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mellowumbra · 7 months

Text

~Beautiful edges~

An alpha!Abbywerewolf! x afab!omega!reader

SMUT SMIT SMUT MDNI

will have smut, like prolly gon be nasty need holy water smut. plot! slowish burn. alpha, only female alpha you've ever met. Smut is not under the cut but will be expressed!

⚠️ warnings: porn with plot!! dom!sub dynamic, breeding(r!receiving), vulgar words, VULGARITY, descriptions of genitalia, breeding kink, werewolfheat/rut! overstimulation (r!receiving) power and strength kink

Shummary: meeting an alpha was easy. Trying not to fall in love with one? Harder than it looks.

Here is to ALL YALL freaky sob's that just want to see Abby as a werewolf,,,, I love y'all so much

Also I'm SO SORRY THIS TOOK MY MONTHS FORGIVE ME

~~~~

Relocating to the WLF had taken some time to feel somewhat normal and you owed your life to them. You were accepted as one of them, when you were first alone and near death. Omega's in the wilderness alone was a death sentence, but you managed to make your life here wonderfully enjoyable. As close as normal got, it all flew straight out the window when you met Abby Anderson.

Was it strange to meet a female alpha with unbridled power, skill, and rage? Absolutely. Did she scare the ever loving shit out of you? Absolutely. But that didn't stop you from perking your ears to listen every time her name was mentioned.

Abby was a force of nature, she commanded respect without needing to utter a single word. Six feet of muscle and piercing blue eyes that glowed gold and opulent when her wolf appeared. Everyone in the WLF knew about Abby, and were either terrified, infatuated, or a little bit of both. She worked for Isaac, as she was trained and worked like a dog in combat. She led the most dangerous of patrols under Isaac, the man who allowed the WLF to keep you safe, who sent her out to do his worst work.

Being an unmated alpha made it even more..interesting...

As soon as her name entered your airspace, words passed around about the alpha's skills during her rut. You could not stop the onslaught of other companions dishing tidbits during these conversations. Hell you couldn't go anywhere in the past two weeks and not hear about Abby Anderson, the most "skilled" alpha in the entire WLF. You were even more curious to why a female inherited an alpha title. You wondered why you hadn't heard her name sooner, and you soon figured out why. Abby had been in a relationship, and a serious one at that. But, that was over, from what the other omegas in your rounds gossiped about. You were surprised to hear that Abby had been dating a male, a one of almost equal rank as her. Her most recent "pursuits" were women.

You rolled your eyes at Arya's gossip and finished suturing a deep abdomen wound from your most recent patient. The man smiled at you, thanking you for the dressings and ointment. "Hey y/n," Arya says, your other medical assistant and friend catches your attention.

"Yeah? Whatcha need," you ask, wiping down your med tray and discarding a dirty needle.

Arya then asks you if you need to stay longer or if you need to head out. You reply no, you've got nowhere to be. Arya quickly discards her medical garb and ducks out, the sun already set. You sigh and work on seeing if anyone other WLF member needs to be attended to.

Something overpowering and strange enters your sense just after. It makes you stop, startled by the sudden thick air. A strong scent, almost hypnotizing. Abby Anderson is sitting on the bed across from you, blue eyes fixed on your figure. You start, now taken aback at how she appeared almost soundlessly.

"Jesus Anderson you scared the shit out of me," you swore, walking over to inspect a large shoulder wound running from her shoulder to mid bicep. Her muscles glisten with sweat, a now failing stitch job visible against her skin. Her honey hair in a signature loose braid, freckles dotting her neck and shoulders, clad in a gray tank top that exposes her skin to the blistering sun. "Sorry, is' just a habit," she breathes, "I didn't mean to startle you."

Her smile is dizzying but wanton, skin too white. She's in pain.

"It's alright, what are we looking at huh? A mighty alpha needing some help?" You tease, lifting her arm to assess her shitty patch job. Abby hissing at the pain or the figurative jab, you weren't sure.

You smile quietly, adding in a few words of "Alright gimme a second, I can fix you up."

"Thank you y/n, if I tell Manny that his stitch job was shit he'd take it personally," she chuckles dryly to avoid the grimace of you cleaning her wound with alcohol.

