, innocuous question preceding a snide comment or suspicion. Are you slacking off? Cutting corners?
Knew it, you think bitterly.
“No thank you, sir.”
His mouth twitches again, this time downward, then flattens.
“Suit yourself.”
He retreats indoors, and the rest of the visit passes without incident. No more words exchanged. The clouds lift, sharing a rare, naked sky.
You pack your tools and log the time. As you pull out of the drive, you check the rearview.
Mr. Price stands at the back gate with a phone pressed to his ear.
You can’t read his face from this distance—but you feel the weight long after the house disappears from view.
You must’ve made an impression, because Price starts booking weekly. On your docket every Friday afternoon.
It mystifies. His pool is never particularly dirty. Maybe a thin film of grime at the most, a handful of leaves blown in from the hedges and bird cherry trees. No signs of children or pool toys. No evidence of parties. It’s clear he lives alone, and doesn’t host.
Far be it for you to question easy money.
It makes for a pleasant, if not boring, routine. Knock on the door. Head around back. With booking and billing handled online, there’s no need to see or speak to him at all.
For a couple weeks, it’s simple. Another lucky bastard with a big house who leaves blank five-star reviews. The best you could hope for.
Then he starts appearing poolside.
At first, you assume it’s a fluke. That he’s forgotten you’re scheduled.
He’s the picture of leisure. Drink in one hand, cigar in the other, stretched out on the cushions. If he’s startled or annoyed by your presence, he doesn’t show it. He gives you a polite nod, then buries his nose in a magazine.
But then it happens again. And again.
Like clockwork. The new fucking routine.
You unlatch the gate, and there he is, waiting. He makes himself comfortable—well, more comfortable, given it is his house—and watches. Or seems to. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.
He never interrupts, just smokes and reads. The magazines he cradles are dog-eared, covers curled over. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the topics: cars, golf, current events. None of it hints at what he does for money. If he’s retired or working from home. If he’s ever worked a day in his life.
It changes things.
The calm dissolves. You grow more aware of every little thing. The way your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades. The trickle of sweat down your spine. Every time you bend at the waist or kneel by the pool’s edge.
You try to ignore it, but you feel his eyes brushing over the nape of your neck or small of your back. Yet every time you peek, he’s not looking. You can’t shake it anyway—the sense of being observed, possibly admired.
That’s when the shame creeps in.
What are you doing? What do you think this is, a slow-burn porno? Are you that vain?
This is just a job.
You scold yourself, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead. It’s mortifying. To even imagine that a man like him—older, composed, probably has a different watch and woman for each day of the week—would be watching you. You. You’re not special. You’re a line item on an invoice. Background noise.
The thought that you’ve spun some dumb fantasy makes your stomach knot.
You work faster. Keep your eyes down. Try not to think about it too hard.
But when the breeze shifts and carries his smoke toward you, heavy and spiced, and it curls around your ribs like a hook.
Your first real conversation, you’re in trouble.
“You’re late.”
“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Price’s fists sit on his hips, a cigar at the corner of his mouth held in place by a frown. Sunglasses hiding a glare.
“What kept you?”
You’re sweating from the mad rush, juggling the hose and skimmer, and running on fumes. A dull throb pulses in your skull, the tail end of a headache from your last client’s shrill tirade. His threats to leave bad reviews over a handful of rowan petals in his pool and a perceived lack of hustle.
A nutcase, you want to spit. You want to tell Price about how you skipped lunch and nearly got sideswiped on the drive. Complain about how your life depends on the goodwill of people who don’t remember your name and settle for obscenities or diminutives.
Instead, you drop your armful on the grass and lie. “Traffic.”
He cocks a brow. “Traffic got you worked up?”
“Yes,” you bristle, and slam the gate to storm back to collect the rest of your supplies.
When you return, he’s still at the gate, and this time, one long arm swings past. He slows the metal before it slams, guiding it shut with a quiet click. Suddenly, he’s too close, and you’re boxed in. A meld of tobacco, sweat, and body heat seeps into the space between. It’s toothsome. Heady on the tongue.
You form an apology—you can’t afford to lose business—but he doesn’t raise his voice.
“Whatever’s actually put you in a mood, you won’t be takin’ it out on my property.” He ducks his head to chase your eyes and you’re forced to stare at your reflection in the dark lenses. “We clear?”
The steel of his jaw, his arm flexing, the authority crackling in his tone like fire splitting wood—it shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does.
“Yes, sir.”
He smiles then. Not kindly. Smug, maybe. “Good lad.”
The words hit a nerve you didn’t know you had. They sink in somewhere soft and sensitive. The same place that makes a dog’s hackles rise and puts butterflies in bellies.
“And you better not slack just because you’re behind.”
“I won’t, sir.”
He lets you pass, and follows when you do. It’s a struggle to not trip over your own feet.
This time, he makes no secret of watching. His cigar burns out untouched. The magazine flutters in the wind. He sits with his fingers laced over his middle, legs crossed at the ankles.
Bent on all fours over the system compartment, a prickle at the back of your neck grows impossible to ignore. You glance over your shoulder.
He appears asleep—utterly still—until the corner of his mouth lifts. A slow, knowing smirk.
You snap back to the task at hand.
A chuckle follows, low and indulgent. It drapes over you like velvet and settles somewhere deep, where it can hum and hiss like a wasp caught under a jar.
On a night off, you go dancing. Three glasses of cheap vodka in your bloodstream, the taste coating your tongue. You considered ordering whiskey, but lost your nerve.
Leaning against a wall outside with your friends, getting air between songs, someone asks if you’ve met anyone lately.
Or are you all work, no play?
You answer without hesitation. Without thinking.
(It’s not until the next morning, hungover and rueing the sun itself, that you understand they meant someone from an app. A date. A one-night stand, maybe.)
But you’d already blabbed. Confessed.
Mr. Price.
John.
Your mouth runs wild with the liquor in your blood.
He’s a bit odd, you admit. Hard to read. Just the other day, you’d walked in as he finished swimming laps, and he climbed out the moment he spotted you. You swear it happened in slow motion—water rolling off the hard lines of his chest, the softer spread of his belly, the pelt of hair. The treasure trail and fading farmer’s tan. You nearly keeled over at the sight. And it’s hard to guess his age. He’s fit, and the silver threads in his beard do something to you.
It isn’t until the laughter shifts into something sly, that you realize how long you’ve been going on. The teasing comes fast, merciless but fond. There’s no walking it back.
And when they ask—flat-out—if you’d fuck him, you can’t lie.
That gets them going.
“Do you think he’s—?”
You cut them off. “No. No way.”
Denial is easier than the fantasy of hope.
With an excuse, you peel yourself off the wall and flee back into the fray to shake the heat crawling up your neck.
You attempt to bury it all in the mouth of a stranger. Older, taller, dark hair curling damply at his temples. Broad enough shoulders. A cheap cologne that stings your nose. You let him kiss and paw at you against the sticky wall by the toilets, but it’s no good. He tastes like rum. Too sweet, no substance. Nothing like what you want.
The night ends early, frustration simmering. Alone in your room, sprawled in the dark, you add one item to the shopping list on your phone:
Whiskey.
The weather turns fast one afternoon.
It starts with the trill of Mr. Price’s phone and a curse. He abandons his post, gritting out a clipped Yeah? before striding toward the house. The glass doors shut behind him, and though they muffle the sound, his voice climbs in volume as he disappears from view.
Almost in answer, the sky darkens. In minutes, clouds quicken and roll in, dragging the light with them and smothering it in a drab, gray sheet. The breeze kicks up and then your sunhat is gone, plucked clean off your head and hurled skyward.
You watch it spiral away helplessly.
Leaving your equipment where it sits, you duck beneath the umbrella between the chairs. It offers little protection. The raindrops fatten, splattering against the stone, and without giving it much thought, you scoop up his magazine and half-finished drink.
Clutching the snifter to your chest, the scent of whiskey rises. You’re more of a wine fan, really, but the smell settles you. Warms you, even as goosebumps sprout along your arms and shoulders. Reminds you of your dad.
You shift foot to foot, back turned to the wind and rain. The uniform clings in cold patches as it soaks through.
Then, from across the lawn—“Inside!”
Mr. Price stands in the doorway, motioning you in.
You hesitate. You have a policy: stay outdoors. Liability. Safety. If rain hits, you wait it out or move on. You know this.
Then a sheet of rainwater sluices off the umbrella as it topples sideways in the wind, sloshing down your back. Shuddering, you shove the magazine under your shirt to shield it and bolt.
The rain lashes your skin. Grass squishes beneath your feet. His drink sloshes over the rim with every step, drenching your fingers in liquor.
You slip through the doors, soaked, clothes plastered on. You produce the rumpled magazine and offer it to Mr. Price with his half-drained glass.
“I, uh, tried to—”
“You’re dripping,” he says flatly, his gaze dropping to the puddle forming at your feet.
You glance down at the water pooling at your feet and almost stumble back outside, stammering apologies, but he cuts you off.
“I’ll get you a towel. Shoes off.” He empties your hands, pivoting toward the kitchen to deposit them on the island. As he rounds a corner, he points at the floor. “Stay put.”
Outside, the rain picks up, and you gingerly remove your shoes and socks, not wanting to make more of a mess. Shivering, teeth clacking from the chill, you rub your arms and gawk. You’ve never been inside a client’s home before.
A polished, heavy table anchors the immediate area. Old wood floors stretch beneath it, the tile under your feet a practical addition. Meant for footprints. Framed photos are scattered throughout, on the walls and sideboard, family portraits old and new you assume.
A grand painting behind the grand table seizes your attention: a small fishing boat, crimson and white, nearly lost in a violent storm. The sea churns around it in deep greens and blacks, lightning tearing across a sickly sky.
You admire the scene until you hear footfalls.
Mr. Price bears a towel and clothes. You accept the towel, pretending not to notice the second offering. When you peek out from beneath the cotton, he’s holding a shirt out.
Does he seriously think—
“Go on. You’ll catch your death if you stay in that.”
A laugh putters out. You shake your head. “You can’t—I can’t take that, sir.”
His chin dips. “You’re not taking anything. You’re borrowing. C’mon. Shirt off, son.”
An ember catching kindling. You struggle to tamp it down.
“Can’t I change in the–”
He scoffs dismissively. “I’m not moppin’ up a trail. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Transparent, anyway.”
Nothing I haven’t seen before. You doubt that. Your scars have faded into blurs, but they’re recognizable. Obvious in their purpose.
He is right. Your shirt clings better than cellophane, sheer in all the worst places. You tug at the hem, flustered, burning up under his scrutiny.
