Endymi0ns - A Thing Of Beauty Lasts Forever.

ghost character analysis

tw: spoilers from ghost mw2 comics, nsfw, dead dove do not eat, mature content.

this is pretty much a part 2 to ghost headcanons except with more lore and analysis (im still not sure if reboot ghost has the same backstory as the og ghost).

ghost is not a cold, calculated, ruthless man. maybe in a separate au or something, but theres a huge difference between ghost and simon riley. in fact, we need to understand that the reason he even chose ghost as a new name for himself is because of all that's happened to him. his family got killed, he got tortured by roba, and had to eliminate many men on his own. before that he was simon, not ghost. in the comic he literally calls the child hostages he was saving ‘sweetheart’ and ‘love’. hes not that mean and cold yall

we know that PTSD does shit to it's victims, ghost lost his entire family and had no one. think of it as a coping mechanism to have a new name to be known as.

ghost is a ruthless killer. simon is just some guy.

ghost sets himself to an incredibly high standard of discipline. i think it's intuitive that military boys will need to be punctual and organized to some degree, but ghost takes this to a whole other level. considering his father's abusive behavior (explained by his disturbing statements said to simon, is a drug addict, and beats simons mom) his home life was likely chaotic as a child.

in the mw2: ghost comic (issue #3) it specifically stated the following: "discipline, precision, control. these are what riley built his whole life on. break those down and the dark stuff begins to ooze out..." again, this is probably a form of trauma response to his childhood.

so what does this lead to? well firstly, this probably means his room is incredibly tidy and organized (monotone design i know :,c).

would never in his life touch drugs. this is a promise he made to himself.

also kinda proves that ghost aint a reckless guy. he thinks things through before doing it.

ghost isn’t that hypersexual. theres no way of knowing his history with women, but i like to think ghost is not that horny 24/7 and needs a fuckbuddy. in the mw2 comic, he was on a mission and was in an area full of prostitutes (wasn’t actively on duty, but on his way) when they tried to hit on him he politely rejects one of them, and later tells them to fuck off😀 so yea contrary to popular belief i dont think he really enjoys one night stands or the idea of being entertained by random women. in fact, i hc he might actually be a virgin or just a really low body count.

ghost is a feminist!😁 (misandrist too). ok let me reword that, ghost doesnt like men and respects women. one of the reasons why he doesn’t want to be around prostitutes and do one night stands (his father killed a hooker in front of him, very traumatic) is because he thinks the concept of quick, casual sex is not good for society and dilutes the value of meaningful relationships. but also, remember the discipline, precision, control thing? its apart of his principle. but also, in the comic, sparks (soldier he worked with) knocked out and attempted to rape a woman, ghosts literally looked disgusted and called the police (also why he’d never do that himself, i dont get the hcs that say he does). ghosts seen how his dad treated his mom and absolutely hates abusers. anyways onto misandry—i think ghost internally thinks men are violent and disgusting (ghosts would choose the bear over the man, even though hes a man) mainly because throughout his military career majority of the bad stuff hes seen was done by men, so hes much more relaxed in a room of women vs man. ghost thinks his dad is the epitome of pure evil (canon! he said this to his therapist). this doesn’t mean hes scared or hates all men tho!

ghost isn’t close with 141… including soap. now before you attack me let me explain. sure, he trusts them to some degree, but i dont think they naturally just hangout when they’re not deployed. in the end we need to understand they are SAS soldiers, they are working a real job that mainly consists of them shooting and dismantling others. considering ghosts betrayal in the past (in the comic, a few soldiers ghost previously worked with killed his entire family 😢) he isn’t gonna just trust his teammates because theyre his teammates. im also pretty sure they all live in different cities while not deployed, while also considering the fact that tf141 probably all want to separate their job from their personal lives, which includes co workers. but onto soap, i dont think him and ghost have a deep brotherly relationship. but i think they care about each other, but exchanging some dad jokes and bantering doesn’t mean they’re suddenly soulmates or brothers. think about it… you and you’re co worker joke around sometimes, never hangout outside of work, and now people are shipping you and calling the two of you besties. makes no sense.