The stench almost clears your nostrils of her overpowering scent, almost. With a steady hand, you begin to swiftly move a needle through her flesh. The skin gave way easy to the needle, signalling she must've avoided coming here for a few hours, at least.

"You avoided coming in here, at least since before dinner," you say brazenly.

Abby puffs a quick breath through her nose, unhappy with the answer you've settled on.

"Maybe I did."

You can feel her eyes on you, this whole time. She follows the movements of your fingers, you can hear her nose purposefully inhale quickly at least once, and your cheeks heat at the sudden interest she's taken in you. Her scent is making your mind do flips, alphaalphaalphaalpha repeating in your head by your unhelpful wolf. Your hands almost shaky by the end, Abby rolls her shoulder with the new bandage applied.

"Keep that one for at least the next 2 days, or until you've noticed its leaked through your bandage. Keep it as dry and clean as possible," you instruct.

Abby just flashes you a blinding smile. "You do a good job, I feel better already. Thanks doll," she flashes a wink at you, smirk in her eyes.

That wink makes your ears turn red, palms suddenly sweaty. You roll your eyes to act nonchalant, placing a narcotic in her hand.

"Take these no less than 12 hours apart with food, and I mean it Anderson, with food," you say, fingers brushing one another's as you close her fingers around the pills. A resounding shock zaps through your fingers as fast as lightning, snapping her head up at you. Her eyes flash red just as fast, replaced by their usual blue.

Your eyes are wide, hand zinging from some unseen energy. Abby thanks you silently with a nod, hands stuffed in her pockets, and rushes off.

-------

Ever since that day in the infirmary, Abby is never out of your sight. During inventory rounds with your other med students, led my Abby's surgeon father, Dr. Anderson. She's always just looming. Your friends start to ask questions when the blonde walks into the infirmary one day, looking as healthy as ever.

You stare curiously as catch her eye, when she throws another wink at you. All your other friends blush and try to look busy.

"You don't look in pain Anderson?" You question, raising an eyebrow.

"No," she chuckles, "but I do want to ask if you had any extra isopropyl alcohol on you? One of my buddies managed to get blood all over a cell, and we need a cleanup," she says, so casually.

You start, but manage to stutter out a response.

"Um y-yeah we have some but it's not here yet, I can bring it to you in an hour or so?" You question, to which she just nods and winks at you.

"Find me in the FOB on the first floor sugar!" She calls out, leaving you a blushing mess.

----

Some time later, alcohol in hand, you make your way to the FOB, when a sharp pain in your abdomen makes you lean against a wall in a back hallway. You shake your head, trying to clear your head as your wolf has taken over, screaming for help. Panic ensues. You know any willing male werewolf will hear you, and you sink into a corner.

Someone rounds the corner, and you can't see who it is as your vision is blurry with tears. You turn your head away to ease the embarrassment. The same overpowering scent you remember from two weeks ago invades your mind, and your wolf goes nuts. It's Abby, and she knows exactly what's happening.

SMUT I REPEAT SMUT

"I'm so sorry please don't come closer pleaseAbby," you beg through near tears, your heat blinding and painful. Quick breaths through your nose accompanied with full body shakes makes Abby growl lowly. She knew you needed to be claimed, the pain unbearable for her future mate to endure. A rumble in her throat makes you tilt your head towards the ceiling, breaths coming in faster. That growl is pure power, pure dominance. The fear in your heart of her power comes through your eyes and Abby realizes your fear, and it hurts. Your intoxicating scent fills her nose like a fog, your fight against a need to be taken care of slowly failing. Your heat and scent flies down to Abby's pelvis, unable to stop the whirlwind of arousal she feels.

"Hey, hey look at me," she commands, power still in her voice. She's knelt to your eye level. Don't be sorry baby. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise y/n, I promise. Please, let me take you somewhere safer," Abby begs. Alphas don't beg, they command. Her beg, plea has you staring in her eyes, desperate to believe her.

You pant, fear still swirling in your eyes. Abby just offers her hands, warm and calloused. After not saying anything, she slowly lifts you into her arms. Eyes lidded, mouth slightly parted, your heat addled brain screams at the feeling of power and protection. You can't help but inhale deeply at her scent, your core aching for more. Abby slips you into her room.