Another look at his face says arguing only delays the inevitable. It’s fucked—whatever this is, however he keeps pushing and playing with you. Batting you around like a bored tomcat would a mouse. Worse is how easily you’re letting it happen. Part of you, perversely curious, wants to see where it’ll lead, if he’ll eat you whole or what. Another can’t stop replaying the memory of what he looks like, soaked and shirtless.
One-handed, you work the shirt free, and new goosebumps bloom across your skin. Your nipples stiffen. It shouldn’t be a big deal—but Mr. Price is staring.
Maybe your scars haven’t faded as much as you think. You take the shirt, refusing to shrink, and square your shoulders. Posture makes all the difference amongst men, you learned.
The borrowed shirt slips overhead, and you juggle the towel to thread both arms through. It’s loose in the shoulders, hitting the midpoint of your butt. Plain black, clean-smelling cotton.
Price clears his throat. “Better. Bottoms, now.”
If your cheeks weren’t already warm, they’re scorching now.
“Sir.”
He clicks his tongue and swings the spare shorts. “C’mon, these’ll do if you tie the string.”
“There’s no need!”
“You’d rather make more of a mess on my floor?”
You hold your ground, waiting for an indication he’ll back off, but he doesn’t. An unevenly matched game of chicken and you’re losing one concession at a time. You last all of ten seconds.
With a huff, you wrap the towel around your waist. Wiggling your hips, you coax the shorts down without revealing more than you already have. It takes a long, awkward minute. And when you think you’ve made it through with some shred of dignity intact, he kneels, and closing a hand around your ankle.
“Steady.”
You freeze as he lifts one foot, then the other, helping you step out.
You snatch the shorts out of his hand and hurriedly shove them on, nearly combusting when the towel comes away in his hand seconds after you pull them over your bottom.
And then he’s up, moving, your wet clothes slung over his arm like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t—like he didn’t just—
“Back in a jiff.”
This is where your curiosity’s led you.
Barefoot, in his clothes, heart fluttering ridiculously. Breaths in short bursts, stifled little things, afraid to be too loud. Dumbstruck.
How ridiculous you must look.
Do you think he’s—?
Well.
You dry off as best you can and sidestep the puddle. Your boxers are likely see-through as well now, but you vow to not mention them. You wouldn’t survive Mr. Price insisting on a fresh pair with your ass on display.
You rinse the whiskey off in a haze and find the kitchen as orderly as the dining room. Together, they’re larger than your entire flat. Modernized, no-frills.
Through the archway, the hum of a tumble dryer kicks up, and Price reappears.
“Some rain. Didn’t expect it, did you?”
You almost ask which part—the rain, or the forced striptease?
Instead, you mutter, “No, Mr. Price.”
“Think you can call me John now.”
Within minutes, he talks you into tea and a sandwich. While you nibble, he fills the silence with small talk. He doesn’t cook much himself—so if you don’t like it, s’not his fault—and arranges for a chef to deliver meals every Sunday. Nothing elaborate, enough for the week, with extras in case of company.
You work up the nerve to ask what he does for a living.
He’s unfazed. Says his parents passed, left him the house. He’s retired military, lives comfortably off a pension. Mentions he does some consulting now and then—vague, detached, the kind of answer meant to end the conversation, not invite it forward.
“But enough about me. Want to know more about you.”
You wash a bite down with a sip, uncertain that he’s serious. He’s being polite, you reason. A man like him—he doesn’t really want to know. You’re a half-drowned dog he brought in from a storm. A good deed.
“I’m not that interesting.”
“Says the kid with his own company.”
Fair play.
You relent. Share little things. Where you’re from how you started, and that most of your work is seasonal. You help out at a school in the off months, and teach swimming at the community pool when they’re short-staffed. He listens intently, attention never wavering. Probably finds it novel, working more than one job.
“Sounds like you have your hands full.”
You nod, swallowing the last sip of tea. “I keep busy.”
He hums. “You do alright on your own?”
The question is light, but it lands heavy. It’s simple, benign—but it isn’t neutral and it needles. He ducks his head when you look away, searching. Like he’s casting a line, hoping you’ll give something up.
Heat flares under your collar. Your throat constricts, shame blooming sharp and sudden.
You shrug, keeping it light. “I manage.”
When the rain finally stops, you’re overdue, and itching to escape Mr. Price—John’s—attention. There are only so many ways to dodge questions.
He meets you at the van once it’s packed.
“Be seeing you, kid.”
“Yeah,” you nod once. “Thanks again, John.”
You offer a cordial hand, business-like, and his palm is hot around yours. You bet it’d feel like a brand elsewhere.
At a light on the way home, you tug the collar of his shirt up over your nose and inhale. For a brief, blistering second, you imagine his hands around your ankles again. Pushing them up and up and up.
You don’t remember the rest of the drive home.
It’s only after you’ve kicked off your shoes and settled into the couch with a sip of your new whiskey, that it hits you—your uniform’s still in John’s laundry.
Shit.
You go back for it after the weekend, off schedule. Have to.
Having rung ahead, he’s expecting you. He meets you at the door, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. You hand off the spare clothes; he passes yours back. He mouths sorry and squeezes your shoulder, before disappearing back inside like it never happened.
You’re already behind, so you change in the van before your first job. The moment you slide the shorts on, your eyebrows hit the ceiling. They sit higher now, snug around your thighs, hitting well above the knee. You assume they must’ve shrunk in the wash—until you pull on the shirt. It’s been hemmed. Clean, subtle stitching. Tighter at the sleeves, better at the waist.
You consider going back, but your schedule’s packed, and the day runs away from you.
When you see him next, he beats you to it.
“Fits better, doesn’t it?” John claps your shoulder, pinching and tugging the shoulder seam.
“Yes, but did you—?”
“Eyeball the size?” He grins. “Not bad, eh? I’ve got a good tailor.”
It’s not like you can undo it and you’re not about to shell out for a replacement. So you thank him, and receive a pleased, grumbled good lad in return, and a swat to the small of your back, a hair north of improper.
A wordless dismissal. Back to work.
With every window flung wide, you wage a hopeless war against the stagnant heat. Your sheets are drenched in sweat. Restless doesn’t cover it—you’re strung tight and buzzing, sticky and half-mad with frustration.
Sleep’s not happening, not like this.
You groan and kick your boxers down your legs, then roll to your stomach, pushing up onto your knees. The air’s balmy, sticking in your lungs.
You’re not surprised to find yourself wet. Some of it’s sweat, sure, but the rest—that’s your own fault. The consequence of a wandering mind and no one around to check it.
You let your imagination take the reins.
Face mashed into the mattress, you imagine his foot on your back. Weight bearing down on you, pinning you in place. His cock rutting over your ass, one big hand grabbing himself at the base, slapping it against your hole, and the other digging into a fleshy cheek to spread it.
Your cock pulses between your rubbing fingers and a moan spills out. Your teeth scrape the sheets, eyes welding shut. It’s obscene and loud in your quiet room when you steal slick from your cunt to rub over your asshole.
He would work you open, push one finger in at a time. Get you to cry on two, render you incoherent on three. Your own aren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, but thinking of what he’d say is.
He’d ask if you wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it. All in that frustratingly even timbre of his.
His voice comes out of nowhere, clear as a klaxon in your head.
Good boy.
You come hard and fast, bucking your cock into your palm, fingertips prodding at your rim. Didn’t even get far enough to slip them inside.
You lie there for ages, gasping, limp. Your muscles are too heavy, and you’re too far gone to care about the mess.
Sleep takes you like that—sticky and spent.
The next morning, you peel yourself out of bed and strip the sheets in silence, tossing everything into the wash, shame eating you alive.
You can’t look at John that week without that memory pumping blood south. Imagining him bending you over a chaise or pushing you into the clover until your uniform turns green.
It’s divine punishment when he decides you need feeding. Like he somehow knows what played out in the privacy of your bedroom, or caught the stench of desperation that only comes with a misplaced crush, and you need your nose rubbed in it.
John presents fruit under a mesh cloche and demands you take a break. Not like there’s much to do, anyway. The pool goes unused most of the time, the maintenance minimal at best. You put up little resistance, beckoned toward him by a crooked finger.
He moves his legs for you to sit as if there aren’t three other loungers ringing the pool. Gesturing for you to scooch closer when he uncovers the fruit, stabbing a cocktail fork into a pink cube dusted with tajin. He offers it handle first.
A drop of juice drips onto his shin, and you think, lick it. You could. You would, if he told you to.
The impulse grips you so intensely, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. Here you are, with a client. Not a date, not a boyfriend. A man with at least ten years on you, casually bullying his way past all personal and professional boundaries, and you’re waving him through as if they don’t matter.
You know he expects you to take the fork from him, but that curious twitch stirs, and instead, your mouth falls open.
His eyes narrow, and he turns the fork, tucking the fruit into your mouth. Your lips close around the bite, tugging it off the tines with your teeth.
“Cheeky.” he murmurs.
A good little pet sitting at their master’s feet.
Your head spins.
You’re convinced now. There’s a tear in reality, one that opens every time you turn onto that private lane. You pass through it like Alice through the looking glass, crossing into another plane thrumming with heat and heavy air, a whole world that revolves around Mr. Price and his whims.
A gravity all its own.
A special request from John arrives mid-week, close to the hottest day of the year.
Full-service. Deep clean, filter flush, system check—the kind of job that’ll eat your afternoon and keep you working well past quitting time. Two other clients will have to be bumped, but he offers triple your usual rate. Says he understands it’s last minute.
Says he’ll make it worth your while.
For the hundredth time, you’re unable to turn him down.
You tell yourself it’s the money, but that’s only half true. The other half keeps your hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over when Friday rolls around.
Nothing helps your nerves. You can’t stop thinking about eating from John’s hand. The weight of his stare. His attention. About that man at the bar—the cheap imitation whose tongue you sucked in a vain attempt to quiet what’s only gotten louder.
It’s all climbing to a fever-pitch, and you want it to break.
John greets you at the gate.
“Glad to see you.”
He lays a hand across the back of your neck, and you fall into step.
“Hosting a mate’s retirement party. Suspect his kids’ll want to swim.” He continues on about the details, but you’re stuck on how he directs your attention via squeeze.
You expect a mess, or evidence of a gathering on the horizon, but everything’s the same. Practically pristine. Swept and hosed down. You glance sidelong toward John when he sits, buzzing with something you don’t want to name.
There’s no real reason you should be here.
No real work to do.
But he’s bought your time, so you give it, and it crawls. You move equally slow, checking the seals for wear, inspecting the heater, running tests. All of it busy work and theater.
You’re kneeling on a folded towel, bent over the open housing for the pool’s pump system. Focused until his shadow spills across the ground.
