c-r0w5

[c-r0w5]

cw: talks of mental health and mental hospitals. in no way is this intended to demean anyone. your feelings are valid and don’t be afraid to reach out for help! ୨୧

Mental health patient Simon who finally broke and was sent straight into the padded white walls due to being deemed too dangerous to be around others and causing a mass destruction. He’s not very compliant when it comes to any of the nurses or anyone who works in the medical field in general, especially after being thrown in like he’s some mentally disturbed and unstable man (he is but let’s not anger him anymore).

Until you come in, gentle and patient—like you actually care not only about your job but him as a person. He’s slow to except your help as the psychiatrist, but surely warms up to you. You take your job seriously—that’s a fact. Willing to learn about each and every one of your clients, and Simon is no exception when it comes to your help. The only problem being that you have begun to break one of your only rules you had for yourself—to not favor one client over another.

With Simons sad manipulating eyes, blinking up at you oh-so puppy like—you couldn’t resist but give him a chaste kiss before your session ended one afternoon. Chaste kisses turned to deeper, slower, passionate ones, and passionate kisses turned to sloppy, messy ones that kept you secured firmly on his lap by his big, rough paws.

Soon you started to make excuses to see Simon more often—and Simon started to act out more in need of more help (which of course wasn’t actually needed). It wasn’t until the cameras were checked by security, that you lost not only your job—but your crazy lunatic boyfriend as well.

Certainly, that does not sit well with Simon. You did no wrong in his eyes after all. Of course, he’ll find a way out of his imprisonment, with no hesitation of killing anyone that stands in his way of seeing his precious little baby again.

© simonskitty ➸ likes and reblogs are always appreciated ! ᡣ 𓈒⋅ ⩊ ⋅𓈒ྀིა

[c-r0w5]

simon riley is simon fucking riley.

why would he need a secretary?

it was price's idea to put up the "help wanted" sign, even though simon never agreed to it. he was completely capable of going through life "assistantless", he had made it this far, hadn't he?

but the way you greeted him, placed your manicured hand out for him to envelop it with his, was something he wasn't prepared for in the slightest. simon found himself whispering your name to himself as he walked to lunch, stapled papers, shaving his face.

you were a phenomenon to him, a spiritual experience that he just didn't recognize yet. and even though he was slowly coming around to this whole thing, the truth was, he'd always be a bitter man.

"sir, I was placed here for your benefit. trust me when I say, whatever you ask of me, I will do-"

"I don't need your fuckin' help, y'hear me?" simon would respond with a bite, even though his words only encouraged your crush more.

and his eyes spoke words his mouth couldn't. they casually wandered down the length of your body, and he took it upon himself to memorize the sight of you. sitting, standing, bending over.

how could he not? the way your plump ass sat in that stupidly tight skirt, how the buttons lining your polo were just seconds away from flying across the room with the help of your black push up bra, it was just too much for him.

every single morning, without fail, you waltzed right into his office. his space, unsolicited. carrying your unnecessarily large purse and an iced coffee, your soft voice rang and bounced off the four walls, "good morning, sir."

you might as well just bow down to him while your at it, with all that sweet talk you give to simon, all the shy little nods and waves you bid him throughout the day, and he ate it right up.

"I finished the spreadsheets you asked me to compartmentalize. will that be all for today?" you'd say, leaning over his mahogany desk as your cleavage spills out of your top. simon was about to lose his cool.

"that'll be all, luv." he cooly spoke over his computer, trying to regain his composure.

it wasn't until a few days later, when you were struggling to put a stack of files on the top shelf, that simon's self control went out the window. he watched as you stood on your tiptoes, losing balance trying to place the items. and he couldn't help but come up behind you, placing a large palm on the small of your back to steady you.

a small gasp came from your throat at the gesture, "easy, luv, just me." he whispered back.

simon was so close, close enough to the point where you could study his face, watching his eyes squint at the effortless reach it took for him to stack the files.

the eye contact alone led your mind astray, and as his hand drifted away from your back to the fat of your hip, your eyes fluttered down to his lips, then neck, then shoulders.

that was all it took. what started as a something simon hated became something he lived for. the hand around your hip pulled you closer to him as the other cradled your face.

"tell me to stop." he whispered, nose rubbing against your own, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

you smiled at the outrageous thought.

"never."

simon's lips crashed against yours in an instant, a clash of teeth and tongue, slow licks and harsh nips were quickly causing your legs to give out beneath you.

he picked you up instantly, "mm, I gotcha,"

that's how you found yourself laid all pretty on his desk, legs up on his shoulders. the slight curve of his dick and veins you could feel with every nerve in your body only created shudders.

"mmhmm, mm, y-you don't hate me?"

you said, interrupting the lewd sounds of him slamming into you, the squelch of the two of you joining made you tighten around him.

"fuck, no. no, don't hate you, lovey,"

and of course, simon being the pussydrunk that he is would casually slip this in,

"love you, fucking love you."

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

[c-r0w5]

cw: violence. torture. waterboarding. hurt/no comfort.

simon x reader. implied soap x reader if you squint.

i haven't written in a long time. it's good to be back.

part one | part two

Traitor.