"Y/n, please," Abby begs. "I want to help you." Her eyes are a tinge of gold, showing her alpha side. She puts her forehead gently to yours. "I know you have feelings for me," she breathes. "But I won't do a thing unless you say it's okay."

Tears streaming down your cheeks, your eyes widen in surprise. You're lucid for just a second. "Oh god Abby, I-I don't know what to say," you groan, embarrassed. Your heat is blinding, a near total body and mind need to just be taken care of.

"I won't do anything you don't want baby," she cooes, her pet name undoing your resolve.

You take a deep breath and swallow, knowing that all you've wanted is for Abby to make you hers. And only hers.

"I want to be yours. I want to be only yours," you admit, cheeks darkening. "Please tell me you feel this as strongly as I do," you rush out, fully vulnerable.

Abby's turn to be wide eyed is short lived before she lands her lips on yours, desperate and hungry. "I want nothing more then to make you my mate. I- want- nothing more -than to fuck you into -this bed- for hours," she groans as you moan into her mouth. Her lips are warm, your arms reaching out to tangle in her blond hair. Your heat is begging, burning like a fire under your skin. You whine pitifully, Abby now fully aware of your need.

"I know darling, I know," she whispers. Abby lays you down on her bed, kissing you with a new ferocity that made you tug at her clothes. Feeling her strong abs run over your now bare chest made you bite her lip, a low growl coming from Abby's throat. Her mouth kisses down your neck and reaches the softness of your chest. With lips and tongue, she sucks your nipple between her teeth, licking it as it grows in need. Moaning at this was music to your alpha's ears. Your breasts are damp with spit and raised pink nipples fall in her mouth as she attends to one after the other.

She pulls your pants off, letting your heat racked body shiver at the sudden coolness. Her eyes flash a deep gold now, looking you over, a wanting moan leaving her lips.

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to see you like this, how long I've been wanting to do this with you," she groans, the obvious bulge in her cargo pants making your mouth water and brain go fuzzy at her words. Her hands sink into your skin, pulling the flesh as she drags her hands down your stomach and over your thighs. Your cunt is wet, glazed over with slick and need. Pink lips swollen at the want of satiation. She kisses you, hand reaching down to palm you, gathering your wetness along her fingers. Your pants have turned into whimpers, into breathy moans.

"You're so wet for me, my precious mate," she cooes, dominance leaking through her words. "I wonder how wet you'll be when I sink my cock into your wanting pussy," you moan at her words, pulling off her pants. A small gasp leaves your lips as her member springs out of her boxers.

"That is a dick of an alpha for sure," you breathe out, hearing Abby chuckle darkly at your surprise. Its shaft covered in small veins, her pink head leaking precum at the sight of your naked body. Abby leans forward on her elbows, soaking up more of your slick on her cockhead, her kisses to your lips bruising. Your scent is making her drunk, the end goal of this mating lost. Ignoring her own desperation, Abby sinks below your waist and licks a long slow strip up your center, capturing your clit in her mouth to softly suck.

"I'm not fucking you stupid until your come all over my face, my pretty mate" Abby groans.

Her name leaves your lips in a yelp, unfettered moans follow. Her tongue is masterful, her lips covered in your shiny arousal. Up and down she moves her tongue, taking time to let herself tongue fuck you, dipping into your wetness. Latching onto your clit, she sucks soft pressure and swirls her tongue. With nothing to grab onto, you resign to tugging at your alpha's long blonde locks, legs high above your head, resting on her shoulders. The muscles in her back flex and stretch as she fucks you.

"Abby, o-o-oh fuck Abby baby pleaseplease alpha please," you moan and moan, dragging your hands through her hair.

At the mention of her title, Abby growls and picks up her pace. You feel the band in your belly tighten and snap within seconds as your orgasm washes over you in a blissful wave. Your toes curl and back arches off the bed, head thrown back in a long and loud moan. Abby continues to fuck your aching cunt into overstimulation, your legs shaking and breath uneven.

"Baby, baby I can't-can't take it anymore," you whine and moan. Abby doesn't stop but unlatches herself and slaps your pussy lightly with her palm.