“Don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John says.
You twist to peer over your shoulder and almost swallow your tongue at the sight of his trunks at eye-level, and rise to your feet. “Everything alright?” You swipe your forehead with your wrist, willing yourself to relax.
His knuckles brush your cheek, featherlight. He frowns. “You look warm,” he taps one to your chin. “Come on. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with me, yeah?”
You barely put up a fuss when he cajoles you into a dip. Stripped to your boxers, you wade in, relief singing up your legs. Curling around your waist. You nearly groan from how good it feels.
At the other end, John dives in. He slices through the water, sleek and galeoid, surfacing within reach. Veins of water cut down his chest and stomach, disappearing at the elastic at his hips.
“Better?”
“Loads,” you say, hoarse.
He gives a faint smirk, then turns, launching into lazy laps. Says something about needing to stay limber, working out a knot in his back. You hopeless to watch. He puts those shoulders to use, pulling with long, fluid strokes.
You swallow hard, trailing him shamelessly: the sweep of his back, the bulk and muscles under freckled and scarred skin. You’re greedy. You want him. On you. Around you. Inside you. You want to bite down on that smirk and hear him swear your name.
You sit on the steps, draw your knees in, and press your thighs closed to hold yourself together. Your hands flex on the vinyl. They want to reach. Grab.
He pushes off the wall for another loop, and you stay right where you are, trying to think about anything that isn’t the throbbing pulse between your legs.
John doesn’t bother asking if you’re hungry, or if you’ll stay for dinner.
Haphazardly dressed, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, you stow the last of your gear. You’re in a daze, holding fast to denial. The spell will break, your van will revert into a pumpkin, and you’ll head home to scrub the day from your skin. Send the invoice, knock off a percentage, and you’ll do it all over again next week.
Then smoke hits the air.
John’s at the grill laying down strips of pork, the meat hissing on the grate. He halves peaches with a paring knife that’s tiny in his grip and sets them cut-side down beside the meat. The air turns lush with salt and charred sugars, rosemary and garlic.
You slink to his side, salivating, meaning to say goodbye and thank you. Polite and decisive.
Then he jerks his head to the door and tells you to fetch plates and cutlery, and you bound off. Retrieving them dutifully. Inwardly, a part of you raises the fact you didn’t agree to stay, that you shouldn’t stay—but that flicker of good sense snags on the barb of hunger and all your aching.
By the time the food’s ready, you’re ravenous. You never eat this well. Burnished pork glazed in its own fat and blistered peaches. You stop short of licking the plate.
After washing up, you peek at your phone.
“Stop that,” he scolds. “I know exactly how long I’ve got you for.”
And he does—he keeps you through golden hour.
Abendrot, painted in red and gold and soft indigo, bleeds over the sky. You’re boneless in the lounge chair. Content. Melting around the edges, the line between help and guest completely dissolved. Rendered.
John sprawls the next seat over, holding a lowball glass that catches the last of the light.
You lie on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows.
“Can I have some?” you ask.
“Don’t think you’d like it. Picture you as more of the daiquiri type.”
“Not true,” you sit up. “I’ve got a bottle of that at home.”
That makes him glance your way. Then, he shifts, patting the cushion beside him.
He walks you through it, clearly doubting your tastes and experience: breathe in first, don’t take too much, let it roll. Savor it.
It burns, but it’s smooth. Honey folded in smoke. Leagues better than what you picked up on sale.
“Good?” he asks.
You wheeze, nodding. Emboldened, you try again twice more under his amused supervision. After a shallow fourth, you push the glass to his chest with a breathless laugh.
John chuckles, shoulders shaking. When the sound dies, you notice how close you’ve drifted.
“Well,” you murmur, easing upright. “This has been–well, I should...”
“That it?” he asks. “Off the clock now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but, I should go, since–”
“Yeah?” he smooths a hand up your thigh. “Aren’t you the boss?”
Your brain stutters. Your mouth moves before your thoughts can catch up. “Aren’t you?”
It comes out soft. Sultry. Unfurls like a red flag in front of a bull.
His face blanks. Then, very quietly, “Careful.”
Panic punches through you. Words spilling fast. “I am so sorry, sir. That was—that was over the line. I didn’t mean—”
Storm clouds darken his blues and you brace for it—for the correction, the ending you walked yourself into.
But he moves.
The glass hits the table with a muted clink, forgotten. His hand shoots out, closing around your wrist, and the next thing you know, you’re hauled straight into his lap.
He’s kissing you.
“John–” you gasp against his mouth.
Devouring you.
His mouth slants hard over yours, tongue parting your lips, taking what he wants with a low sound—part growl, part groan.
You try to breathe through it, to think, but it’s useless. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and stone fruit. He grabs your waist and drags you closer, until you’re straddling him, knees framing his hips.
The lounger creaks.
“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw. His teeth scrape there, making you arch. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to make that face again.”
“What face? A-again?” you moan, dizzy.
“That one,” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, grazing your throat. “Like you’d let me wreck you right here, out in the open. You make it all the time.”
You shudder. He feels it—laughs under his breath.
His hand slips to your nape. His forehead presses to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.
“You want this, hm?” he asks.
You nod.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. Rougher this time. Meaner. The decision’s final.
You belong here. On his lap. On his tongue.
“There’s a good boy, fuckin’ good boy.”
A head rush in two ways. The pulse of John’s cock on your tongue rewires your brain, resets it completely when he presses your nose into the steel wool of his hair. Dizzying, both the lack of air and the sheer size of his hand cradling your skull.
Right here, out in the open. Kneeling on a bunched-up shirt.
He had let you take charge to a point. Half-heartedly muttered about there being no need. Though as soon as you slid your tongue along the underside of his cock and hollowed your cheeks, he swore and took the reins.
He fucks your throat in slow, deep thrusts, and tells you what he thinks of your talent. What a nice surprise it is. He coos when tears well and spill, mistaking them, maybe, for strain. But it’s not that. It’s the way he looks at you. He means every word. That’s what’s undoing.
He catches your tears with a thumb, and drags them across his tongue to taste the salt. You could come like this, giving head to a man who calls you kid. When you slip a hand over your crotch he doesn’t stop you. In fact—
“Go on, do it. Show me how desperate you are.”
There’s not a shred of embarrassment when you cup yourself through your clothes, rubbing along the seam, chasing friction. You can’t do much of anything except rile yourself up. It works for John—a line of filthy encouragement streaming from him uninhibited. He grinds his hips up into the heat of your mouth, picking up speed.
John doesn’t give much warning before he comes. A stifled grunt gives it away—then his grip tightens, the pressure turning forceful, insistent, urging you to take more, to take all of him. You gag, sparks bursting in your vision when he spills in your throat.
He gives another couple thrusts before allowing your retreat. You sputter and cough, lips slick with drool. You curl inward slightly, heels digging into your backside.
While you scrub at your eyes with the heels of your hands, still sniffing, he leans. Drags your lower lip down and hooks a thumb in your mouth to steal a look inside.
“Perfect.”
His bed could eat yours for breakfast.
That’s your first thought when John eases you into it.
Then his mouth finds yours, slower now, pacing himself. He’s got all the time in the world. You’re not going anywhere.
His kiss deepens as he crowds in close, tongue sliding against yours. You can feel every inch of him, chest to chest, the hard line of his thigh slotted between yours. His weight is a delicious trap, anchoring you down.
He shoves your shirt open, one rough palm skimming your waist, the other dragging its thumb across a scar. His mouth works a line down your neck, maw open and hungry.
“You’ve been driving me fucking mad,” he murmurs, gravel-thick. His teeth catch the shell of your ear as he toys with a nipple. “Teasin’ me for weeks.”
You twist your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, grinding between your thighs.
“I wasn’t trying to,” you gasp. “You—you made me—during the storm—”
“Never made you do a damn thing,” he grunts, tugging at your waistband. “Did I? Didn’t make you wear my clothes. Didn’t force you to eat my food.”
He yanks your shorts and boxers to your ankles, and there’s no hiding it. He finds you wet—slick and ready. His whole body stills to collect himself. Then he exhales slow, grinning.
“Christ,” he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple. “Don’t need to force a thing.”
John’s touch is as demanding as the rest of him. He learns you fast, using two fingers and his thumb to stroke your cock. His other hand slides under your back, kneading a globe to coax you into another filthy kiss.
He breaks to swipe through your cunt, and you moan into his neck, clinging to him. He groans at the way you flutter when he circles your hole, hips shifting so you feel the hard heat of him against your thigh.
“This alright?”
You nod, helpless.
“Speak.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, John.”
He slicks his fingers and returns to your twitching cock, stirring you up into a fit of noise, hips mindlessly canting into his touch.
You’re right there—right on the edge—when he pulls away. A desperate sound tears from your lips as he stands, leaving you aching on the bed. You turn, watching him through bleary eyes as he looms.
“John,” you whimper, tilting up.
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches down, huffing through his nose, and rolls you onto your front. You scramble to get your knees set.
“Please, please—”
“Know what you need,” He grits, hauling you by the hips to the edge of the bed, swearing when you’re completely exposed. “Fuck, look at that. Could sink my teeth in right here and eat,” he swipes over your flesh, chuckling at your whimpering. “Another time, baby. Don’t worry.”
You hiss as he massages your rim using the mess from your cunt. Firm circles to ease you open. When he finally breaches, sinking to the first knuckle, you lose a little time, and come back to feel the prodding of a second digit. It’s a touch too soon, but you don’t stop him.
Don’t think you could. Not sure if you’d want to.
Soon enough, you’re tearing at the sheets. Tears roll over the bridge of your nose and slopes of your face, staining the cotton. You’re trembling, hiccuping, overwhelmed—barely able to keep up with him working you over on three of his spit-coated fingers.
Just a job, you told yourself, and now you’re crying into his bed. Listening to him purr your name. You sob once—high and cracked—and he hushes you, holding you still at the base of your spine.
“That’s it, sweet boy. Let it out.”
You cling harder to the sheets, the salt of your tears burning where they admix with sweat. You’re not sure what you’re crying for anymore—relief, need, shame. The staggering, unbearable pleasure of being wanted.
Again, he stops short of letting you come.
You’re too far gone to complain, every nerve lit up and raw. The last of your common sense, a final coherent thought raising the issue of a condom, is seared out of your mind when his cocks glides through your folds. When it slaps over the cleft of your ass. Once. Twice.
Then he’s pressing in.
It’s almost unceremonious—the weeks of simmering tension finally and suddenly boiling over—white-hot and unbearable. It ruptures, spills molten in your veins, and splits you wide open.
John’s belly brushes your lower back, then presses, cushioning when he curls over to push until he’s flush.