That's what Price thinks as Simon and Soap drag you from the table, nearly choking on your food as they give you no time to understand what's going on.

Alarms ring in your ears as you force the piece of stale bread down your throat, trying to stand on your feet but they're taller than you, so your feet end up dangling, useless. You take a deep breath, your voice shaking as much as you are.

"What's going on? Is this some kind of sick joke?", you ask, looking at Simon, desperate to find an explanation for this other than the anger and torment in his eyes.

Simon doesn't answer. Nobody does. Soap's grip tightens, but he doesn't say anything, his expression hard.

No.

No.

You can tell they are not joking when you realize they're taking you downstairs. Sweat rolls down your face, fear creeping from the base of your neck to your toes, making you snap. You beg them to tell you what's going on, to explain why you're being dragged down there. You kick and struggle, a sob ripped deep from your chest as you start screaming, begging for a reaction. And then, pain.

Tears fill your eyes when it's Simon who hits your stomach with his fist, effectively shutting you up. You can smell the blood from past tortures mixed with bleach, and, distantly, the scent of forgotten wet rags. There's something salty in the air, and that's when you freeze, the pain in your stomach becoming nothing compared to the fear that grows in your chest.

They know you.

You've been with them for nine years. They know your fears.

"No. No. Please. Simon, Johnny— Please, please, please" you beg, sobbing as you can't do anything but go limp and heavy in their grip, doing the best you can to keep them from tying you to the chair. But it's useless.

Stars and colors dance behind your eyes as a fist connects with the side of your chin. You wonder if it would be better if they made you pass out right now. Maybe if you bite your tongue, it could—

"Gag her" Price tells them.

He's trained you for nine years.

He knows you.

You try to bite down on Johnny's fingers as he stuffs your mouth with an old rag, but it's difficult when your senses are unfocused after such a hard punch. The rag wet and disgusting, the scent and the taste making you sob again, shaking your head, your eyes big as you look at Simon.

Please.

Then a wet rag is pressed to your face. You inhale sharply as cold buckets of salty water are dropped right on your face, the cloth making it impossible for you to breathe. Salty water fills your lungs, making you choke and cough around the gagging rag.

You can hear questions, accusations, but you're paralized with fear, with pain and grief.

Grief.

They've been your friends, your family for so long. It's impossible to tell if you'll live through this. It's impossible for you to think of them as anything but monsters.

You know they usually did this with traitors, with enemies when it was necessary.

And you know they never enjoy it.

You've scolded Simon for smoking so late at night, you've had so many drinks next to him when he can't even speak. Simon often flinches awake from nightmares, startling you and then sharing quiet nights side to side.

You know this.

But then Simon hits your face again, taking the rag out of your mouth, and you can't find the love you have for him. It's expelled from your body with each hard cough, with each drop of blood falling from your nose.

"Did you not hear me?" Price demands, his arms crossed. "I'll ask one more time, then."

Smack.

Your chest is heaving, the fear so paralizing you can't even feel each punch as much as you should.

"What did you tell them?" Price continues, not looking one bit anxious for you to answer. He stands in front of you, his feet dry despite the salt burning your lungs.

"I don't know what you're talking about" you manage, looking up at Price, your eyes wide and bloodshot.

With a hard yank on your hair until your head is thrown back again, you're gagged once more, and the rag is pressed to your face. The salty water keeps on filling your lungs, unable to breathe, unable to cough around the gag.

You can't say anything. You truly don't know shit.

Hours later, when it becomes clear you won't speak, Price kicks you across the chest, hard, and the chair flips back.

You're tied up to the chair, exhausted and wet, your lungs burning with salt.

Memories of you as a child, nearly drown to death by your cousins, fill your mind. It had been a good day, until it wasn't.

Simon had held you when you told him, kissed you, and tucked you in for a good night sleep.

Johnny managed to make you crackle when you told him, patting your head, and saying your cousin had awful skills.

Now, there's nothing. Nothing but pain, and the burning in your lungs.

The door springs open, and the three men leave.

Only then do you close your eyes, passing out.

[c-r0w5]

TASK FORCE ONE FUR ONE

thumbnail hahah, thought i'd share how it started

[c-r0w5]

FOR PARENTS OF YOUNG KIDS IN THE US!

Someone over on bluesky posted this and I figured I'd better repost it here. It's the pre-RFK 2025 vaccination schedule for babies and young children, ya know, just in case it mysteriously disappears. Save this and give it to your child's pediatrician; tell them this is the schedule you want your child on.

[c-r0w5]

Possessive!Simon is one thing, but you ? You’re crazy about him. When it comes to him, you go all feral like a hissy cat pawing at their steak, he's your meat ! And Simon—so oblivious, so utterly devoted, he doesn’t even notice the hungry eyes trailing over him. All black gear, a half-masked, mysterious, broad shoulders and puffed out chest —of course birds and bats, all are salivating over him.

It boils your blood, ofcourse your man is hot, but eyes on him. Fuck no. You claim.

You tangle yourself around him, arms locking behind his neck, rising on your toes, dragging desperate, searing kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the edge of his mask. Grinding into him and ecstacy reveling because Simon gets all flushed under you.