"You're going to take what i give you angel, and you're gonna say thank you alpha," she hums and holds your jaw with her hand. "Okay baby?" She asks.

"Yes baby," you say softly, lips puffy as Abby captures them in a deep kiss.

"Thank you alpha," you admit shyly, peeking at her reaction through your lashes. Her breathing is ragged, hair undone and messy. Her eyes are a fierce gold, desire evident.

It didn't even take a minute before she slowly sinks herself into you, squelching sounds accompanied. Snapping up her head to you, she examines your features for any sign of pain. Your eyes are half open, lips parted in an O.

"Are you hurt?" She questions, stilling inside. You slowly shake your head, gripping her shoulders and wrapping your legs around her waist. With that, Abby slowly moves through your now sopping cunt. Her breath is short, focusing on not coming too early. You wrap around her like a vice.

"Fuck-fuck fuck baby you're so wet, so tight so warm you're so perfectfuck you are soperfect," Abby moans.

You moan at her praise, tangling your fingers in her hair, reveling in the closeness of your skin. Held up by her strong arms, the muscles in her biceps flex by your head.

"Hold on tight princes," Abby whispers into your ear, nipping at the skin.

Her thrusts start slow and languid, drawing out loud moans at each bury inside you. Your moans only get louder as her Hips snap back into yours at a near brutal pace, relishing in the wet sound of skin on skin. Abby examines your fucked out state of bouncing breasts, loud breathy moans and profanity.

"Fuck Abby fuck ABBY fuckfuckfuck my alpha fuck my alpha," you moan out, whining at the feeling of her cock stretching your walls to a beautiful feeling.

"Markmemarkmeplease baby breed me please baby please," you whine out, surprising Abby at your vulgar confession.

"Yeah baby? Fuck you'resofuckingwet, you take my cock so good baby you want my pups baby? Want me to breed you like a good puppy?" Abby moans, as the slap of wet skin fills the room.

"I bet you'd like me to breed you, huh baby?" Your fucked out smile gives her the answer she needs. "Yes abby please baby breed me please don't stop," you whine.

"Dirty girl, I knew you'd like that," Abby seethes as she bites your neck, sweat on her brow.

"You wanna be all round and fuckin full for me?"

"please Abby please baby yes yes yes!" you exhale a loud moan from your chest, as she leans forward to kiss you hungrily.

In a fast motion, she flips you on your belly, arching your back and pressing your cheek into the soft mattress. Your ass on display as she spreads you to see the slick drip down your thighs. You shake your ass slowly, all shame gone, wanting to be bred like a bitch in heat.

Her hands find your hips again, fucking into your cunt immediately like the world was ending. Muffled moans and screams come from your lips, Abby moaning at your soaking pussy sucking her in and milking her cock for all it was worth. Listening to your moans go up in pitch and your cunt get tighter and tighter told Abby you were so close to coming.

"You'gon come for me baby? Come all over my cock baby, c'mon you can do it. Cream all over my cock my good puppy," she rushes out, hands pulling you back to bounce on her dick.

"Fuck-ff-fuckfuck Abby I'm gon come 'my god I'm gonna come," your legs shake and let your orgasm push Abby into hers. Abby grabs your stretched out hand and squeezes it, to ground you. White hot pleasure consumes you and the heartbeat between your legs races.

You yell her name and moan a loud FUCK, drool sticking to the side of your cheek.

But abby wasn't done yet, your pleasure just comes first.

Abby's groans grow higher and higher, as your pussy pulses around her. As she feels you completely tighten around her, Abby's orgasm explodes. She feels her cock swell and a euphoric feeling washes over at the feeling of her breeding you completely full.

"Fuck baby, fuck baby ohgod," Abby moans as she collapses against your sweat drenched skin. You moan back weakly, shivering at her slow kisses up your back.

"You're so beautiful baby, gonna be so beautiful for me," Abby whispers, pulling out slowly to your disappointment.

"Fuck princess look at you," the alpha groaned, skilled fingers pulling your puffy pink lips apart to watch her cum drip out of your overstimulated pussy. You whine again, sensitive to her touch.