“Oh–oh fuck, John,” you choke out, grappling the pillow half-tucked under you.
“You’re alright.”
He keeps you close, anticipating the kick of your legs, the instinct to wriggle away. One hand smooths over your flank, gentle as breaking in a wild thing, until the worst of your shaking settles.
Then he hooks an arm snug across your chest and the other under your stomach. He finds your leaking dick, thumbing it with a hum while his own stretches you out.
“Kept this waiting, didn’t I? Sweet boy, such a mess.”
He saws in and out slowly, luxuriating in it. The rough scrape of his stubble drags over your shoulder and neck, the humid gust of his breath puffs in your ear. His fingers dip and trace your seam, circling your neglected hole.
“Please,” you try to buck against him, but it’s impossible to move.
“Greedy,” He grunts derisively, though the eagerness with which he burrows a finger in your cunt, betrays him.
He stalls his thrusts to a grind as feeds your cunt his fingers until you cry and shake anew. They probe deep, the rub of his palm to your aching cock almost too much. You snake a hand under to push his wrist away, but his teeth find your shoulder.
“You begged for this,” he growls. “So you’re gonna let me.”
It’s not so much permission as surrender—inevitable, all-consuming. You don’t allow it so much as you yield, helpless but to drown.
The squelch of your cunt around his fingers is damning. Thicker than yours with a longer reach, he finds what makes you clench around him tight, earning a clipped curse. His wrist must be sore with the angle, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He picks up his pace again, keeping your cunt stuffed and smothered, hurtling you toward your release at last.
“John, I-I’m gonna…” you pant, breath choppy. Drool sticking to the corners of your lips.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it.”
Eyelids slipping shut, lightning splits the black and shoots through your nerves and muscles. You seize up with a shout then jerk, orgasm rolling through you in waves.
The rest blurs—distant. Muffled.
A guttural sound, John’s fingers retracting. Clenching around nothing and everything. Two sweat and cum-damp palms flitting over your hips and tugging, guiding you back to meet the erratic snap of his hips.
Clarity returns with the first spurts of his cum. Mouth falling slack all over again around a feeble, surprised moan as it floods you. You can’t see him, but imagine it. Head thrown, a coat of sweat over his front and back, glutes flexing. Rooted in this deep, all-encompassing.
It’s a while before he pulls out. Seconds, minutes. Doesn’t matter.
It beads out of you like a pearl, smeared under a thumb, then wiped by a towel.
You don’t fight him when he tucks you into his side. It’s far too hot to be this entangled in each other’s arms, but the musk of sex and sweat soothes. Easy to overlook discomforts when you’re so sated.
He sighs sweet dreams into your ear, but you’re already gone. Pulled under.
In the morning, you wake to a scorching quilt over your back.
His chest fitted to your spine, cockhead nudging at your sore hole. He contorts you some when you rouse enough to sleepily relax for him, hooking a thick arm beneath both knees and drawing them up. They press toward your chest, folding you like a bug. Tight and close to him until there’s no room, until you’re just a precious thing for him to fuck awake.
Dozing anew in bed, you draw circles through the hair on his stomach, lazy and absent, while his fingers trace soft, idle patterns between your shoulder blades. You yawn, stretching a little into him.
“Shouldn’t you be decorating or something?”
He grunts, the movement of his fingers pausing to scratch his stubbled jaw. “Hm? Wha’s that now?”
“The party,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.
John exhales, then folds you tighter against him, dragging the duvet higher.
“What party?”
More Posts from Spacecola7 and Others
Getting into a verbal spat with a nearby stranger (Soap) over something inconsequential when you’re forced to overhear the loud, very confident, and horrifically wrong point he’s trying to make to his buddy.
He seems quite annoyed to be interrupted at first, but then he actually gets a good look at you, and suddenly he’s more than happy to engage with your criticism—you’re tenacious. The topic far too stupid to deem either of you the clear winner beyond personal preferences, so it ends up being a fight to see who can outlast the other, and neither of you are willing to let up.
You’re jamming your finger into his puffed out chest, missing the dangerous glint in his eyes that he gets as the digit makes contact with his shirt when an uninvolved party jeers at the two of you to get a room.
Your eyebrows nearly fly off your face when your Irritating opponent snaps back with a frustrated “-ah’m tryin’!”
mh. thinking about price keeping you plugged and filled all day. fully casual too, picks toys from your drawer in the morning, working them into your half asleep form first thing after waking up. putting on fresh underwear and pulling it up nice and tight to hold everything in place, muttering a warning about being good and keeping them in, punishment if he notices they're not where they need to be. goes about his day as per usual, let's you go about your day too, calling to check in on you while he's out at work. comes home in the evening to have dinner with you, helps you clean up after and pulls you to sit on his muscular thigh while relaxing on the couch. bouncing you gently, knowing damn well how it makes you squirm, squeeze the poor toy tightly while soft whimpers escape your throat. he adores the way your face scrunches up, adores your soft pleas that he gets to give in to once you're in bed. and the best part about it? He gets to do all of it again tomorrow.
Ravens mate for life.
Simon Riley had not been a raven, not until Roba and his experiments on top of his branwashing, anyways. A dark, vicious cycle until he was something more than just man- until he could bend and break his body into a new form, and unwind himself back into humanity as if he wasn’t long past the point of being just human.
It had been the same for you, another victim. Another soul, another body warped being what will ever be normal.
And within Roba’s darkness, the two of you found a hint of solace in each other.
Ravens, thus, mate for life.
Simon “Ghost” Riley returns to the military, and no one suspects a thing- no one except John, perhaps. John, who looks at Simon and sees that deep, encroaching darkness to him. John, who swears Simon’s eyes were never quite so… beady before even if his stare had always been chilling.
John, who swears he hears the distant cawing of ravens sometimes when there had been no such thing before. On base, and on the battlefield- John hears it all same. On base, sometimes it’s one raven. Sometimes, it’s two, but he can never quite see where they are. On battlefields, it’s always one.
(He has not yet made the connection that Simon always- always- ducks or turns when he hears the raven call during battles.)
Ravens mate for life; that is their nature.
You perch yourself on Simon’s open palm, beak quickly opening to swallow down the food he’s offering. You wish you could shift, but you are far too close to other people in this base- people and cameras. Ao you content yourself with resting on his open palm, tilting your head with a soft caw, and accepting the faint brush of his lips over your head through his mask.
Ravens mate for life; Simon would lay down his for yours, no hesitation. But such actions are unneeded when you are there to cover his back.
old drawings of ghost
Down with sickness over @dante-mightdie ‘s blue collar!simon and his fixation with having a good meal
Your boyfriend works on the same construction site as Simon. He’s a serviceable worker, but a right fuckin pillock sometimes. Goes out for lunch every day with his mates like he’s got money to burn or something. And he’ll leave behind a neatly folded paper bag with a sticker on it a couple of times a week.
Eventually, Simon gets so tired of seeing it he thinks fuck it, why let it go to waste? He opens it up to see a little piece of memo paper with quickly inked handwriting on it alongside some storybook characters. Have a good day <3.
Inside there’s an insulated container with some hot tomato soup, accompanied by a hearty turkey, bacon, and lettuce club wrapped in wax paper on toasted bread. On the side are some apple slices and baby carrots. There’s a single wrapped heart shaped chocolate. And he’s kind of in heaven— god knows how long it’s been since anyone had ever prepared something like this for him.
Did your dumbass boyfriend have any idea that there were men that would kill to have a sweet thing sending them off to work with home-made lunches? Fuck, you probably have dinner waiting when he comes home, too. He’d only seen you once, when you’d come to drop something off for your man. Pretty. Pearls before swine.
Simon uses the last few minutes of his break to swing by the foreman’s office and check the employee records. Next time your fuckhead boyfriend goes out for lunch, Simon’ll be headed to yours to show you how a pretty bird ought to be thanked for taking such good care of her man.
(siren/mermaid reader x simon “ghost” riley written on a whim and a rush)
There’s a silence that only the sea understands; a quiet lull between the crash of waves and the breath of something other watching from below.
You rise just before the tide turns.
Water beads like silver across your shoulders, trailing rivulets down the curves of your scaled skin. The moonlight paints you in cold beauty- sharp and soft, haunting. Your hair drips with salt and secrets. Your tail, dark as the ocean trench and rimmed with glints of blue, curls beneath the surface like a big, lazy question mark.
The boat creaks as you settle on the edge of it, arms resting on the slick wood, claws tapping like soft bells.
And there he is; the one man you cannot drown. Ghost, you’d heard the other fishermen call him. Simon, the seas whispered to you.
You’ve tried. Not out of malice, not really. You’ve never spared the ones who drift too close- those ruddy-faced tourists with their cheap beer and loud mouths, hearts too full of their own importance to sense the predator beneath the waves even when the locals who’ve seen you sinking down whole ships are the ones to warn them. Their skulls now rest in coral nests far below. A song, a smile, a brush of your fingers on their dreams- that’s all it ever took.
But him?
The first time you sang to Simon, he didn’t blink. He didn’t bleed from the ears or follow you into the rocks like a lamb, did not give into the sweet song of death. He just looked at you- as if he knew your song already.
You wish it had ended there, but no. No. He did much worse, he had even freed you-
You can still remember the trap. Rusted iron strung between two forgotten pylons, slick with barnacles and hunger. It had snapped tight around your waist as you’d swum through a kelp forest, cutting into your flesh with a mechanical groan that still makes your bones ache. You’d thrashed, thrashed until your voice broke against the water, until your blood painted the reeds crimson. And then- he had been there. Still, unafraid, with dark eyes peering at you.
He didn’t speak. Just waded into the cold, metal snips in hand, and cut you loose. You had stared at him, weak and trembling, the tide lapping red around you.
That was years ago. And ever since, you come to him. Not always. Never with warning.
Only when the moon calls.
Tonight, it hangs low and red like an omen. The kind that makes fish leap onto shore and birds fly inland, and a different type of hunger coil like eels in youe stomach. Blood moon, the fishermen call it. She will be hunting, they had said. And most know to stay far away when it rises. When you rise.
But not Simon. Never him.
Simon stands on his boat, the Wretch’s Mercy, steady as stone. He doesn’t flinch when you breach the surface, eyes gleaming like polished bullets. Doesn’t reach for the knife on his hip, even if you think he should. He is too defenseless; it takes the taste out of food.
“Was wonderin’ when you’d show.” He says. His voice is low and dry as cracked rope, wrapped in northern smoke and salt.
He’s wearing the same black mask, the white skull painted across it like a silent threat. But his eyes- those ever-watchful eyes- glint amber in the dark. Not human. Not quite. How have you never noticed it before?