None of these eyes can do that. Only you.

And then, without shame or hesitation, you yank the mask down, baring his lips just for you, claiming his starved mouth. The way he moans, all taken back your lips hot with slick and need for possession. Your fingers curl tight, nails scraping sharply on his nape as your body presses flush to his. Call it pathetic, call it insane, call it what you want but you will have him. A silent dare, a wordless mine.

Simon exhales rough and low, hands gripping your waist, grounding you—but not stopping you. Then, very effortlessly he lifts you, dragging you so close, his voice thick with heat as he mutters, "Always yours.”

Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s making damn sure you never forget who he belongs you.

Masterlist

[c-r0w5]

I love me a nasty Simon

I love absolutely DISGUSTING Simon Riley. CW : Pillow humping, pantie sniffing, cum eating, exhibitionism, spitting, sweat kink, photos during sex.

The amount of times you've come home only to find Simon fisting his cock while sniffing the panties you put in the laundry basket last night, or walking into your bedroom to find Simon humping your pillow.

He's disgusting. He's finger fucked you while driving to the nice Italian restaurant he was taking you to for date night, only to pull his hand from your panties after you came and suck on his fingers.

Or, the time you thought it could be a fun and new experience to go wine tasting with him. But in between every wine sample, Simon would shove his fingers into you and then put them in his mouth. Claiming he needed a 'palette cleanser'.

And spitting on you? Or in your mouth? Simon loves it. He loves holding your jaw in his hand to watch his saliva mix with yours and slide down the back of your throat. Spitting on your pussy definitely comes in at a close second, though.

Simon also loved when you came home from a jog, or the gym. All sweaty and craving a shower. Only to get pulled onto the couch so Simon could shove his nose anywhere he could.

"Simon! I'm gross, I need a shower!" you whined in protest as Simon began nosing at your crotch.

"'s how I like it, lovie. Pheromones or some shit" he growled against your clothed cunt. Your cheeks reddening in embarrassment and arousal when Simon purposefully loudened his sniffing.

You gave up long ago from trying to stop Simon taking photos of you during sex. The first time he did it, you yelped and protested.

"Don't worry love. The lads from work wanna see you. They won't spread it round. I trust these men with m'life" Simon growled as he snapped another photo of your cunt taking his cock.

But now you couldn't deny that you enjoyed it. The attention. The lingering looks when Simon had his team over for dinner. The messages Simon shows you of the boys begging for more photos of you. You suspected they were just as disgusting as he was.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

[c-r0w5]

me and @stckrz were thinking of fwb/situationship with simon and now this exists and yeah...

The night has settled in by the time you and Simon are finished. All that's left from a burst of passion is the soft movements of his chest under your head, breaths slowed in the aftermath. He’s so warm like this, a hand splayed over his stomach, fingers occasionally brushing over his pelvis.

You sigh contentedly even though your limbs feel worn, moving to press a kiss to a scar over the muscle of his pec. Simon hums gently, and the sound makes the hairs at your nape stand, angling your neck back to look at him.

Soft…he looks so incredibly soft like this, his eyes lidded with sleep, ready to slip into that empty headspace with you. His hand is at the back of your hair, fingertips gently moving over your scalp, occasionally tangling through the strands.

“Hmm,” you smile against him, giggling slightly as he mirrors it. He’s always looked handsomest when he’s happy. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”

“Perfect,” you muse, silence stretching between you comfortably for a moment before a question crops up in your mind. “Say, when are you gonna take me to your place? Don’t get me wrong, I like having you here, just feel like a change of scenery would be nice.”

Simon stiffens underneath you, the sound of his breathing suddenly silent. “I don’t have a place.”

“Pardon?” You lift your head from his chest, watching as his gaze narrows while something invisible clutches at your chest. You hardly bother to hide the confusion on your face.

“‘M never ‘ere ‘cause of work, would be a waste of money.” He replies slowly, his fingers now at the ends of your hair, moving until they slip free. 

You raise an eyebrow at him, his face completely unreadable, “where do you sleep when you’re not here then?”

“Hotel,” he says easily, but the following silence is telling in itself. Every realisation comes crashing down on you at once and you’re hardly able to process just how you feel—part of you waiting for him to crack the joke.

It never comes.

“Are you serious right now?” You ask a little breathlessly, a scoff stuck in your throat, “you sleep with women so you can have a roof over your head?”

Simon is quiet and still, a response lost on him as you both stare at each other in the moon bathed bedroom. 

“Did you sleep with me for that reason? So you had a nice warm bed and pussy at the end of your long, hard day?”

There’s something running through that hidden mind of his. A million and one things pass behind his eyes as he stares at you blankly, the only indication of movement the slight, almost invisible twitch of his lip as though he’s ready to say something.

All of you is begging internally—pleading—for him to speak.

Your heart stutters in your chest when he doesn’t, everything about him as though he’s slipped into a different space entirely.

“You did, didn't you?,” you scowl, sitting yourself up on the edge of the bed, “of course you fucking did.” 

You scoff even though you’re certain he’s not listening, worrying your lip between your teeth as disgust crawls over your skin. How dare he? You’ve not been perfect to every guy or to him but this—this stings. Like he’s dipping a fresh wound in disinfectant. 

