#zombieghost

He still won’t take his mask off. But that’s okay. His jaw has broken a few more times since, as he struggled to get words out, including once when you were trying to eat your dinner.

You nearly bought it all back up at the sight of that, but Ghost just chuckled darkly and then stumbled off to fix it while his shoulders shook with hoarse laughter.

Most nights are spent drawing in your note pad, or attempting to help Ghost speak. He’s tried writing, but his big fist has accidentally snapped two precious pencils, so you gave up with that, happy for now that he can tell you ‘yeah’, ‘nah’ and ‘please’. You’ve grown quite good at lip reading, listening to the hiss of sounds trying to escape him.

Si is probably the most content he’s ever been. If it wasn’t for the constant interference of the virus and the fact he’s dead, it would be heaven here with you.

Because it lingers in his consciousness, even though he’s fighting against it. The core of him is still Simon, the fundamental nature of a man who’s faced so much adversity, and won’t submit to the infection. But the breeding kink he’s developed via his condition is worse than ever.

As much as you’ve tried to convince yourself it won’t happen again, most nights he ends up with his fingers and/or tongue lost in your dripping pussy.

Simon craves it and you do too.

He always asks your permission first. A simple ‘please’ leaving those thin pale lips. It’s become a code word for your unnatural little ritual. You enjoy it so much, it’s sickening. More often than not these days you’re aggressively aroused. He’s pretty much the only thing, other than your own hand, that helps.

There’s a connection there, that goes deeper than the forbidden nature of your carnal relationship. A link has been forged between you, that’s impossible to deny. Something base and primal has grown in your body, blossoming into feelings you never anticipated you would have for anyone, let alone a dead man who against all odds is slowly reclaiming his humanity.

Si doesn’t feel pain, there isn’t much need for that stimuli. But he does feel the agony of arousal without a release. His thighs prickle with it. He still hasn’t sprung a boner though, so that’s one way to cockblock himself. The intensity of it is maddening.

Endlessly as he lies awake at night, your sleeping form draped over his chest, Simon fantasises about feeling you from the inside, how the heat of your body would make his soul sing.

You’re both like a fucked up married couple, Ghost prowls the fence line, you make the house comfortable then you both go to bed together. Even the coldness of his flesh is reassuring. He now wears jeans, dug out of a dusty cupboard by you. Thoroughly domesticated.

One typical evening, you while away the hours drawing little pictures. Ghost is staring out of a window, heightened vision allowing him to see out into the blackness.

“Do you like being called Ghost? Or do you prefer Simon?” You ask him without looking up, as it strikes you that you’ve never checked that with him before.

Shuffling over to you and stroking your cheek softly, he says croakily;

“Si.”

“Sorry I’ve been calling you Ghost all this time!” You gaze at him, feeling bad, your mouth forming a small round ‘oh’ of uncertainty.

He shakes his head and grunts.

“Si-only-yours.” He mouths, stitches creaking ominously. There’s a little rasping noise as he speaks.

It’s a very honest statement. The part of Si growing stronger within him, is unconditionally yours. Ghost lives under your thumb too, different sides of the same coin.

The latter is a growling, savage, overpowering presence. Wanting you close to him at all times, huffing when you try and roll away from him in bed. Whereas Simon Riley is the reason words now stagger off his tongue, the one who thinks about your comfort first and foremost.

The virus plays into this, exploiting the way he feels. Continually using it to try and manipulate him into killing for you so it can feed, or itching to create more duplicates of itself. He doesn’t know if that’s even possible, but the infection subdued in his mind seems convinced of it.

Later in bed, you shiver as familiar cold fingers start to play with the waistband of your pyjamas.

Ghost huffs, sliding one hand towards your cunt. It’s always so wet for him. Your hips buck up towards him and he smiles lopsidedly with happiness.

“Oh fuck that feels good Si!”

He lets out a low groan at the sound of his name in your mouth. His thighs are burning with need, aching dully in a way that makes him feel almost warm. So to distract himself, he slides two chilled digits inside your hot core.