She coos, kissing the swell of your ass cheek.

"Come here princess let me hold you," Abby coaxes, slowing moving your body to lay between her legs. She softly kneads your back as you lay, breathing in her scent. Soft kisses to your forehead manage to lull you into a dreamlike state.

"Rest my precious mate, I've got you baby," Abby breathes, wrapping her strong arms around your figure.

Maybe falling in love with an alpha isn't hard after all.

#the last of us #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #mel's musings #abby anderson #abby anderson x female reader #tlou abby #abby x reader #abbyasawerewolf #this woman #makes me question my life #I want a werewolf girlfriend

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melit0n · 4 months

Text

Half-Starved

- Oneshot

- Obsessive! Ghost/Reader

- Word Count: 3.2K

- Warnings: Descriptions of gore, canabalism as a metaphor for love, mentions of past domestic abuse, stalking

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52474849

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was born hungry.

Born with a relentless nagging feeling curled up right between his oesophagus and the squirming muscle of his stomach. From the very moment Simon opened his eyes, he was hungry for something he would never have. Left to starve in the gloom of the locked cupboard he was shoved into for not shutting up. He spent fifteen-odd years greedy for any drop of affection he could get. Anything he could grasp and hold onto, no matter how many bruises it would leave him with. No matter how long he would have to spend chained up like a bad dog in the corner of his room licking his wounds telling himself that it was worth it. That the blood was worth it. The pain was worth it.

Anything to be acknowledged.

Now, once again finding comfort in the gloom of his home, he is still hungry. Even more so. However, he didn’t like to be touched, because of him, but he still craved it. Maybe too much. He wanted, wants, to be held tight enough so he doesn’t break. Wants to be vulnerable. But he’s still afraid he’ll end up being a scared kid looking into the slit eyes of a snake again.

He blames his younger self for the predicament he’s found himself in, wants to sit down with him and shake him by the shoulders and ask why. Why he put himself through that for that long. But even so, he can’t blame the kid. He knows how hungry he is now; feels the scraping like dull claws against the soft spot between his liver and his spleen. He can only imagine what it was like for him as a kid. He’s blocked most of those memories out now, though.

He sits through the tugging, the pulling, through each dull meeting. Each dark night spent alone in his bunk. Each evening he spends licking wounds that just won't close.

Unfortunately, this issue, this dilemma, is a hard one to fix. A hard want to satiate. Being a 6’4 SAS agent with a heavy Manchester accent and an apparently unapproachable demeanour, most people tending to avoid him in the streets, makes it a bit hard to gain attention, let alone affection.

But then there’s you.

The first word that would come to his mind is kind.

Out of the blue, draped in moonlight and glimmering stars, you begin to appear everywhere. He doesn’t know if you’ve moved here recently, or if his brain has randomly decided to notice your presence, but you’re here. And there. And everywhere, really.

He sees you in the local corner shop, holding tightly onto the baggy sleeve of whoever you’ve brought along for your midnight excursion, brushing your hand, intently, against that of your work friends on the crowded train you both take every day into the city. You use physical affection as not only a way to show affection itself, platonic or romantic, he isn’t particularly good at guessing unless it’s incredibly obvious, but as a form of comfort and encouragement as well.

In less than a month into his leave, you’ve managed to become a staple in his civilian life. He sees you in the morning, always at the train station with breakfast and lunch in hand looking quizically around to see if you’ve missed your train like a doubtful deer. He knows you know you haven’t. You’re like him; you’ve got an obsession with time. While his is instilled by the harsh words of the military, yours is brought about by a tight work schedule. And maybe something else. He wonders what the something else is as you both board the already stuffed train, both standing in the same carriage full of warm, tired bodies.

He sees you in the afternoon as well, sitting outside on a park bench with a friend eating lunch. While you talk, you have a habit of taking tiny crumbs off of your sandwich, flicking them off to the ratty pigeons that flock around your feet like moths to a flame. You always have the same lunch; the same sandwich bread from the same corner shop with the same filing. You have a thing with regularity, routine, as well, it seems. Just like him.