Your feet are on the floor before you can properly think, grabbing his shirt with haste and slipping it over your head. It’s better to do this, you think, to remove yourself than say something you’re not sure you even mean.

“Where are you going?” He calls from the bed, your back still turned to him. The tone is different, something in the pitch only slightly off but you don’t recognise it over the rush of blood in your ears.

“Away from you.”

You’re already one foot out the bedroom doorway when he asks: “why did you sleep with me?”

You huff amusedly, casting a glance over your shoulder. He still looks good; his hair mused, the shadows in the room highlighting every muscle that you’ve come to memorise. The sheets are tangled over his legs, the fabric gathered a little from where he’s now sat up, his hands atop his concealed thighs.

“I was lonely.”

Simon nods. It’s a slight thing, but you accept it like it is. It doesn't make you feel even remotely better, and half of you is itching to get further away. The other half is speaking before you can rationalise.

“And, I thought you at least liked me.”

His eyebrows pinch, “I do.”

“Do you really?”

“Wouldn’t be ‘ere if I didn’t, love.”

The endearment has you reeling. It has you hiding, seeking for cover under his heavy, almost guilty gaze, moving without response into the darkness of your apartment.

Simon’s in a daze until you’re out of sight. There’s more he needs to say, to explain—it’s not as simple as you’re making it out to be. You’re the only one. You’ve been the only one. He’s shucking the sheets off of him in the next moment, feet meeting the floorboards noiselessly, moving with all the stealth that he’d been so accustomed to leaving at your front door.

There’s a loud clatter from the kitchen. A loud huff. He sighs, eyes shutting with the movement as he focuses on the way his lungs expand, dragging a hand over his face. There’s nothing he can do now.

“Fuck.”

[c-r0w5]

I’m always so excited for another part 😭🙌

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The rattle of vials cuts through the quiet sobbing as you raid the cabinet, stuffing a backpack with painkillers and sedatives. No antibiotics.  

"Is there any alcohol?" 

From the corner of the room, the response breaks apart. "There's... some... under there."

You move to the sink, uncorking a half-filled bottle that reeks of absinthe. It fits snugly into the backpack. A nod to Nereida. She lowers the gun from the young woman’s temple. Straps over your shoulders, you step into the smoke-tinged air, leaving the woman behind, when her accented voice chokes out: "You have taken... everything from us."

You stand in the doorway, watching a piece of ash fall on the scuffed leather of your shoe, then glance over your shoulder. "There is still some medicine left in there. Take what you can, get the other women, and leave. This place could be teeming with Greys soon with all the blood spilt. Travel north. We're going south." Her glossy eyes drift up from her hands. Your gaze hardens. "We will kill you if we see you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers.

You look away. "Salome is in the cell. Alive."

The flames lick at the chapel’s frame as you return to the others. The stone walls have blackened, the door swallowed in fire, windows shattered. The acrid stench of scorched wood and charred flesh burns your nose. The last survivors—the few men left after Price and Kyle cleared the barn—had been shoved inside with the Grey. 

You need to get out of here—away from the stench of blood. Clean water is urgent. A safe place to treat everyone's wounds, even more so. The adrenaline is wearing off, so you move quickly, pausing only to hastily dress Blue's feet and Ghost's back with medical cloth from the cabinet before continuing down the main road. While everyone yields a backpack and gun, Ghost carries Blue to his chest. He hasn't once let her go. 

The flames still flicker behind you when his grip falters. He stops to adjust her weight, and you touch his elbow, speaking low. "Let Price or Kyle carry her."

"I've got it."

You don’t press, though the gnawing concern remains. How much blood has he lost? You can only hope it's clotted enough to hold a bit longer. 

The only words Price manages are instructions—what to watch for to indicate freshwater. Downward slopes, converging animal tracks. You’re nowhere near as injured as the others, yet your thighs shake, your vision blurs, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut to regain focus. You still flinch at every sound, ready for blood.

An hour out, the sun hangs heavy. Dense vegetation and a small cliffside offer promise. Carefully, you help each other down. Ghost finally relents, letting Blue cling onto Price’s shoulders so he can manage rappelling down the rocks. You stay close without thinking, your hand ghosting over his bicep when he wavers.

Then you smell it. Water.

Relief nearly buckles your knees.

A narrow creek winds between boulders, tucked beneath towering cypresses.

Everyone washes off the blood, dulling the stench. A fire will be needed to clean it for the wounds. As you rake water through your hair, your gaze drifts upstream—where cypresses give way to ripened plum trees, bordering what seems like a property. Price sees it too. He’s already shouldering his backpack, moving to check it out.

The gown pools at your ankles, dipping into the shallow water as you cross. The property is silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker. You tighten your grip on the gun, scanning the unkempt garden and overgrown path leading to the estate—a summer home fit for a family or, as you soon realize, two wealthy old fucks. Their skeletons are all that remain inside, draped in dust like the furniture around them.

Price lowers the rifle to his side and nods in approval. "This will do."