“I don’t perform on demand,” you purr, tail flicking. “There are no fools in the water tonight.”
“No,” he agrees. “Only monsters.”
You bare your teeth in something like amusement, too sharp to be called a smile. “… You’ve never feared me, sailor. Why?”
Simon shrugs, tugging gently at a net as it coils along the deck. “Yer not the scariest thing I’ve come across, love. Not by a long shot.”
You lean forward, hair dripping over your chest, your irises dark as shipwrecks. You swear your teeth ache with the need to bite into him. “Do they know what you are?”
Simon finally looks at you- really looks.
There’s no shock in his face. No hesitation.
“Who, the locals?” he says, low. “They think I’m just a fisherman that won’t bloody die.”
You study him, the way his broad shoulders roll with the boat, how his body moves with the tide instead of against it. Like you.
“You smell like the deep,” you whisper at last. “Like volcanic vents and whale bone. You’re not surface-made.”
Silence stretches between you. It’s the same quiet the ocean gives before it devours something.
He steps forward, towards you. “You’re not wrong.”
You blink. Your claws curl slightly into the wood. “Then why pretend?”
“Because monsters scare off the catch.”
You laugh- low, velvety, the sound of waves lapping at a sailor’s final breath. But your voice softens then. “You could have let me die.”
He’s close now. Close enough to touch. The net dangles loose in his hands. “Didn’t want to,” he says simply. “Didn’t feel right.”
“Why?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re mine.”
That words stir, primal in your chest. Something that snarls and sings and sinks ships into the bottomless ocean.
“You think you can keep me?”
His hand reaches up- not fast, not rough- just firm. His fingers trail along your damp jaw, calloused thumb stroking the corner of your lip. You don’t pull away, and you don’t bite, even though you should.
But your heart stutters like a dying gull anyways.
“I don’t think,” he murmurs, voice deeper now, trenches miles below. “I know.”
You stare at him, senses drinking him in- his scent, his heat, the thrum of something old and hungry beneath his skin. You lean in, then, lips nearly brushing his, your breath a chill against his mask.
“When the time comes,” you whisper, voice of broken shells and broken vows. “You’ll have to catch me.”
Simon’s smile beneath the mask is something no man should wear. It is something no man would wear- but another deep water monster would.
“Oh, I will. When you follow me down, you won’t want to come back up.”
Ask Nicely
Summary: You decide to let König have what he wants- and your poor couch suffers for it.
König x F!Reader, 1.1k words
Era: N/A
TW: thigh fucking, sub!König, violation of a couch lol. Temporary and accidental orgasm denial.
Day 3: Thigh kink with König (kink)
It’s hell trying to keep König’s hands off you in general, the mountain of anxiety disguised as a terrifying Colonel and your partner not exactly an easy person to boss around.
You know that the easiest way for him to ground himself is through physical contact, but you didn’t think that would mean sticking his hand up your shirt to grope at soft flesh in the middle of a train station or holding you like a teddy bear in his lap while at the bar. The contact isn’t unwanted, not by any means, but it can be a hindrance- especially given his propensity for the squishier parts of you.
Working in the front garden, for example, is difficult to do when he won’t get his hands off your ass. Cleaning his hard with him nipping at your calves and heels figuratively and literally, the freak.
Forget trying to focus on anything that involves you sitting still because he pounces like a 6’11” puppy, hands and teeth and lips aching for a taste of you. Your thighs take the brunt of it, always bruised by his overeager hands and tacky with his dried spit. In hindsight, maybe the dress was an unintentional provocation, and he was all too quick to take the bait. The second you flopped onto the couch in that creamy dress, his head was buried in your lap. He’s so hungry for a piece of your pillowy flesh that his hood is forgotten, drenched through with slobber as he mouths at the fabric in an attempt to get at you.
“Please, liebling,” König begs as he shoves his head under the flowing skirt, drenching your skin in hungry drool. “Let me. Let me, let me.”
His gigantic hands cling to your legs, forcing them open so he can shove his head in like a curious dog, nipping hard enough you squeak. You didn’t wear any underwear today, which König takes as invitation to bury his nose in your cunt with a long sniff. “Slutty Schatz,” he mumbles to himself as he laps at your core before going back to the real object of his infatuation- your thighs. It’s enough to draw a needy whine from your own lips.
“Wait.”
Your heads paw and push at his head to try and detach him and for a few moments, it’s like trying to move a brick wall before he relents with a tortured sigh. “Ja?”
Once you can catch your breath, albeit still being driven insane with each needy puff of König’s panting still under your skirt and keeping you soaked and needy, you speak. “Ask nicely. If you… if you ask me nicely, I’ll let you fuck my thighs. This one time.”
Never in your life have you seen the Austrian move so quickly, yanking his head from between your legs and looking at you with near-feral eyes as pleas flow from his lips in a messy combination of German and English that you only catch some of. “Bitte, bitte, do not tease, ja? Will be so good, won’t even make a big mess, ich werde so gut sein-“ You have to capture his cheeks, still hidden under that drenched hood, and squeeze to get him to stop. “König. Breathe. Get some air, calm down.”
The whine he lets out is enough to make you want to ride him until he’s nothing but a sobbing submissive mess, but you relent. “You can do it okay? Yeah? Let’s just-“ König doesn’t let you finish your sentence, using that strength he does his best to play down to spin you around and bend you over the back of the couch, so far over you have to splay your hands out over the back to keep from tilting over. “Will be so good liebling,” he pants and whines. The sound of a belt being fumbled with is audible before the sound of a zipper and suddenly the hot and soaked tip of your partner is pressing into the back of your thigh. “I will even clean the mess, ja? Make you cum too, I swear, Schatz. Now stay.” “Wait König, not on the couch-“
He ignores you entirely, manipulating your thighs to be squeezed shut and tight before pushing himself between them with a moan of pure desperation. “Ah-! Danke, danke, Schatz, danke- ah!” The shove of him between your inner thighs has you moaning as well, the hot thickness of König slick with pre-come shoving between the soft flesh has him grinding against your core, coaxing arousal to coat the both of you and ease his thrusts. “Fuck-”
Each thrust gets rougher from him until you’re relying entirely on gravity and the one hand he has on your waist to keep you from tipping over the couch, the other preoccupied keeping your thighs nice and tight.
It’s filthy and debauched, but fuck, it feels good. Although König is clearly getting more out of it than you are, based on the way you’re nearly immobile with his heavy weight pinning you down. The couch back is pressing into your ribs, but the pleasure is enough to forget the pain. “Pretty fucking thighs,” König whimpers into your ear, huffing and puffing as his hips slam into yours with a slap of flesh. “Look so good with my cock between them, liebling. Danke, danke, danke- I’m… werde abspritzen, fuck, going to p… ah! Paint this pretty skin white. Like this, Schatz?”
“K- König,” you whine, clawing at the couch fabric. That delicious heat is curling up your thighs, so close. So close…
There’s a hot spurting between your legs, thick creamy cum coating the insides of your thighs as König moans your name and the couch creaks and snaps, one of the legs collapsing under the abuse of your bodies. His hands are tight enough to leave dark purple marks, which you’re becoming aware of as your orgasm is snatched from you with a pathetic sob. His hips slow and he drops heavy down on top of your body, just short of crushing you like a bug under a boot. You can’t help but feel cheated getting your orgasm stolen, but at least he got off… “Shhh, Schatz,” he whispers into your ear once he catches his breath, brushing your hair back to press soft kisses to your temple and cheekbone. “Sh. You will get yours, I won’t leave my liebling hanging, hm? Shhh. You will get to come, baby.” A desperate noise pulls from our throat before you speak in a shaky tone. “Gonna need a new cou-” When König uses the combination of fluids to slide into you, bottoming out in one go, the last coherent thought you have is that at least the broken couch’s upholstery is spared any more filth.
for study... of course
Jane Grealy 1. Puppy with Stick, 2021 2. Legs, 2021
And On the Wind, It Howls
(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)
Part Seven of Snowblind
Rating: Explicit MDNI 18+ Wordcount: 7.3k Tags: Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, There's Only One Bed, Awkward Sexual Situations, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Female Masturbation, Size Kink, Praise Kink, Fluff Warnings: N/A
It’s a soft, overcast Wednesday when you and Ghost set out to Scotland.
You watch the sprawling landscape from the window of the passenger seat, captivated with a small bit of childlike wonder as the car navigates the aging, cracked roads of the Scottish countryside. A dove gray sky- brumous but not yet threatening rain, arches over the tall, rugged peaks of the hills that flank you on either side. Even in the damp cold of early spring the wild, untamed beauty of the Scottish highlands breathes magic bleeding into your veins.
There’s a rawness, a brutality to the Cairngorms that aches heavy in your heart. You feel it in the way water trickles down from the hilltops in small springs, carving its way through dark stone and allowing infant growth to spring forth in green fronds that unfurl like a wistful sigh. Despite the jutting rocks atop the hills, the intimidating slope of the mountains that give rise to the highlands above, the landscape around you breathes with the barest whispers of fresh life. Beautiful, unrestrained, beckoning you to hike higher into the hills.
You take it all in, daring to lift your face to the crack of the window that allows a sliver of wind to slip through. It fills the emptiness inside you, allows you to fill your lungs with air that seems scarce inside the silence of the car.
Beside you, Ghost does not speak as he drives.
You cast a sidelong glance at him. It’s unclear if he ignores your stare or simply doesn’t see it, eyes trained on the road that curves higher into the hills. There’s a murmur of tension in his shoulders under his jacket, the hood drawn up despite the balaclava that covers all but his eyes. Without the smear of paint and the hard plastic skull you can see the pale skin underneath, the awkward curve of his nose that speaks of a bone broken one too many times. If you look closely enough you can see the silvery pink of a jagged scar that runs from the bridge of his nose to his right eyebrow, the traces of burn scars, and the smattering of soft freckles under his eyes.
Even in the daytime, the vision of his moonlit face haunts your dreams.
It’s not entirely a coincidence the two of you are together, but it certainly is unexpected. When Price had brought up the topic of leave following the team’s most recent deployment, you’d felt the men around you silently take a breath of relief. It felt like ever since you’d gotten back to the team you’d barely had more than eight hours of rest before being sent out again. You’d barely gotten six hours of sleep after getting back from your disastrous helicopter mission before Price had the five of you boarding a chopper to go hunt down an arms supplier south of Georgia.
The next week and a half was spent existing on MREs and substandard rations while you camped out in spider infested safehouses, counted your limited ammo supply and spared precious radio hours to inquire about supply drops. You’d found your target, eventually, and thankfully he’d croaked not too long into the makeshift interrogation. It had only taken Ghost two of the man’s separated fingers before he’d finally given you the lead on your target.