ghost is extremely patriotic. in the comic (i reference this way too much but theres SOOO MUCH LORE i recommend reading it) ghost tells his teammates the reason for joining the military: queen and country, right after 9/11. he also said “the world has changed”. interestingly enough army enlistment did actually skyrocketed after 9/11 attacks, ghost was among them. he probably thought ww3 was about to happen, or that ‘theres no more peace’ or whatever. i hc being obsessed with soccer too lmao and getting mad if english teams dont win. also his playful banter with johnny “get us a tea?”. probably very proud of his british heritage.

ghost doesn’t have much friends. hes a really, reallyyyyy lonely guy. i hc him as an introvert in the first place, but trust issues make this worse. in the comic, he was literally in the newspaper for killing his family and then killing himself (he didnt, he was framed that way tho) so its likely most of his formers friends probably think hes dead. ghost likely got some sort of amnesty or exemption from the military after knowing he didn’t actually kill his family, but whats in the news stays true to the public. even if he does have friends he probably doesn’t share feelings with them or form a long term bond.

ghost is extremely cynical. this is obvious tbh, but i think ghost believes hes going to die in the middle of a battlefield, shot or stabbed, a painful death, body left to rot for weeks, and no one to remember him. just like that. and he accepts that fact too.

ghost isn’t a picky eater. growing up in an abusive household where his parents couldn’t hold a stable job, he had to eat what there was. some days he settles for cheap beans and toast and when people call him out for it, he tells em to fuck off😀

ghost is emotionally fucked up, probably kind of depressed. i mean this guys been through hell: got sa’d, buried alive, had to dig through underground dirt and worms with a jawbone, tortured in horrible ways, had his entire family killed, abusive dad, and the weight of his grey morales because he killed lots of people as a soldier. wow! would you look at that list, itd be more strange if he wasn’t emotionally fucked up after was has happened😅. even when tortured, seeing his family dead, ghost was never shown to have cried in the comic. i hc hes emotionally numb. however, i do think hes emotionally MATURE and able to communicate his emotions, but hes still emotionally fucked. for example a scene where he was talking about his experience with roba (guy who tortured ghost) and ghosts father to a therapist. i think ghosts may be traumatized, but this doesn’t stop him from attempting to get help and communicating how he feels and thinks about this world.

BUT WHAT ABOUT AN S/O???

i think ghost is the guy to not have one in the first place. obviously. but i lowkey think if he had one and really liked them, he would commit. in fact i find it hard to imagine hes a player or isn’t serious about relationships. when his brother tommy got addicted to drugs and fucked up his life, simon quit the military until tommy got 100% better and married. yup. he stayed to help him recover, for years. thats how loving and committed this man is🥹🥹.

more random headcanons:

simon prefers dogs over cats because dogs are loyal and stay with you until the end (stereotypically)

hates snakes and spiders

probably wouldn’t do 50/50 on dates, he pays!

avoids saying manchester slang when deployed

drinks and smokes. not always. he’s disciplined but he still does that stuff.. hes a british guy in his 30s whos kinda depressed, grew up with adults around him smoking 24/7, whatd you think😀😀 (its canon that most of tf141 smoke anyway)

listens to 80’s rock music. its canon that his mom enjoys the band siouxsie and the banshees :)), he probs does too

shaves his beard

is actually confident hes not bad looking. dude, hes 6’2, in shape with a jawline🙄

— aesthetic words to fill up your vocabulary ♡

✦ if you're tired of using the same repetitive words to describe feelings or actions on your writing, here are some aesthetic words that are not frequently used to help you evolve your vocabulary better and also maybe help you with creative titles <3

ABENDROT: the color of the sky while the sun is setting.

ABIENCE: the strong urge to avoid someone or something.

ACHROOUS: colourless.

AEQUOREAL: marine, oceanic.