If you could, you’d strip off the stained gown and shut your eyes. Instead, you follow Ghost as he kicks open doors—nothing but a bathroom and parlor. On the second floor, the first door to meet his boot reveals a bedroom. You shake the dust from the quilt, and he carefully lays Blue down. You're already sifting through the backpack.

Ghost kneels to take her feet. He fumbles with the cloth, exhaustion stealing motor function. You help, unveiling the jagged cuts edged with dirt. Ghost grits, "They did this?"

"I did," she whispers. "I hoped you'd find me... and the Greys... they got distracted by my shoes."

Her words linger as you dab alcohol onto a strip of cloth. "This will hurt," you whisper, biting your cheek.

Ghost grips her ankle to keep it still and takes her hand, offering something to squeeze. At first touch, her nails claw at his wrist. Her lips press tightly together to muffle a small sound that dies in her throat, and then she falls silent. Her eyes flutter shut, reopening only to release a lone tear when you finish with both, then wrap them again.

"Your arms," you say, reaching for them. One is already bandaged—must've been done by them. The other is freshly cut. When you try to look at it, she recoils, inhaling sharply.

"They did this one, didn't they?" he asks.

A slight nod of her chin.

Anger leeches from Ghost's skin.

He exhales sharply through flared nostrils, then gently takes her wrist, pressing a kiss to the skin just before the cut begins.

"Let Twix clean it, baby."

Her fist clenches before she offers you her arm. More tears cut a trail down to her lips. 

"There. Let's get you something else to wear," you breathe out, stuffing the cork back in once it's over. 

What you find in the closet is at least better than the bloodied dress she was supposed to die in—a large flannel shirt that smells like old man. Blue accepts it, but stares at the shirt in her hands for a long moment before asking Ghost to look away. He does, and you help her, keeping your eyes on hers while undressing her.

You turn to Ghost. "Your turn," you whisper.

Lowering to the bed is a great effort, one you have to steady with a hand under his armpit. As gently as possible, you peel the cloth from his back. Seeing his wounds before did nothing to prepare you for this—up close, in the unforgiving sunlight. Deep, inflamed gashes ooze fresh blood at the disruption. The stench of festering flesh makes it hard to focus as you murmur for Blue to touch his hair, distract him for the first dab of alcohol.

Where Blue was able to silence herself, he cannot. Not when it’s this bad. The terrible, wrecked groan and the violent jerk of his body make you want to disappear—to run and let someone else do this to him. But you know you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t trust anyone else to. So you steady the tremble in your fingers and continue, the room heavy with his pain. It finds its way to your back, as though someone behind you is holding a whip. The phantom pain sinks into your skin with each of his groans, forcing you to push it away to steady your hand as you work.

Blue twists her fingers in his hair, whispering in his ear. "It's almost over, dad."

By the time the wounds are cleaned, redness remains, offering little reassurance. Over a day's worth of sweat and bacteria isn't something you can simply undo. You'll need to keep an eye on them. You sift through the vials and push two painkillers to his lips, helping him sit up to swallow them. As you’re about to help him back down, he grabs onto your wrist, a pulse of pain pulling your gaze to where you slit your own vein. The linen strip is soaked through. Ghost silently unties it and reaches for the alcohol at the bedside table.

"They did that?" Blue questions from behind him.

"I did."

The pain sears as he cleans it, though it’s nothing compared to his.

When he lays back on his stomach, there’s no fighting the heaviness of his eyelids. Blue curls up beside him, wincing. You get her two painkillers as well.

"Is he going to be alright?" she asks quietly.

You pull the light quilt over her body. "His body just needs to rest. So does yours."

"That's not an answer, Twix."

The way she calls you out makes your face fall. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know."

There is a pause of silence before she sighs audibly, arms falling flat at her sides and her gaze finding the ceiling. "I don't think I can sleep."

Your chest tightens at the thought of what she must be thinking of, what she must have seen when you weren't with her. The wounds you can't wrap up. You dig for one of the sedatives: lorazepam. "Here." 

It takes a while for it to take effect.

"You're safe," you whisper to her, over and over, tucking her hair behind her ear until you feel the subtle shift in her muscles as they slowly loosen from their panicked tension. When sleep finally comforts her, a shift in the air causes you to leap up.

"It's me," Nereida whispers, poking in her head. "The others are sleeping, too."

Right. The others. "They're alright?"

"Just a few fractured ribs."

"Someone needs to keep watch."

"I'll do it." Seeing the protest twist on your face, she adds, "You haven't slept in days."

She's right. It was impossible to sleep in that cell outside of being drugged.

You give in. "Patrol the whole property if you can. And keep track of the air. The flowers here should help mask our scent, but—"

"I've got it, Twix."

The fatigue truly hits when she leaves. You barely have enough fight in you left to peel off the stupid dress and raise another flannel shirt from the closet over your head, the hem resting above your knees. There is a chair in the room—that's where you sink down, knees tucked to your chest. At first when you close your eyes, the world is loud and red. Then, it quiets to black.

A dove call announces morning, and you jolt awake to fresh light from the window.

You fell asleep.

They've already killed her.