Eighteen hours later you’d returned to base with the same AQ captain that had slipped through your fingers on the night your helicopter had crashed. Even then, the weeks that followed were spent skimming actionable intel for something worth the fruit of your labors. Back to back missions meant you were catching what little sleep you could in transit, often nodding off on one of your comrade’s shoulders despite yourself.
When Price had announced leave for all of you (without failing to firmly state “None of you are allowed off base until I get your after-action reports, you complete your physical exams and read the dossier of our next objective. Phones on at all times when off base. Be prepared to be back sooner than you think.”) You’d been looking forward to a strong cup of tea and a book as you curled up in the corner of whatever airbnb you’d managed to secure for a few days off base.
Gaz and Soap had different ideas.
As soon as you had mentioned staying in the UK for your break, the two sergeants jumped at the chance to drag you along on a complete tour of London and Glasgow respectively- taking turns hosting you and ensuring you had seen the true side of each city (minus the tourist traps). The idea charmed you, admittedly, but when you’d asked Price and Ghost if they’d be interested in tagging along, Price had levied the three of you a tired, bemused sort of smile and declared he had alternative arrangements.
Ghost, on the other hand…
“I’ll be up north, hunting.” He declared flatly despite the slight tilt of his head, the small glimmer of interest in his eyes. “If you get sick of these two tossers, come find me.”
You were certain he was joking of course. In the days that had followed the reveal of his face to you, the breathless, almost tender exchange that had occurred at the safehouse, you’d managed to go back to convincing yourself Ghost was nothing more than a teammate, perhaps a friend.
It didn’t stop you, however, from eyeing him from afar. It’s hard not to notice Ghost despite his moniker. The sheer breadth of him is hard to miss. He towers in door frames as you sweep houses, takes up space in the back of the confiscated truck rolling through the countryside, exists purely as a sweeping obsidian shadow just in your periphery- there and gone again in pursuit of the target.
Off the field he’s imposing, an undeniable presence in any room. You’ve gotten used to sensing him through footsteps alone, by the way his massive weight shifts behind you. You’ve caught sight of him at the gym more than once- sleeves pushed up to reveal the swirl of dark ink tracing up his left forearm as his biceps bulge under the weights. You feel his eyes linger on you in turn- burning coal dark into your spine. Watching. Waiting.
They haunt you at night, in the darkness of your room. You try not to, but sometimes you find yourself imagining what it would feel like to have those eyes bore down into you from above, the warm exhale of his breath fanning through the mask and onto your face. You think about his scarred hands, the knuckles uneven from the number of times he’s broken them. In your mind the calloused palm of him slips down over the meat of your thigh, hauls your leg open and his voice murmurs darkly into your ear:
“Fix.”
In the morning, you awake sweaty, heart racing, the whisper of a dream clinging wet between your thighs.
So, despite yourself, despite the knowledge it was a poor decision, you’d gone to him.
Now, six hours into your drive, the silence in the car sits as a low pit of regret in your stomach. Whatever meager conversation the two of you had managed died off long ago, and now instead you turned your face to the open countryside where the barest slivers of sunlight slice through the clouds above.
Four days, Ghost had said. Four days tucked up in a hunting cabin at the edge of some Jacobian estate atop rolling hills and rocky crags where red elk and roe deer roam at the tail end of spring. Four days alone, away from civilization with nothing but the howling wind and the superior that you long to touch to keep you company against the vast wilderness between you.
In hindsight, you’re beginning to think maybe that grand tour wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.
Ghost guides the car off the A9 just as a passing rain shower splatters against the windshield. It feels as if you’re driving to the ends of the earth, not a car in any direction as you slowly pick your way up the road and higher into the hills. You eye Ghost from the corner of your eye, watching him fixed on the road ahead and gently avoiding potholes along the way. He catches your glance at him, and you feel warmth rise to your face as you quickly look away, even as the silence lingers.
“Soap is going to be pissed we didn’t invite hi up here.” You offer mildly, and Ghost grunts.
“Too loud. He’d scare the deer off with all that barking.”
You snort.
“What, you’ve never hunted with hounds before, Ghost?”
“Mm.”
That seems to be all the response you’ll get, and you turn again back to the window, watching a soft sheet of rain pass you by.
“I used to go out hunting with dogs.” You say softly, not even entirely sure if he’s listening. “In the summer as a kid. We...my parents had a caretaker who had two bluetick coon hounds. The kind that you use to tree raccoons and black bears.”
Ghost is quiet, but when you glance at him the fission of tension in his shoulders seems to have loosened. It’s an odd gesture, miniscule except to your studious eyes that track every flinch, every movement, the tiniest indication of displeasure or contentment.
“If I ever went out into the woods, those two dogs would always come with me. Especially on hunting trips.” You go on, smiling. “If you think Johnny is loud, you should have heard those two howl.”
Ghost taps his fingers against the steering wheel for a moment. You try not to think about how much larger they are than yours. “Didn’t realize you could hunt that close to Washington.”
“West Virginia.” You correct him, averting your eyes once more. “At least in the summers. Up in the Appalachians.” You look out the window, to the rolling, ancient hills where mist hangs like a reverent sigh. “Same mountain range, you know. Just millions of years and thousands of miles apart.”
“Going t’tell me you’re Scottish?” Ghost intones dryly, keeping his gaze ahead, and you grin.
“Haud yer wheesht.”
“English.” Ghost replies, but there’s no real bite to the warning, and it only makes you giggle. Except it’s muffled by the sudden sound of a low, concerning rumble from the engine followed by an irritated clicking. Your eyes shoot to Ghost, who curses low in his chest and carefully manages to navigate the stuttering car off to the barely-there shoulder just as the engine begins to sputter.
“How much did you pay for this rental?” You ask innocently, and Ghost slams the steering wheel with his hand with a growl.
“Too much.” He seethes before putting the car in park and swinging outside in one fluid motion. You follow him just as he pops the hood and peers irritably at the engine inside. You manage to lean in and gaze down next to him, looking over the components just as Ghost towers beside you, annoyance radiating clear off his form.
“There’s a toolkit in the trunk.” He states, making no motion to retrieve it. You recognize an order for what it is, and despite the fact that you’re no longer on the field the familiar weight of Ghost’s leadership feels almost second nature. You reappear with the toolkit in hand a moment later, and rather than hand it to Ghost, you begin to unpack it yourself- ignoring the sideways glance Ghost casts at you.
“By the sound of it, it’s the starter.” You tell him, and when you gently nudge him aside for more space he makes way, stepping back to watch you bend over the engine with tools in hand. “Would you mind trying to turn over the engine for me?”
Ghost doesn’t respond, and when you glance behind you his eyes suddenly dart up to your face after looking elsewhere. “Ghost.”
He holds your stare for a moment before nodding and making towards the driver's seat. A moment later the engine attempts to turn over, the car shuddering and coughing before silencing once more. You poke your head a little further into the hood, trying to locate the source of the noise. Ghost reappears at your side a moment later, just as you fiddle inside the toolkit for a wrench.
Ghost is quiet, observant as you slowly work at the engine, peering over your shoulder close enough you can almost feel the warmth of him spill into your back. It takes everything in you to suppress a shiver at the fact he’s so close. Yet he offers no commentary as you work, no snide comments or dry humor. It would be unnerving if it weren’t for the fact you’re well used to it by now.
“Got it.” You declare a few minutes later, straightening up quickly- colliding with Ghost’s hand that shoots out to cushion your head from impacting the metal hood. “Oh- thanks.”
You hold up the retrieved spark plug victoriously, corroded and rusty from age. “Probably caused a misfire.” You declare. “It needs to be replaced, but we’d have to drive into town for a repair shop...” You trail off, face falling with realization before digging in your pocket for your phone.
No signal.
You look at Ghost, who stares back at you. Nonplussed, done.
and then, without another word, he turns around and starts walking.
It takes about three seconds of you gawking at his back before you’re running to catch up.
“W-where are you going?”
“Town.”
“That’s...15 kilometers away?”
“We’ve hiked farther with our gear.” Uphill. In the snow. You mentally hear him add.
“Shouldn’t one of us stay with the car?”
“No one is going to steal a car broken down on a country road.”
“What about our stuff?”
“Did you lock the car?”
“Well...yes. But-”
Ghost’s pace doesn’t falter, purposefully long strides as he hikes further up the winding incline. You follow him, casting a forlorn little look at the little green car parked on the side of the road. You’re loath to leave it, but between the choice of staying alone on the side of the road or going with Ghost, you know you’ll always choose Ghost.
The hike is quiet, just as it was in the car, and you find yourself focusing on the broad expanse of Ghost’s shoulders rather than the stunning scenery around you. You’re so used to Ghost bringing up the rear on long distance missions with the team, watching his own six, and by doing so watching everyone else’s, including your own. You’ve always trusted him to watch you, knowing that any possible threat from behind would have to go through him first. Now, you stare at the wide expanse of his back cloaked under his dark jacket and wonder if maybe he feels the same.
and you try not to imagine the bare expanse of his rippling muscles underneath.
“Kinda reminds me of Nepal.” You murmur after clearing your throat and quickly pushing away the image, and wonder if Ghost can hear you over the wind.
Ghost raises his head a little, but doesn’t turn. “Going hypothermic again, are ya?”
You huff, breathing warmth into your fingers chilled by the slicing wind. “A little.”
You nearly run into his back when Ghost suddenly stops, turning towards you. Before you can object, you watch as he shrugs off his thick leather jacket and uses a hand to drape it over your head.
Then he promptly turns and resumes walking.
Heat blossoms across your face, hot enough to warm you down to your toes. The smell of Ghost, of gun oil and charcoal and sweat permeates your very being. You try not to dizzy yourself with a lungful of it, try not to be obvious about scenting the blissfully warm and rain resistant jacket that you quickly wrap yourself in with zero complaints. Your heartbeat flutters against your ribs breathlessly, and you try to tell yourself the warmth you feel is just from the jacket, and not the helpless feeling of longing you keep secret there inside your chest.
You catch Ghost pause just long enough to look over his shoulder, but whatever choked thanks you can offer feels swallowed up by the wind.
At the top of the hill, you pause to take a breather, clutch the jacket a little tighter around you and let the wind ruffle your hair. Below lies a lush, green valley cast in soft hues from the gray shadowed sky, a tiny village tucked away at the edge of the long, sloping hills. It’s nothing more than a collection of houses, a shop or two, a petrol station, and a pub of some sort, but to you it’s the closest thing to civilization that you’ll see for the greater part of the day.
You don’t notice Ghost’s eyes on you until you turn to him.