Of course, he sees you in the evenings too. You both take the same train home, and almost always end up so close yet so far from each other on the carriage. Your work friend gets off at the stop two before yours and Simon’s; always leaving you with a pat on the shoulder and a closed eye smile, which you almost always return. You have a habit of doing a little jump when you get off the train which Simon finds quite cute. It’s almost as if you’re actually afraid of the gap.

Of the fall.

Either way, you part ways without knowing you’re parting from him, leaving him incomplete in an odd way, and head back to your home. Ghost has an impulse to follow you, in between curiosity at where you live and to make sure you’re safe, but Simon urges himself to head home. To sleep. You linger in his thoughts each time he walks back.

At first, he’s oddly amazed, a bit in awe, if he were honest, that you can give so much affection so easily, touch so easily, and receive it tenfold from the people around you.

Then, there’s annoyance, titering on the fine, chipped-away line of anger. Like a mantra, he asks why it’s fair someone can give, give and keep on giving, let alone receive something back, and he can’t? How can you hold someone so closely and not be afraid of a knife in your back?

Maybe that’s Ghost talking, he thinks.

Eventually, he falls off the fine line of annoyance and anger into the muddied trench that is jealousy. Jealous not only of you, how you can give and receive so easily, but of the people in your life who get to experience the affection that you give to any warm body that passes by you. Said people who don’t understand how precious and rare that experience is to others. To him. He wants to taste it. Badly.

Then, it morphs. Twists and turns like a dying thing, all red with chunks of fur sticking at odd angles, into attraction. Turning from a want to be held, a quiet plea to the void for you to keep him together for just a little bit longer, to a need. A need to kiss until both your lips are bloody and raw, bitten and chewed like a pomegranate, seeping your liquid life for him to drink as an elixir. He wants, needs, hungers to feel the comforting weight of your blood in the bottom of his stomach.

He’s seen the way you kiss, and God above he needs it. Needs you. He doesn’t care if it’s the fleeting, platonic kisses you gift to your friends on the cheek (he wants you to take a chunk out of his cheek. Wants you to chew on the fat like the gum you always have in your mouth), or if it’s the rough ones you give to the men you bring home. The ones that have them chasing your lips for more, which you always allow because you never stop giving.

Simon wants it. Ghost needs it.

Consequently, the dull scratching of the claws in between his liver and his spleen grows sharper. After years of the scratching, the pulling, the tugging, he’d thought his hunger pang’s talons had grown weary, but he feels them. He feels the sharp ache like a pistol’s bullet and it bloody hurts. Has him hunched over on his bed trying to claw out his stomach because, for the first time in years, it's hurting him.

And, for the first time in years, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley decides to listen.

As more time passes, more time spent getting soaked outside your house in the rain waiting for you to come home because you’re oddly late for all the time he’s known you, it changes again. Writhes around in his stomach and the fat in his veins, to something much worse. Much more harmful, at least, to you. In all the pain of his hunger, he contemplates taking chunks out of you. Maybe that will satiate the creature that squirms in his bloody viscera, laying claim to all of his innards in an attempt to get him to feed for once in his life.

To allow him to know what it feels like to be full, instead of half-starved.

Zoning out during meetings easily turns to daydreaming of taking one of his hunting knives to your flesh. Cut strips of skin, like your his sacrificial lamb to slaughter and devour, and finally put those butchering skills he gained to work somewhere other than on the field. He promises he’ll be delicate. Promises he’ll be kind. He wouldn’t dare show you the bloodthirsty rage his opponents see on the field.

Oh, and he can just imagine how you’d cry when he’d do so. He hates hearing people cry. After all, he’s haunted by the echoing sobs of someone lost to him in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land. But you? He doesn’t mind one bit. It’s another piece of you for him to consume, another piece of you that you can offer to him, gift to him, to bring you two together.

He knows how much it takes to be vulnerable, so he wouldn’t even be able to describe what he’d do to taste your tears. To savour your salty sadness upon his tongue and be able to offer comfort. To lick your face dry and hold you in his arms; warm body against warm body just like he’s daydreamed about.

The more time that passes, the further he falls.

On slightly rarer occasions, ones where he’s alone in the quiet of his room for longer than a human should be, he thinks about feeding your own lovingly cooked gore to you. Get’s him more riled up than he’d like to admit.