You didn't get there in time—

Your gaze lands on the small body lying in the bed beside a much larger one, and the panic escapes through a shaky breath. You inhale and exhale to calm your heart rate before uncurling from the chair to touch Blue's soft cheek. The skin is cool. You move to her father next. Palm to his forehead. Hot, dry skin snaps your touch away as if burning you. 

"Fucking shit," chokes out of you, along with a fresh wave of urgency. Blue stirs in her sleep. You clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself and whirl out of the room. A fever: you need water. If you hadn't slept so long, you could've boiled some sooner. With the recovered energy, you race outside in the chilled morning air.

Nereida sits up from the porch.

"Good morning. You're the first one up. I haven't seen—"

"He is burning up," you seethe. "You should've waken me. I slept all through the night!"

Her eyes widen. "I didn't—"

You push past her. "I'm getting water."

She lightly touches your elbow. "I already got some from the creek. I boiled it over the fireplace." She rushes to show you the full metal pot in the kitchen. 

You don't pause to say thank you, hoisting the water upstairs to urgently wet a cloth and place it over his forehead. His lashes flutter, once, then twice, before fully opening.

"You have a fever," you exhale, swallowing hard. "I need you to drink a little."

He sits up to swallow a handful of the water from your palm, faint bobs of his throat, and you feel just how dry his lips are. His voice emerges low. "Did they have anything for it?"

"No antibiotics," you admit, swiping a thumb over the faint freckle on his temple, as if maybe, the sip of water has already changed the temperature. It hasn't. A growl pushes under your breath. "A goddamn cult who had shit to knock us out with but hardly anything to treat infections. We'll need to experiment a bit."

"Sounds promising," he manages through his teeth. He glances down at his daughter. "She's alright?"

"She's okay, not warm." You inhale sharply. "Lay down. Let me look at it again."

When he does, you gently remove the bandages and are met with yellow-green pus. The sound that fills your throat, caught between helplessness and disgust, has him popping an eye open to look back at you over his shoulder. "Sorry, it's just..." Another explicative leaves your lips, and you have to bite your cheek hard to keep from vomiting at the sight and smell. Blue is awake now, sitting up against the pillow; she need only glance over once for her face to twist in concern. 

"It's bad, isn't it?" She covers her mouth.

"I need to drain it," is what you say. Luckily, it's already oozing, saving the need to puncture the wounds open. You wet another cloth and carefully press at the swollen ridge of the first laceration, making him groan through his teeth as pus begins to run down his sides. Blue has one hand back in his hair, and uses another wet cloth to collect the pus. You keep pressing, draining each irregular wound, having to remind yourself the rotten smell being released is for the better. 

After what feels like hours, it's mostly cleared. Only a bit of swelling remains, revealing just how deeply the skin was shredded, as if slashed through repeatedly in the same spots. 

"How come you were hurt more than the others?" Blue asks him the question you've been mulling over since the moment you found him. 

"I was their favorite," he mumbles lowly. "The most handsome."

Your brows lower.

"It's not funny," she presses, nails twisting in his hair, teeth grinding. "It's infected. You could fucking die."

"I won't," he says to her, but the silent, heavy glance you exchange with him acknowledges the understanding that he very well could, deepening the harsh pit in your stomach. "We have a nurse here."

"An unlicensed one." You finish securing a new layer of cloth and lean back. "And one without real medicine." Realizing you are supposed to be reassuring her, you hide the way your nails pick each other and add, "But draining all that pus will help. Eating will help even more," you look at Blue, "For you, too."

Blue and you share a meal of wild cucumbers, strawberries, and two small field mice you catch by the creek, swiftly snapping their necks before skinning them. For Ghost, you boil the bones with garden carrots to make a broth. You have to coax him into finishing it, no matter how it tastes, promising that once it's done, he can sleep longer.

By the time the others are awake, you and Blue have failed to leave his side, simply watching the continued rise and fall of his chest as if it might halt if you look away. "Please get better," you catch her murmuring. The only time you go is to speak with Price, informing him that Ghost is in no condition to travel again. 

"Twix," he interrupts you, the knowing tick in his brow, and worn smile, making you realize you'd been rambling, your tone coming off a bit accusatory. "I have no intention for us to continue yet. No one is ready for it. We need food, and rest."

You release a filtered sigh, nodding. "I can help hunt, I just need to—"

A firm hand finds your shoulder. His seafoam eyes glance past you at the door to the bedroom, then back into your gaze, low voice barely above a murmur. "You've done more than enough. Let us take care of the food. Just make sure we don't lose him, alright?"

You nod, and when he turns to leave, you mutter to yourself, "I'm trying."

You spend the evening refreshing his bandages, and draining the new wave of pus. You have the idea to look for onions in the garden, remembering they have antimicrobial properties, but there aren't any. So you clean the wounds again with a flush of water, and also scrub his dirty hair a bit. Your brain must be tricking you, because once when you touch him it feels like his fever has at least dropped a degree or two, but then a minute later it feels like it went up more. There is practically no color to his skin except the angry red of his wounds, and the rosy sheen on his cheeks. Other than that he is a pale ghost. It's as if your efforts haven't done a thing.