AESTHETE: someone with deep sensitivity to the beauty of art or nature.

ALIFEROUS: having wings.

AMITY: warmth and heartfelt friendliness in a friendship; mutual understanding and a peaceful relationship.

AMBROSIAL: fragrant, delicious.

ANTHOMANIA: great love for flowers.

AQUAPHILE: someone who is an enthusiast of all things related to the water.

ARENOCOLOUS: living or burrowing in sand.

ASPERSE: change falsely or with malicious intent; attack the good name and reputation of someone.

ASTERISM: agroup of stars; a constellation; a cluster of stars.

ATTAR: essential oil or perfume obtained from flowers.

AUREATE: golden or gilded; brilliant, splendid.

AURICOMUS: with golden or yellow colored foliage.

AVIOTHIC: the strong desire to be up in the air or to fly.

BALTER: to dance artlessly, without particular grace and/or skill but usually with enjoyment.

BATHIC: pertaining to depths, especially of sea.

BELAMOUR: the one who is loved; a beloved person.

BELLICOSTIC: aggressive, belligerent, warlike.

BENEFICENCE: the quality of being kind or helpful or generous.

BERCEUSE: a quiet song intended to lull a child to sleep.

BLÁFAR: indicating the freshness and beauties of youth or health; attractive and possessing charm.

BRONTIDE: the low rumble of a distant thunder.

BURBLE: to speak in an excited manner.

CAELITIS: the divinities who dwell within the celestial planes.

CATHARSIS: the release of emotional tension, especially through kinds of art or music.

CELERITOUS: swift, speedy, fast.

CERAUNOPHILIA: loving thunder and lightning and finding them intensely beautiful.

CHEVELURE: the nebulous tail of a comet.

CINGULOMANIA: a strong desire to hold a person in your arms.

COCCINEOUS: bright red; scarlet.

COCKAIGNE: an imaginary land of luxury and idleness.

CONSTELLATE: to eluster; to compel by stellar influence.

COSMOGYRAL: whirling around the universe.

CORDOLIUM: heartache; heartfelt sorrow.

CORUSCATE: to reflect brillantly, to sparkle.

CRAMOISY: of a crimson color.

CREATURELY: a person who is controlled by others and is used to perform unpleasant or dishonest tasks for someone else.

CRYSTALLOMANIA: an obsession with crystals and other crystalline objects.

CHRYSALISM: the amnotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.

CLINQUANT: glittering with gold and silver.

CLYSMIC: cleaning, washing.

CUPIDITY: greed for money or possessions.

CYANEOUS: a sky-blue color.

CYNOSURE: guiding star; a object of common interest.

DARKLING: of or related to darkness.

DÉCLASSÉ: having fallen in social status.

DEIFORM: god-like or divine in nature.

DEMERSAL: that lives near the bottom or a body of water.

DESIDERIUM: an ardent longing, as for something lost.

DISPITEOUS: cruel and without mercy.

DOUX: sweet, soft, mild, gentle.

DRACONTINE: belonging to a dragon.

DYSANIA: the state of finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning.

ECCEDENTESIAST: someone who fakes a smile.

EFFLORESCENCE: a period or state of blooming, blossoming.

ELEGY: a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.

ELEUTHEROPHILIST: someone who advocates free love.

ELYSIAN: beautiful or creative, divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.

EMACITY: desire or fondness for buying things.

EMPYREAL: pertaining to the sky; celestial.

EPHIALTES: a nightmare; the demon Incubus that supposedly causes a nightmare.

EPICARICACY: the joy that results from others misfortune.

EREMOPHOBIA: the deep fear of stillness, solitude, or deserted places.

ETHEREAL: extremely delicate, light, not of this world.

EUMOIRIETY: happiness due to state of innocence and purity.

FLORENTIS: abounding in flowers; being in bloom and adorned with plentiful flowers.

FREICEADAN: guard, garrison, watch, sentinal.

FULMINATE: cause to explode violently and with loud noise.