He can see it as clear as a freshly painted watercolour; a candle-lit dinner. Warm lighting. He’s tried his hardest to cover up the smell of his cigarettes for you, a scent that clings to his walls like mould, with roses. The smell of whatever he’s cooked for you permeating the air.

Soup sounds good, doesn’t it, love?

It’s a macabre yet intimate fairytale that finds its way into his thoughts when all else is quiet. Leaves him tossing and turning in his bed because the scraping just won't stop. He swears he's bleeding out from the inside, and he’ll break his own kneecaps from how long he’s been on the floor at your feet begging you to make it stop. To stop the scratching, the itching, the nagging feeling. For you to clean and stitch up his wounds, new and old.

He’s utterly enamoured with the thought. The idea of being that close to another human being. To be able to physically intertwine each other’s atoms through mutual consumption. To be sewn into the quantum patterns of your being. For you to feed him a proper meal like his parents never could.

He remembers being taught in his History class, the one with the old hag of a teacher who, with her droning words alone, convinced him not to take it for GCSEs, that in ancient times people used to eat each other as well. They did this so that in life, and eventually in death, the two of them would share an utterly unique bond, as well as each other's attributes.

He only really remembers that because his mates laughed at the idea of aristocratic Victorians eating mummies like it was a five-star meal for weeks after that lesson.

Even so, Ghost decides he could die happy on the field knowing that a part of you rested within him. That even when he was dead and gone, probably much earlier than he should be, you two would still be connected. He would have a piece of you, and you him.

And you, him. Mutual consumption. He doesn’t mind extra scars, extra wounds, because he knows you’ll lick them clean for him. Knows you wash them, stitch them up and check on them so they heal properly.

In the end, that is the intimacy he dreams of. The affection he wants from you.

His body is yours, as yours is his. Let him be yours. Let him feed. Let him fulfil you.

The idea leaves him with a small smirk on his face that Soap nudges him in the ribs for with a prodding grin of his own.

So, he makes a decision. For once, Simon and Ghost agree on something and work together as one instead of turning the other off for the greater good.

The decision? To feed. To finally know what it is like to be full instead of half-starved.

The scraping, the nagging, only grows stronger.

He makes it a point to bump into you as much as he can before his next mission.

Anywhere is a dinner table to him. On the crowded train, brushing his calloused hand against yours to ease the hunger for even a second. In the artificial lighting of the run-down corner shop, grabbing that bag of snacks that are just out of reach for you. Anything. Anything will do. But it only temporarily satiates the pang, doesn’t satisfy it. He just gets hungrier and hungrier and hungrier.

He knows you’ve begun to notice him. You’re getting hungry too. He just hopes it’s in the same way he hungers for you. He hopes you’re hungry for him, and him alone.

At first, you attempt to offer him platonic comfort, which, God above, tastes so sweet. You offer soft touches on his shoulder. You gift your fingers intertwining with his as you cross the street to his home because he’s gone off on another bender trying to stop turning over in his bed and seeing the inside of a coffin that he has to dig his way out of again.

‘N you’re just some poor night owl who’s trying to be kind.

It becomes a routine. Both for you and him. You know he’ll come out of the pub at quarter to one and you know he’s expecting you. You’ll walk the same walk to his home, fumbling with his keys as he looks at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, hands intertwined. You’ll still carry him home and close the door softly with your foot as you lay him on his couch and get him a glass of water and whatever painkiller he has lying around. You’ll still stay as he chats, drunkenly, to you. You’ll take care of him and he’ll be whole again, for just a moment.

At least until the morning comes, anyways.

He hungers for your touch the same way water hungers for the cavities of people’s lungs. Hungers for your skin like he hungers for the nicotine in his cigarettes. Hungers and begs and pleads until you both fall like Icarus; wax melting and dripping off your backs as you try and crawl your way back to the sun, back to the light, while he drags you down into the depths of the deep blue.

It's almost poetic.

In the midst of your drowning, the front door opening startles you out of your stupor. You do that a lot, Simon notes. You’ll black out and stare at a wall for hours, whether it be to awkward silence or a piece of music. He doesn’t question it, verbally, at least. From how easily you dissociate, he’d say it's something you picked up a long time ago. He’ll find out when, eventually.