The virus starts to clamour, swept up in the inferno of your body. Your moans are watched with startling intensity, every tiny hitch of breath observed by him like it’s something he can’t tear his eyes away from.

A calloused thumb pad rubs your sensitive, puffy clit relentlessly. Frost coloured eyes gaze hungrily down at you, squirming under his touch, your slick leaking all over his palm. You’re getting hotter still while Si tingles all over with a feral desire to plant himself between your legs, immovable and forced so deep inside you, no one could tear you apart.

“God yes Si! Don’t stop!” You cry, writhing with pleasure, eyes tight shut.

But his hand is slowing, rhythm lost. Eventually it comes to a full halt.

Surprised, you look over at him through the darkness. Misty eyes stare back at you, shocked and unnerved, then he takes hold of one of your hands and places it into his crotch.

He’s outrageously hard, cock pulsing with misleading signs of life, rigid like it’s made of ice and just as cold.

There’s a split second, where neither of you move a muscle. Then he’s rolling you on top of him, while you fumble with the flies of his old threadbare jeans.

It’s clumsy, urgent. Wildly you’re both rutting on each other, his pale length springs free of the dark material of his boxers, hastily dragged down his legs. The prettiest pink blush is creeping over his thighs, tiny freckles dotted on the formerly lifeless skin.

He drags your hips up to his and impales you on him without hesitation. You yelp, as the cold tip knocks against your scorching walls. He’s thick, burning your cunt as he plunges inside you desperately, grunts sounding increasingly pitiful reverberating through the still house.

His prick is leaking and so are you. Combined, it creates a small puddle on the blonde hair of his abdomen. He gives you a moment to adjust and himself a pause to be saturated in your radiant heat.

Two big hands close vice like on your thighs, then they rock you. You both moan in unison, his gravelly, broken voice meeting your soft one.

You grind down on him, wrapping his stiff, cool flesh tightly in the hottest embrace. He’s sure sex never felt this good when he was alive. It can’t have done. Or he would have done it all the time.

Panting, you fuck him almost as hard as he fucks you. It’s like he has a new lease of life, virile to the point of madness. Using the strength of those frozen muscles to pound up so fiercely into you, that you see stars.

You knew he was inhumanly quick and strong, but this is a different level. Your body is calling to him, begging him to put his seed inside you so that it takes. He’s swelling in your tight canal, making a bump appear in your belly, but you’re both too lost in the moment to notice.

A voice of caution tries to tell you not to let him cum inside, but a louder more guttural one shouts that he has to fill you up. Make you his entirely. You cry out, as he hits a velvet spot in your fevered core. It feels unbelievable, frighteningly good. Your eyes close again, unable to see straight, lost in the feel of his heaving torso under yours.

Unnaturally quickly, you’re both orgasming, grasping each other, calling out into the night, bellowing like animals in heat. His thick, potent release soothes the raw energy of your body and for the first time since the bite, you feel truly satiated.

When you go to move off him, he growls and tugs you down onto his chest. He can’t pull out yet, you’re so warm it’s addictive, making him feel more emotion than he ever has before, in life or un-death.

“Shit.” You sigh, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the smell of the summer grass clinging to his. frozen skin from a day spent wandering around. “Do you think that was a good idea?”

Cool palms rub your back soothingly, Simon is back in control again.

Or was he ever out of control?

After all, it was his name on your lips that made his cock ravenous.

Masterlist right here

@ashy-kit @cutiecusp @deadmarygolds @redbleedingrose @dustycrusty09 @darkangel4121 @cmbghost @silly-norman @sigrid666 @pxssygxblin @spicyspicyliving @itsyaboinoah @misshugs @blush-haze @kolpvii @sobbingnshtting @murder-hobo @nexthyperfix @chinaza444 @contractedcriteria @soapsmohawk-16 @just-a-sewer-goblin

Your eyelids flutter.

“Stop making this weird.” Half asleep still, you’re aware of his monstrous presence lurking in your peripheral vision.