“Olright?” He asks, and you pause for a moment, looking at his smoky brown eyes to wonder why they feel so heavy on your form.
A sound catches both your attention, and you turn to observe the sight of a small factory Ford making its way up the sloping valley road.
After a moment, you shoot Ghost a grin.
“Ever hitch-hiked before, LT?”
Before he can answer you sway to the roadside in sight of the oncoming car, jutting out your hip and sticking out your thumb before glancing back at him.
“Stay back a little, might scare them off with the whole serial killer get up.”
Ghost squints at you, hard, and you feel a little laugh bubble up your throat at the fact he looks almost offended. But he obediently takes a step or two back before crossing his arms and staring at the oncoming driver. If anything, you think he looks more intimidating than he did before.
Fortunately it isn’t enough to dissuade the driver, who honks at you both before slowing and pulling up beside you facing the wrong way.
“Do ye need some help, lass?” The woman in the passenger seat asks, accent thick. She’s a homely sort, round in the face with graying curls and rosy cheeks. Her gray-green eyes dart between you and Ghost behind you nervously, and it takes all your resistance not to shoot Ghost a look that says “I told you so.”
“Yes, actually, if you don’t mind. Our car broke down a while back and we were wondering if we could have a ride to town?” You ask politely, putting on your best smile and explaining quickly. “We tried fixing it ourselves but we need a mechanic.”
“Oh!” You see the woman visibly relax and flutter a hand at the driver, an equally older bearded man you assume to be her husband. “An American! You’re not that common around these parts. Archie dear, don’t you think we can give the nice girl and her fellow a lift?”
You nearly choke at that, opening your mouth to correct here when the husband, Archie, you presume, arches a thick eyebrow at you and looks at Ghost for a long moment.
“Aye, hop in.” He offers gruffly, jerking his head, and you thank him profusely before nodding to Ghost and sliding into the cramped backseat. Ghost takes up almost the entire space in the tiny car with his breadth, but manages to not squish you against the door despite having to tuck his legs a bit sideways to fit. You have to make it a point not to look at him lest you give yourself away.
It takes Archie a minute or two to point the car in the direction of town again, by which point his wife, who introduces herself as Ainsley, has begun to talk your ear off.
“Are you two on holiday?” She asks cheerily, all previous suspicion gone. “Visiting family?”
“We uh-” You spare a glance at Ghost, who’s stony silence offers no help. “We’re- yes. On holiday. Up to Balfour Manor?”
“Oh lovely! It’s quite the romantic spot, Balfour. We get lots of couples up that way. Archie and I had our handfasting ceremony there, ye ken.”
Oh.
You glance at Ghost, a little aghast at Aisley’s bold assumption. Yet when Ghost returns your stare, he looks oddly amused.
You feel your face warm, clearing your throat and attempting to speak. “O-oh well we’re not-”
“Balfour isnnae all that far from here. We might as well drive you all the way. We know the manager there, Lorna. She’s as sweet as they come. She’ll get you all set up and send someone for your car.”
She pauses, looking at her husband. “Aye, Archie?”
Archie grunts, looking at you in the rearview mirror before shrugging and nodding.
“That’s...very kind. Thank you. But you really don’t have to, we can wait at the petrol station-”
Aisley waves her hand at you. “Dinna fash yerself. We were going out for a drive anyway, got to stretch the ol’ bones. Now we’ve a story to tell at the pub!”
That seems to make Archie perk up a bit. “Aye.” He drawls, chuckling as he navigates down the valley road. “Bout the polite American girl and her burglar beau.”
“Archie!” Aisley gasps, swatting at him before turning to you apologetically. “He dosnae mean anything by it, lass.”
Ghost huffs beside you, offering Archie a withering look, but gives no indication of a reply.
“It’s alright.” You try. “He’s just-”
“Shy.” Ghost deadpans, and you arch an eyebrow at him. You can see his eyes laugh. Something breathless flutters in your chest.
“I was going to say ugly.” You whisper teasingly, low enough for him to hear- and Ghost leans in, crowding your space.
“You and I both know that’s a lie, Fix.”
Jesus.
He pins you with his coal dark stare, and you feel the sudden urge to look away from the intensity of his gaze. Your heart is racing in your ears, and the backseat suddenly feels too small, too close with the way Ghost suddenly is almost on top of you, heedless of your company.
Fortunately, it seems Aisley is too busy chastising her husband to notice the way Ghost has to practically crowded against the opposite door, his hand planted over the middle seat just close enough so his gloved thumb grazes against your hip through your jeans-
Only to sit back in a blink when Aisley pokes her head back again and begins to prattle on about the care rental salesman down in Perth and his shady marketing tactics. It takes all your composure to calm your racing heart and nod along politely despite the warmth flooding your face.
Beside you, Ghost looks oddly smug.
In the miles that follow, you find yourself glancing at him, and trying to match the memory of his moonlit face against the impenetrable mask that you’ve begun to see the cracks in.
- - -
Aisley and Archie end up driving you past town and into the hills where the manor rests upon a rolling, green slope that sits on the other side of the valley. Shadowed in mist, the ancient brick manor house overlooks the village below with tall windows and a tall, imposing archway which shelters a thick iron door. Carefully tended ivy crawls upwards along the brown brick towards the chimney, where a whisper of smoke is carried away by the gusting wind.
The car rolls to a stop in the long, gravel driveway that encircles a bubbling fountain and a collection of signs that likely details the land’s history. You long to peruse them, but Ghost is quickly shuffling out of the car with a murmur of polite thanks and quickly heading up the front steps. You scoot out behind him, remembering to turn and wave at the couple. Before you can trot after Ghost, Aisley makes a quick, urgent gesture for you to come closer.
“Have patience with him, lass.” She whispers with the window rolled down, halfway leaning out. her eyes dart to Ghost, who stands a ways behind you. “My Archie was a stiff, quiet one too. Give him time, he’ll let you in when he’s ready.”
You blink, and once again open your mouth to once again try and dissuade her of the notion that you and Ghost are a couple, but Aisley’s gray eyes shine knowingly, and in the end you smile quietly to yourself and give her a small whisper of thanks before turning to follow Ghost inside out of the slicing wind.
The interior of the manor appears to have blended well with the ages, renovated but kept at its bones a true token of history. The carved banisters and railings are worn with age, and the walls maintain their wood carved paneling. Yet the furniture is distinctly modern, and the grime of centuries past has been sanded down to nothing.
There’s a freckled, ginger-haired woman who greets you at the desk labeled ‘check-in’, and upon seeing Ghost you watch her instinctively raise her hackles at his mask and gigantic, looming stature.
“Reservation for ‘Riley’.” Is all he offers as his shadow falls over her, and it takes her a moment to process before she’s furiously typing at her computer.
You peek your head out from behind Ghost, and the woman who you assume to be Lorna instantly looks relieved at your smile.
“Sorry for the late arrival, we ran into some car issues on the road and had to hitch-hike. Do you have a way to call the repair shop in town? Neither of us have a signal.”
“Oh!” Lorna chirps, looking befuddled, then mildly distressed. “That makes sense. I tried to phone you, Mr. Riley. I’m afraid that we’ve run into a wee problem with your reservation.”
She swallows thickly, typing away at her laptop for a few moments. “We- we’re terribly sorry. We had a stag party booked prior to your stay, you see. The guests before you were a bit of a rowdy bunch. We’re still cleaning the walls after the…” She trails off, looking a little green. “...Well.”
“Does that mean the reservation is canceled?” You ask, brow knotting. Beside you, Ghost stiffens. You hear his gloves creak as his fists clench.
“No, no! We’ve just been forced to switch you over to a different cottage. It’s slightly smaller, but this one comes with a fireplace at least. We’ve also charged you the lesser price due to the issue, but we won’t be able to put you in your original booking seeing as we’re all booked up.”
You glance at Ghost, who appears mildly annoyed but otherwise calm. “O’lright.” He eventually offers after a beat, and Lorna’s shoulders relax visibly.
“Lovely. Let me finish checking you in, and then I’ll see about your car. I know the repairman in town, he should be able to drive out and see what the issue is.”
“It’s one of the spark plugs.” You tell her, stepping forward a little and ignoring the way Ghost’s bulk stays warm at your back. “Should be a simple change, but we’d like to at least get our luggage if possible.”
Lorna nods seriously, which is a bit of a humorous expression on her otherwise mousey features. “I’ll be sure to let him know. We’ll try to get your bags to you by this evening.”
Lorna quickly gives you a series of pamphlets and map of the surrounding grounds, pointing out the small trail that leads off into the woods towards the cottage you and Ghost will be staying in.
“There’s breakfast and dinner served in the dining room at seven am and seven pm, plus tea service at three. Otherwise you’ll have to run into town for lunch or groceries.”
Ghost nods stoically, eyes tracing over the hunting pamphlet, which Lorna sees him eyeing.
“Oh, and the hunting range is northwest of us. You’ll need to check in with us before you set off to make sure your hunting permit is in order. We do process any deer you hunt for a fee, otherwise you’re welcome to take it back home yourself.”
Ghost nods again, and murmurs a small thanks before tucking the pamphlet in his hoodie pocket and turning. You give Lorna a smile and a wave before following after him out the thick iron doors. The clouds outside have darkened to an ominous gray, with a whisper of moisture lingering in the air. You huddle deeper into Ghost’s jacket, falling in step with him as you begin to make your way towards the forest cottage.
You eye him out of the corner of your eye, finding his gaze directed forward. Yet he softens his stride, ensuring that you don’t fall behind him as you walk. One of a thousand silent things to fit further into the puzzle of him.
“Riley, huh?” You ask after a minute or two of walking, and Ghost glances at you before making a small, noncommittal grunt.
“Laswell gave you my file, didn’t she?”
She did, but the file had been so redacted that you’d only managed to get bits and pieces. SAS selection, top of his class, record breaking scores, details of his skills in covert infiltration, sabotage, and clandestine tradecraft. There was a mention of an extended leave, but after that? Black. Nothing. The words POW stood out among the endless redactions, but until his recruitment into the 141, Ghost’s file was an enigma, an anomaly, leaving you to fill in the gaps in between with the scarce glimpses behind the mask he offered you.
Then again, there were things in your file that you refused to share as well.
“You’re a mysterious man, Mr. Riley.” You smirk at him, and if you look close enough, you think you can see his mask tug at the corner with a smile.
“You sleep with that mask on?” You ask teasingly.
“Like a log.” He drawls.
“Might scare the deer off with that.”
“Brought a camo one.”
You gape at him. “You’re joking.”
Ghost looks at you, silent, deadpan. “I’ve been told I’m a comedian.”
You bark a laugh, out of pure surprise more than anything, only to quickly dissolve into a fit of giggles.