FURCIFEROUS: brat; rascally, scandalous.

GLOAMING: twilight, dusk.

GRAME: anger, wrath, scorn; sorrow, grief, misery.

HALCYON: calm and peaceful; happy, prosperous.

HELLION: a rowdy or mischievous person.

HELIOPHILIA: desire to stay in the sun; love of sunlight.

HEAVENIZE: to render like heaven or fit for heaven, to purify and make a holy place or a person.

HENOTIC: promoting harmony or peace.

HIRAETH: a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was.

HOLILY: belonging to or derived from or associated with a divine power.

HYPNAGOGIC: the state immediately before falling asleep.

IGNICOLIST: a worshiper of fire.

ILLECEBROUS: attractive and alluring.

IMPLUVIOUS: soaked with rain.

INCANDESCENCE: light produced by high temperatures.

INCALESCENCE: the property of being warming.

INCENDIARY: designed for the purpose of causing a fire, likely to cause anger or violence.

INEFFABLE: too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.

INSOUCIANT: free from worry, concern or anxiety.

IRENIC: aiming or aimed at peace, promoting peace.

IRIDESCENT: producing a display of rainbow-like colors.

INVIDIARE: to envy.

ISOLOPHILIA: a strong preference and affection for solitude.

KALOPSIA: the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.

KALON: beauty that is more than skin deep.

LACONIC: expressing much in a few words.

LACUNA: a blank space; a missing part.

LATIBULE: a hiding place, a place of safety and comfort.

LAMBENT: to glow or flicker softly. Luminous, light or brilliant.

LIMERENCE: the state of being infatuated with another person.

LONGANIMITY: still suffering while planning revenge.

LOUCHE: disreputable; morally dubious.

LUCIFORM: resembling light in appearance; having, in some respects; the nature of qualities of light.

LUMINESCENCE: light produced by chemical, electrical or physiological means.

MALTALENT: the negative emotions of wanting injury or harm to befall someone; a hostile behavior or attitude towards someone considered an enemy.

MARMORIS: the shining surface of the ocean.

MAZARINE: a dark blue color; rich blue or reddish-blue color.

MELIORISM: the belief that the world gets better; the belief that humans can improve the world.

MÉLOMANIE: an excessive and abnormal love and deep attraction to music and melody.

MERCURIAL: subject to sudden or unpredictable changes.

MESMERIC: appealing; drawing attention.

MORDACIOUS: biting or given to biting; biting or sharp in manner; caustic; capable of wounding.

MORPHEAN: of or relating to Morpheus, to dreams, or to sleep.

MOXIE: courage, nerve, determination.

NEBULOCHAOTIC: a state of being hazy and confused.

NEFARIOUS: wicked, villainous, despicable.

NEMESISM: frustration, anger or aggression directed inward, toward oneself and one's way of living.

NERITIC: pertaining to shallow coastal waters.

NOETIC: of or associated with or requiring the use of mind.

NOIRCEUR: the state of being pitch black in color; a state of lacking illumination.

NUBIVAGANT: wandering in the air, moving through the air.

NUMINOUS: spiritual or supernatural; surpassing comprehension or understanding; mysterious.

ONEIRODYNIA: restless, disturbed sleep, characterized by nightmares and sleepwalking.

OPHIOMORMOUS: snake-like.

ORPHIC: mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding.

PETRICHOR: the scent of rain on dry earth.

POIESIS: creation; creative power or ability.

PORPHYROUS: purple; of purple hue.

PRATE: to talk excessively and pointlessly.

PROCELLOUS: tempestuous, stormy.

QUIDDITY: the essence of something.

QUIXOTIC: extravagantly chivalrous or romantic; visionary, impractical or impracticable.

RANTIPOLE: a wild, reckless young person; to be wild and reckless.

REDAMANCY: the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.

REDOLENT: having a strong distinctive fragrance; serving to bring to mind.

REMEANT: coming back, returning.

RESPLENDENT: having brilliant or glowing appearance; dazzling and impressive in appearance through being richly colorful or sumptuous.