Frustration strangles your lungs, and you palm at your forehead. His body, deprived of sleep and nutritions for days, is struggling to bounce back, to fight off the encroaching bacteria. His unyielding strength is yielding; succumbing. He needs more food and water. You try to sit him up again, retrieving a small bit of leftover broth, but he is unable to help pull his weight.

"Come on, Simon. Please."

He's too heavy for you, even with Blue pulling at his other arm.

You hurry out of the room and call for Price. He and Nereida are there quickly, his rifle ready. "No, I just need—I need you to lift him."

Price drops the gun to steady Simon up despite the heavy hiss of protest. "Gotta eat, Simon."

He holds him as you spoon broth to his mouth, having to rub at his jaw to release enough tension for him to open it and swallow. 

The room is quiet once it's all done, and Nereida stands in the doorway with her head hung low. Price carefully lays him back down so as not disturb the work you've done to his back. He glances at the empty bowl in your hands. "Kyle cut up some squirrels he killed earlier. I'll tell him to make more broth with them in the morning."

All you can do is nod and pass the bowl to him.

When they leave, the heaviness in the room has Blue picking at her wrist. You take her hand, placing another painkiller and sedative in them, and urge her to lay down for more rest.

"I'll stay up with him, alright?"

Her chin drops, and she stares blankly at the quilt. "What happens to me if he dies?"

The hollowness in her voice cuts through you. "We can't think like that," you murmur, refusing to acknowledge how terrified the answer makes you.

"Why not?" Her eyes blaze in the dark. "It's a possibility. I've never seen him like this before."

You shake your head, touching two fingers under her jaw to tilt it up so yours eyes meet. "He's stubborn, like you. And he has too much to live for. He loves you."

She looks away. "I'm not like him. I wouldn't be able to keep going on my own."

"You’ll never be on your own. He and I... we will always come for you," you swear, your voice firmer than you intend. You soften it to a whisper, breathing out, "But even if you were, you’re smarter and stronger than anyone here. There’s nothing you can’t handle, Blue. It was you who kept yourself alive this time."

"It was just luck," she murmurs, curling a fist into the sheet below her. She peers back at you. "If you guys hadn’t found me, I would’ve been bitten to death."

"No," you insist. "It wasn’t luck. You survived because you saw the opportunities, and you took them. You made time for us to find you. You are just like him."

Emotion floods through you, thick and reeling. Without thinking, you pull her into a solid hug, pressing your nose to her scalp. "You’re just like him," you whisper again, screwing your eyes shut. White-hot tears escape, burning a quiet trail down your cheeks, and you feel her begin to tremble in your arms, silently soaking your shirt with her own tears.

Through them, she manages to whisper, twisting your shirt in her fists, "I-I don't want him to leave me again. H-he said he wouldn't."

"He won't," you promise, struggling to catch your breath through a choke, the words rushing out of you. "Never again. I won't let it happen."

After minutes, hours, like this, she grows limp with exhaustion, and you lay her back down, tucking her under the quilt and wiping your cheeks. 

You resume position in the chair by Ghost. 

This time, you refuse to close your eyes, locking them onto him—the way his cheek is squished against the pillow, the bare stretch of his arm, the curve of his ribs where an old scar splits into the new ones. You keep pulling the blanket over him, thinking maybe the extra heat will break his fever, only to rip it back off moments later, convinced the cool night air would be better. Frustration burns behind your eyes as you rub them hard, then press your forehead against the uninjured part of his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, Simon,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to trace your thumb over the freckles there, connecting them with soft, absentminded sweeps of your finger.

It must be well into the night when sleep threatens with a pull at your lids, and again, you see red. Blood-red. Like the burst of an open throat. You reopen them and jolt up to your feet, panting hard. The need for a distraction to keep yourself awake pulls you out of the room for a stretch of your legs, pupils straining against the dark hall as you stumble through it, crossing your arms over yourself. You've barely looked through this place besides what was necessary, so it's a surprise when you happen upon a spiral staircase going up, not down. 

A cool metal rail bites your fingertips as you heave upward, revealing a small attic library. Dark oak shelves reach the low ceiling, all of the leather spines neatly alined as if never having been touched even once: a capsule of time. A large window at the far end offers enough moonlight for your eyes to scan the embellished spines as you brush a finger over them, various French titles staring back at you. You work your way to the window, where the thin curtain is parted just enough to allow you a view of the creek, cliffside, and dark horizon where stars disappear into distant earth. 

"I should've killed them." The words barely leave your lips before the stench of burning flesh fills your senses. Your hands shake violently. With a sudden, forceful yank, you tear the curtain from the rod. Your voice cracks, rising. "I should have killed them. All of them. I shouldn't have let a single one walk away."

You spin around and begin pulling books off the shelves, ripping at pages, thrashing them at the floor with a cacophony of thuds, until only half are left untouched. The years-old dust caking the covers explodes into your eyes, stinging them, and tears begin to fall, the painful kind. They come hard, ragged, anything but quiet. You sink to the oriental rug, burying your face into your knees and hugging them close as you sob through your teeth, scraping your nails into your shins.