Carefully, you get up from the couch, approaching him as he walks over to the kitchen counter. The blue plastic bag he has rustles loudly in the spotless kitchen.

“What’s that?” You ask, gently, placing a hand on his shoulder to get a better look.

Please give me more.

He lets out a knowing grunt and pulls out two round, red fruits. At first, you mistake them for apples, but the star-shaped top throws you off.

“Pomegranates?”

He nods, looking into your eyes for some sort of approval.

Gingerly, you take one of the pomegranates out of his hand, his fingers twitching as the pads of your digits brush against his. Your eyes dart back and forth between him and the fruit as you do so, careful to earn his compliance as you inspect the fruit.

I’ll take anything you give. Just please give me more.

They’re a deep red, almost crimson, and the shine reflects your face on its vermilion skin.

“Chopping board,” He pauses, “please?”

Nodding absent-mindedly, you place the fruit back into his cupped hands.

You open the drawer behind the both of you and pull out an old chopping board, red soaked and stained into the wood that Ghost just can’t seem to get out. You place it on the counter next to the pomegranates, along with a clean bowl he didn’t even hear you grab, and then find your way to the knife block. Hearing the subtle shink of a blade against wood, Ghost turns and scrutinizes you as you try to remember which knife is the fruit knife. Choosing the shortest one, you hold it by the handle, facing downwards just like Simon taught you, and place it on top of the chopping board with stitched-up hands and missing fingers from all the times he’s begged for more. From all the times you’ve said you have nothing more to give, but he knows you always have more.

I’ll take even the spare and broken bits. Just look at me. Touch me. Let me be full.

You watch, intently, as he delicately cuts the top of the pomegranate off, slicing through the thick skin. Gently, he peels the layers of the pomegranate back, kissing each one with the tips of his fingers, letting it stain them something beautifully violent. He reveals the soft viscera inside, glancing back over to you again and again. Looking for something in your eyes you’re not sure you can give. He cuts it into quarters, continuously surprising you how utterly gentle he is with it, but not down to the skin. Leaving it in a fileted star-like shape, he turns it upside down on the bowl, and, using his hand, slowly shakes the seeds off of the fruit into the bowl.

Once he’s finished, sure he’s got all of the seeds off, he sets the empty corpse aside and just…stares at the bowl of red.

The silence is deafening. You want to fill it.

Simon takes a bloody scoop of the red viscera with his right hand, letting the pinkish juice dribble down his hand, his forearm, and drip onto the immaculately clean counter.

The kitchen smells like bleach. It makes the back of your throat itch.

He offers his hand out towards you, like an olive branch, like some lurid type of eucharist, and, like the obedient dog you are, you feast.

“I love you.” He mumbles, fondly watching the muscle of your tongue dart out to catch the pinkish juice dribbling from your frothing maw.

Be full. Let me fill you, and in turn, you fill me. Feed on me until there is nothing left. Let us decompose, intertwined. Please. Just say you love me, too.

You’re eating, and you begin to repeat it, but Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley taught you well not to speak with your mouth full.

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Note- If anybody believes this needs the Dead Dove: Do Not Eat tag, please let me know. I've seen much more horrific works without the tag, but I'm mildly worried this is inching into the category.

I've spend the past week hearing Abbey by Mitski at every turn, so I wrote this out in an hour or two. I think if I heard that song or saw something about bloody pomegranates one more time I think I would've started chewing the flesh off of my own bones. Canabalism as a metaphor for love is a incredibly profound, and, in some ways, poetic literature device for the sheer destruction a toxic relationship can cause, so, I wanted to try my hand at it! And also to stop myself from clawing my face off from hearing anything about this canabalism metaphor from literally everywhere on the internet.

I apologise for this being description and inner monologue heavy. I wanted to focus on the horror aspects in this rather than the romance aspects, so I'm sorry if you didn't get what you came here for.

Do tell if this feels too out of character for Ghost. It was originally written for König, but I changed it last minute. Thank you for sitting down and reading my work! It means a lot <3

I'll leave it up to you if the metaphor is really a metaphor in the end.

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