He chuckles, the sound low and throaty. Cold fingers reach out and paw at your exposed toes. You yelp loudly and retract them under the covers.

“Please.” His rough voice sounds stronger now, but it still slurs oddly. You open one eye, not sure what he’s asking permission for.

Ghost isn’t sure either to be honest and Si has no idea. So he lays his weight next to you on the bed, hoping he’ll start saying another word soon.

You rest in silence for a minute. It’s heavy with the weight of what happened last night.

Still it helped. You’re not as rabidly aroused for the moment. But it’s unlocked a dangerous precedent, shifted the way things are between you.

It’s fucking sick. But then, who’s left to judge you?

Absolutely no one.

Ghost huffs to get your attention.

“What?”

Those blank eyes stare at you, trying to tell you something.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” You itch a scab on your almost healed ankle. Ghost slaps your hand angrily.

He grunts and his mouth tries to form a word. But his jaw is so ruined, you can’t read his lips. Frustrated, he tries blinking in a careful sequence.

“Are you having a seizure?” You ask him seriously, looking mildly concerned.

Ghost closes his eyes twice for no, even though he’s fuming that you don’t know basic morse code.

You sit up on an elbow and face him.

“Please don’t make me talk to you about it, when you can’t reply. It’s not a conversation I want to have with myself.”

He absolutely glares at you, colourless eyes narrowed, growling with irritation. You’re making excuses, well he’ll fucking show you.

Rising to his feet abruptly, he stomps heavily out of the room, making the picture frames rattle. You watch him go, wondering how it’s possible you’ve managed to hurt a dead man’s feelings.

Ghost searches just about every drawer in the house. He’s looking for something very particular, turning over the contents of cupboards with rough fingers. Then he finds it in the kitchen.

A needle and thick thread.

He settles himself in front of the small mirror in the bathroom and removes his mask. Fuck he looks awful, he knew it was bad under there, but it’s enough to even frighten him.

White eyes framed by the hollowest sockets, blue shadows under them. Sunken cheeks and skin so transparent, he can see the stagnant blueish veins spreading underneath. He doesn’t need a skull mask anymore, he practically is one.

He examines his jaw clinically, seeing whether the bone is exposed enough that he can tie it together. It won’t be a permanent fix, but it’s better than nothing. So he gets to work.

Ghost has stitched plenty of wounds in his life. His nose has been broken enough times that it no longer sits straight on his face.

Half an hour later you feel you should try and make friends. Unsteadily you hobble around the house looking for him, ankle still sore.

Out of one upended box, you pull a little notepad. It’s blank, so you decide to keep it, like a captains log chronicling your strange life now.

Then you hear him enter the room behind you.

“Look what I found! Hey listen, I’m sorry—”

Your voice stutters to a halt.

There he stands, all six foot whatever of pure undead menace. There’s a neat patchwork of stitches along one side of his face, holding his jawline more firmly in place.

He looks like Frankensteins monster, but it’s vaguely endearing. Ghost grunts, then mouths a word with very obvious effort, pointing at you grimly.

“Talk.”

Well shit.

“I don’t know what to say! This entire situation is bizarre!” You wail at him, sinking into a nearby armchair.

He folds his arms over his chest and huffs disapprovingly at your statement. Then he mouths something else slowly.

“Enjoy it?” He tilts his head slightly to indicate it’s a question.

Looking at the floor, you nod. Yes you did enjoy it. But that isn’t the point.

“That doesn’t make it right Ghost.”

A cold finger tips your chin upwards to his face. His lips spell out two more words slowly, working so hard his eyes look like they’re burning in his mask.

“Feels right.”

@ashy-kit @cutiecusp @deadmarygolds @redbleedingrose @dustycrusty09 @darkangel4121 @cmbghost @silly-norman @sigrid666 @pxssygxblin @spicyspicyliving @itsyaboinoah @misshugs @blush-haze @kolpvii @sobbingnshtting @murder-hobo @nexthyperfix @chinaza444 @contractedcriteria @soapsmohawk-16 @just-a-sewer-goblin