In the woods now, a thick grove of twisted trunks that shields you from the worst of the wind, you and Ghost enjoy a comfortable, mutual silence. Despite the fatigue from the day’s travel, the lingering unease from ruined plans and impromptu decisions, there’s a small warmth that curls inside your chest as you walk beside him, huddled in his jacket several sizes too big as the moorish wind sweeps across your cheeks.
“Well.” You say at last. “Broken car, nosy neighbors, and a just barely rescued reservation. They say bad things come in threes. I think we’re past the worst of it.”
As if on cue, a raindrop falls right on your nose.
You look up just in time for another to land on your cheek. Ghost pauses beside you, cocking his head, listening. There’s a distant rumble of warning from the sky above....
and seconds later the bottom drops out of the clouds and onto your heads.
“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” Ghost swears, glaring up at the sky with putrid annoyance. Then he looks at you as you hold his jacket over your head to try and shield yourself from the worst of the downpour.
You gulp.
“I...might have jinxed it” You confess, and you think you see a vein in his neck throb.
Your clothes are soaked through by the time you get to the cottage, teeth chattering loudly as the cold quickly sets in. Ghost’s tension is palpable, a low rolling thunder that mirrors the stormy skies above. You try to remind yourself you are not the source of his ire, rather that the events of the day draw heavy on his shoulders and rest as a tightly coiled tension under the soaked fabric of his hoodie.
You drip water onto the mat of the entryway, hugging the jacket tighter around your shoulders as you survey the interior. It’s quaint, cozy. The entryway feeds into a small kitchen with old wooden cabinets complete with brass handles. Beyond is the living area, and without thinking you walk over to the old stone fireplace and crouch before it, heedless of the puddles you leave in your wake.
“It’s an actual fireplace.” You smile at Ghost, nodding to the wood stacked on the edge. “Do you remember your boy scout lessons?”
Ghost scoffs, striding past you to survey the living space with keen, wary eyes. You know what he’s doing on instinct- marking entryways, noting escape routes and barricade points, possible fire hazards and other threats. Like you, he’s able to leave the battlefield, only for it to exist in his mind.
As he checks the locks, you wander over to the two doors opposite of the fireplace, peeking inside one to find a bathroom, and the other to find the bedroom.
Except...
“Oh.” You whisper, and you sense rather than hear Ghost instantly pause behind you, crossing the room to hover tall and dark behind your shoulder as he looks at what’s caught your attention.
A single bed, neatly made. Between the pillows, a red rose.
You feel Ghost go stiff behind you just as heat warms your face all the way down to your toes.
“Did you...” You ask quietly, without turning towards him. “...Book us a single bed?”
“No.” Ghost replies, a little too quickly, terse, and scoots his massive frame past you to grab the red rose on the pillow and briskly toss it in the garbage pail. You hear him mutter an annoyance under his breath that you think sounds like “Bloody stag party.”
There’s a laugh bubbling in your chest akin to hysterics. You’ve slept close to Ghost before, sure. Hell, he kept you alive with his body heat before, but that...that was different. That was on the field, in the presence of teammates, things necessary for duty and survival. Here, in this quiet, romantic cottage where it’s just the two of you, where everyone seems to be operating on the understanding that you’re a couple...
“I’ll take the couch.” You say before you can catch the thought. “You- you’re too tall to fit comfortably. You can have the bed.”
Ghost looks at you, dark eyes meeting yours, and you’re reminded just how intense his gaze is. You feel untethered, unbalanced, caught in the gravity of his stare alone. For a single, daring moment you pray that he’ll find a reason to disagree, that he’ll insist you both sleep together, but eventually he blinks and nods.
“Olright.” He cedes at last, finally turning away from you, and it feels as if there’s something left unsaid between you both, something you’re not brave enough to voice yet. It curls under your skin, and you shiver hard, curling your arms around you for warmth.
“You’ll catch a cold.” Ghost nods at you, and proceeds to unzip his wet hoodie so it lands on the floor with a wet splat. “Should change out of those.”
You don’t respond for a second, too distracted by the way Ghost’s shirt clings to every plane of his muscled torso, the soft flesh of his belly, the dip between his shoulders. Eventually your brain catches up with you, and you blink, swallowing back the dryness in your throat.
“Into...what, exactly?”
Ghost looks at you for a beat, before grabbing a quilt off the end of the bed and tossing it at you. You gape at him, equal parts baffled and aghast.
“Y-you can’t be serious.”
“If you’d like to catch your death that way, by all means.” Ghost returns, and turns from you to begin stripping off the shirt that clings far too tightly to his massive frame. You stand frozen to the spot, hands clutching too tight to the quilt as the pale, scarred flesh of Ghost’s torso is slowly revealed. The ink on his forearm swirls all the way up to his shoulder, and from there you trace a long, jagged scar that forms a ‘T’ across his pecs with their pale pink nipples. You don’t miss the blonde thatch of hair that coils just below it, curls down his stomach towards his waistband as his fingers go for his belt, only to pause.
With dawning horror, you look up and meet Ghost’s heavy, lidded stare.
“Looking ‘respectfully’, Fix?”
You can feel the instant your neurons misfire, electrocuting into nothingness as you stand paralyzed with your mouth open, caught ogling him in a way that’s so far removed from what might be considered ‘respectful’ you may as well bury yourself alive. You try to speak, to say an excuse, to offer an apology, anything, but the way Ghost’s eyes burn into you, the way you can’t seem to budge from his stare roots you to the spot, staring at the pale expanse of his bare torso and forgetting how to breathe.
The clink of his belt as he resumes undressing sends you scrambling out of the room and slamming the bathroom door behind you.
As you bury your burning face in your hands, you swear you hear Ghost chuckle from the other room.
You lean hard on the door, waiting for Ghost to finish doing...whatever it is he’s doing, and desperately trying to ignore the torrent of images that flood your brain of his scarred, pale shoulders, the smattering of freckles at his clavicle, the wisp of hair trailing below his waistband...
It takes effort to silence the groan bubbling up in your throat, caught somewhere between desperate desire and baffled embarrassment. Still sitting in your sopping wet clothes on the bathroom floor, the water slowly puddling beneath you, you try vainly to compose yourself and think of something...anything other than the vision of Ghost’s bare, rain-slick body hovering mere feet away from you with nothing but a wall to separate you both.
It’s the shivering chill of your soaked limbs that eventually forces you up, carefully peeling off your wet layers and wringing them as best as you can in the sink before hanging them to dry. By the time you step under the hot stream of water in the shower to warm up, you’re shivering head to toe from the cold.
Steam curls around your bare form just as the sounds in the other room gravitate towards the living room, and once more you try to brush away the thought of Ghost striding around the cottage completely naked with little success. There’s a coiling sort of tension that runs southward at the image of your lieutenant’s muscled, bare figure just steps away from your own naked form. It’s not the first time you’ve caught yourself with such thoughts- thoughts you usually reserve for your bunk at base, alone, lights turned off as your hand slithers below your waistband.
Even now, your fingers glide southward, cupping your bare cunt with a shuddering little sound. You’re a little wet just by the sight of seeing Ghost dripping, shirtless, hands fiddling brazenly with his belt with little regard for your presence. You can’t help but think about what might greet you if he had pulled his pants just a little further down, letting you see the bulge there. Ghost is massive, towering over your frame, and you wonder if whatever he hides there is at the least proportional.
You spread your cunt a little, fingers slipping between your folds as you tip your head back against the tile with a soft little sigh. You’re not sure if it’s the water or the burning heat of your own skin that coils warm in your veins, sending a murmur of pleasure electrifying across your hips and up towards the small of your spine. Your fingers trace slow, languid circles around your clit, your other hand raising to cup your breast just as you surrender and allow the vision of Ghost to engulf your hazy thoughts.
Ghost, bare, strong, built like a tank and able to rip men apart with his bare hands. Ghost, with scars littering his skin that speak of a lifetime of brutality and yet his eyes- eyes that fix you with a stare so intense you wonder sometimes if you’ll crack under the weight, burn so brightly you turn to glass, obsidian as dark as his voice that purrs in your ear during missions. Ghost who’s dark, swirling ink traces shadowy tendrils across your mind and drags you down, down into the abyss of his phantom touch.
You keen a little behind your teeth, hips pushing up into your hand just as you shudder at the thought that it’s not your nimble fingers, but his.
You have to keep quiet. The last thing you need right now is Ghost knocking on the door and asking about the barely stifled whimpers and moans you’re swallowing down with deep lungfuls of humid air. It’s hard not to make noise though, especially when you think about the idea of Ghost walking in on you like this, caging you with his towering frame against the shower wall and purring down in your ear.
“Fix.”
“Ghost.” You whisper, barely audible as your breath hitches, eyes squinted shut with pleasure. There’s a whimper bubbling up your throat, and you bite the back of your hand just to silence it, fingers working your clit faster now, the dawn of your climax ascending rapidly. You think about him, about Ghost trapping you against the shower with nowhere to run, sinking two, broad fingers into you deep enough for you to feel his knuckles broken one too many times to be even. You wonder if even that is little compared to the cock that hangs heavy between his toned thighs, ruddy and pink and leaking at the thought of sinking himself into you.
“Fuck-” You gasp, a little too loud, but you don’t care because you’re close, close enough that you can feel yourself teetering on the razor’s edge, ever nerve in your body drawing taut, tighter.
You want him. You want him here, in the shower. You want his fingers inside you plucking at the sensitive point of pleasure inside your gummy walls that clench down on him with every retreat, trying to keep yourself full. You want him to split you open on his cock, to haul your legs up to his shoulders and fold you in half as he fucks you down into the bed, growling, snarling in your ear. You want to feel yourself bow off the bed with a little cry, walls rippling over his cock just as he huffs warm breath into your ear: “Good girl, Fix. Good fucking girl.”
When you cum, you have to swallow down a sob.
As the liquid warmth of your release unspools through your veins, you tip your head back against the tile, panting, trying to catch your breath. Your legs quiver as they hold your weight, muscles weak. It takes concentration to just remain standing in the afterglow of your shattering orgasm, shoulders heaving and brow pinched as you try to regain yourself.
You raise a hand to wipe the water from your face, holding the heel of your palm to your forehead and whispering out a little curse that’s muffled by the water. Outside, you can hear Ghost shuffling about in the kitchen and living room, and you pray by some grace of god he heard absolutely nothing from inside the shower.
It’s only after you’re steady on your feet again that you remember you have no clothes.
You groan then, heedless of the sound, burying your face in your hands and praying for some type of divine intervention or damnation. Inside the mist of your mind, Ghost’s chuckle haunts your thoughts.
You’re so fucked.
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