REVERIE: a state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts; a daydream.

RODOMEL: juice of roses mixed with honey.

ROSEATE: rose-like; overly optimistic.

RUTILANT: glowing or glittering with red or gold light.

SANGUINEOUS: accompanied by bloodshed.

SASHAY: to strut or move about in an ostentatious or conspicuous manner.

SCIAMACHY: a battle against imaginary enemies; fighting your shadow.

SEQUACIOUS: lacking independence of originality of thought.

SERAPHIC: beautiful and pure; having a sweet nature befitting an angel or a cherub; of or relating to an angel of the first order.

SERENDIPITY: finding something good without looking for it.

SKINT: having little or no money avaliable.

SOLIVAGANT: someone who wanders or travels the world alone; a solitary adventurer.

SOMNIATE: to dream, to make sleepy.

SORTIGER: delivering prophecies of the future; having the qualities of being oracular.

STELLIFEROUS: having or abonding with stars.

STELLIFY: to transform from an earthly body into a celestial body; to place in the sky as such.

SUCCIDUOUS: ready to fall, falling.

SPUME: a white mass of bubbles or froth on the top of a wave.

SYNODIC: relating to or involving the conjunction of stars, planets or other celestial objects.

TARANTISM: the uncontrollable urge to dance.

TEMENOS: a sacred circle where no one can be oneself without fear.

THANATOPHOBIA: fear of death.

TYYNEYS: the state of peacefulness; absent of worry or fear, being composed and at ease.

ULTRAMARINE: beyond the sea; greenish-blue color.

VELLEITY: a wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to action.

VENERATION: a profound emotion inspired by a deity.

VESPERTINE: in or of the evening; setting at the same time as, or just after, the sun.

VERDANT: with plants and flowers in abundance.

VERMEIL: a liquid composition applied to a gilded surface to give luster to the gold.

VERTICORDIOUS: to turn the heart from evil.

VIOLESCENT: tending toward violet color.

VORFREUDE: the joyful anticipation that comes from imagining future pleasures.

WANDERLUST: a strong desire to travel and explore the world.

WHIST: to hush or silence; to still, to become still.

cerezzzita©, 2022 · all rights reserved

On average a person has about 29,000 days to live. I’ve already used almost 10,000 of mine.

I would really like to commit the rest to sucking Ghost’s scrambled brains out of his dick 😔

“i can fix him” “i can make him worse” i can imagine him in little scenarios every night as i’m falling asleep

---

Oh he makes me SICK

sorry, this was born out of a need to indulge myself featuring: gaz, ballerina!reader, stalking, intrusive thoughts, delusion, mentioned SA and kidnapping

Kyle first spots you on the Piccadilly line in London's underground.

He's usually wary of public transport – would really rather walk the hour from Knightsbridge to Hammersmith than risk the inevitable unsavoury interaction bound to happen in an overcrowded tube – but it was late at night, he'd just spent his day sitting in a hotel lobby gathering intel for Price, and the idea of ducking down narrow streets in the blistering cold was the last thing he wanted coming to fruition. That's how he ended up in a (thankfully empty) train car anyway; hoodie up and hands stuffed deep into his pockets, thumb brushing over the handle of a switchblade.

He's focused on the shady character stretched across three seats adjacent to him when you happen to prance in. Perhaps prance isn't that accurate an account either, but it's hard to attribute much else to you when you're dressed like a character from one of his sister's childhood storybooks. Angelina ballerina, or something of the sorts – mismatched leg warmers, knitted bolero sleeving a black camisole, basketball shorts over nude-coloured tights, and dance booties that look like little puffer coats for your feet.

The duffel bag slung over your shoulder concerns him briefly – it's hard to look at carryalls the same after serving the military, he finds – but the tired look on your face pacifies any suspicions he might have of your intentions. Wouldn't be wise to execute an offensive when one of your operatives is weary, especially given they're the only agent in sight. Regardless, he's hit with a distinct trepidation that takes a while to name.

You slide past the figure he'd been observing early, hop over Kyle's boots as well, fingers clasped over your behind as if to protect yourself from any wandering hands. The feeling rippling in his chest worsens, yet it's only as you slot yourself onto a far-away seat is he able to recognise it.

You shouldn't be here this late. This isn't the place for you.

With your hair neatly pulled away from your face, he's given full reign to ogle at your darling features. Round cheeks. Hydrated lips. Pretty thing. His molars grind against each other. There are no doubt men on this train that'd want to take advantage of that. Press your mouth open with a thumb on your tongue, rub themselves raw just to see cum decorate your lashes and drip over your brow. Barrack talk, the type of shit he hears floating between his comrades-in-arms when missions drag a little too long. Perversion brought on by desperation.

The intercom dings, and the lady with the soothing voice announces their arrival to Hammersmith. His stop, yet the thought of getting off and abandoning you is enough to keep him stuck to his seat. His stomach upturns as possibilities occur to him like frames in a technicolor film; none pleasant, all ending with you tied up in the trunk of some random van. Some part of him recognises his paranoia, the ridiculousness in his attachment to a perfect stranger (which chides him in a voice eerily similar to Price's, all gruff vowels and whispered consonants), but it does not change the fact that when the doors open to his station, he does not move.

Yeah. He stays on so long as you do – which fortunately is not an extensive length of time. You collect your stuff one stop later, standing to wait at the door once the lady announces Acton Town. He doesn't get up until you're a few seconds out though, slipping through the closing panels of the entryway to follow a few paces behind your heel. Up the escalator and down the block.

The night air nips at his nose, chilling his knuckles so they creak if he curls them. Are your nipples knotted under your layers? Or would they need the help of his fingers to perk up? His throat stiffens. He shakes the thought from his head.

You make a turn. Kyle stops for a second, breathes in, before veering left behind you. Heading towards the west part of town, now. It's a good place to live, all things considered. Still, he wonders if you deadbolt your doors, if you keep yourself safe online. You seem smart, but there are people who won't rest until they get their way. People like the one's he deals with at work – amoral men with biceps that could crush your head. Rotten, horrible men who are only rotten and horrible to cope with the tasks assigned to them. Depraved enemies, depraved friends. Only difference between the two being which flag they fight for.

You throw a look over your shoulder, shoulders shrinking as you wrap your arms tighter across your chest. He looks around, seeking the threat you seem to be so put off by. Nothing but brick-and-mortar storefronts and flattened cigarette butts.

He's compelled by the urge to shush you, to scratch your back as he tells you that there's no need to worry. He'll walk you all the way home. Make sure you get nice and situated, listen for the tell-tale lock of your deadbolt, watch for the dimming of your light. He'll stay until you fall asleep, then walk back to where he came from, take the returning line to Hammersmith – so when he flops back down into his own bed, he'll be reassured by the knowledge that you're safe a mere 4 miles away.

Might take a shower before then, though. Your arse looks great when you're speed-walking like this, pronounced even behind the loose material of your basketball shorts. He hopes the image remains as vivid when he's attending to the heavy mass between his legs later.

Kyle halts right in his tracks.

What is he doing?

You're nearly running now, shrinking away from him at an exponential rate, and duck another corner when you look back to see that he's no longer in pursuit. Completely out of sight.

His Captain’s voice comes to life once more, echoing in the part of his brain he has yet to compartmentalise.

You draw the line wherever you need it, Sergeant.

i love men who look like theyve been through some of the most horrendous shit ever sorry

my favorite version of ghost is when the author describes him having a fucked up face, broken nose improperly set, chipped and missing teeth, scars everywhere, cleft lip, acne+acne scars. grabby hands. gimme

big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too. 

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private. 

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers. 

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

~~

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious. 

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing. 

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook. 

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing. 

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss. 

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests. 

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps. 

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

~~

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.” 

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained. 

~~

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.