You imagine all their faces: the blonde man who tortured them, the old woman you only saw once when they took Blue, all the pretty eyes beneath the stupid veils. In your head, you slash all of them to pieces. Shreds. Torn nerves and burst eyes. Until you are swimming in their entrails. 

There is a voice. In your head maybe. But no, it's real—someone touches your shoulder, and you flinch. You lift your gaze, and through it, make out the shape of warm, almond eyes, one of them half-opened beneath a swollen bruise.

Kyle kneels beside you. He doesn't say anything, just sits there, his knee touching yours the only point of connection. When your crying subsides, you feel a tinge of embarrassment at the state he's found you in, and wipe at your cheeks. "Sorry. I woke you up."

"I was already awake."

Silence hums between you, and he thoughtlessly picks up one of the books, thumbing through the pages, then quietly closes it.

"We all owe you our lives, you know. Nereida told us about all you did."

You dig your chin into the tops of your knees and stare off at the wall. "I still didn't do enough."

"You're doing all you can." His gaze pierces into the side of your face, making you feel translucent. "He'll be alright. Always is."

You don't know what to say to that, sighing through flared nostrils and looking down at your feet before over at him. "How is Ari?"

"He's alright. Just shaken, I think. Thank you for asking." A tinge of guilt finds you that you haven't checked on them enough. Ari, just a boy, and he's hardly crossed your mind through any of this.

"You know," Kyle continues quietly, his knuckles whitening around the book. "When we were in there, I didn’t know what to say to get him through it—because I couldn't see much hope myself. I had to watch, do nothing, while they made him memorize that goddamn book just to earn a meal. And he wasn’t allowed to share any with me." He lets out a short, bitter snort. "I've never felt so fucking weak. So powerless. Watching someone you love suffer, not knowing how to help them..." His gaze locks onto yours. "That has to be a pain worse than any torture."

His words hit you with unexpected poignancy, leaving your mind tangled in a jumble of thoughts you can’t quite grasp. Instead of trying to make sense of them, you reach for him, squeezing his shoulders in a firm hug, grounding yourself as your heart evens out. He promises to make the broth in the morning, then excuses himself with one last touch to your shoulder before leaving you to collect yourself. You head back to the bedroom, checking both of their pulses, her pinky curled around his in her sleep. To Blue, you give a kiss on her hair. To him, your lips press unthinkingly to his hot temple.

[c-r0w5]

Love this little bugger

More Roach posting?!?!?

Many iterations because I liked them :) just a lazy piece, but that's okay!

[c-r0w5]

Staring at him bug eyed from across the room

Y’look lonely….I can fix that…..

Happy valentine for single ppl🥃🌹🌚

One night stand simoooonnnn😌

[c-r0w5]

consider pt2 of puppy and simon but simon gets his shit together and theres a happy ending ORRRR one of the guys (price, gaz, soap) stops by and is actually APPALLED at how puppy looks and is being treated and they just get snatched up and taken to a better home while simon gets chewed out

i was going originally do a 2 in 1 but everyone got so excited so we'll do second first then MAYBE simon can get some redemption. anyway, this ones for u anon <3

PART ONE

Ghost had been home early that day for another reason as well: a two-week deployment that he’s supposed to be packing up for. 

Only once you fell asleep on the couch had he finally made his presence known and walked towards his bedroom. He doesn't tell you when he tightens the straps of his gear while his things lean against the door, a white sheet of paper left for you on the coffee table. He didn't bother telling you verbally, it didn't seem right to wake you—he couldn't if he tried nor did he have the courage to touch you either. Besides, he didn't want to deal with this right now, not having the energy for your whines, incessant questions or the pitiful look that you now wore even in your slumber. He’d handle all of this when he comes back, that’s right he’ll figure it all out after the mission.

You woke to a silence, again, and immediately noticed the shift of surroundings; by that, it was the note, the one that you couldn't read. 

So you waited, and waited, the day passing by slowly with little to no entertainment left for you to manage. At least when he was home he could navigate the apps like Netflix, putting on shows that make you want to giggle so hard that you had to stuff your tail in your mouth to ensure you made no sound. But no one comes home and so you spend the night alone, still waiting upon his return like the loyal dog you are. 

Thankfully, there’s an abundance of food for you in the fridge though you don't feel like you’re allowed to take any of it, afraid he’d appear out of nowhere and scold you. He never had before, and you still kind of hope he does one day, just to know he sees you. The third day is incredibly cold and despite the blankets you’ve swamped on yourself, your ears have flattened to preserve as much heat as possible. Huddling on the couch isn't doing much, and the thermostat buttons are near impossible for you to wrap your head around, left to shiver and wish that you had a bed to lay upon. Since he usually had no one else to worry about, he had it on an automatic setting so that his bedroom would be the only room heated during the night. It saved money in winter, and of course he never got cold, but now it was the bane of your existence. His room was off limits; he had firmly told you that, but there was only so much of the cold you could handle. 

You whined pitifully as you curled up on the floor in front of the bedroom door, desperate for a feel of the warmth seeping through the cracks beneath. Maybe this was all planned; perhaps some kind of loyalty test or to see how adaptable you were. The thought didn't comfort you though, well aware that you weren’t supposed to be an attack dog; you were far too weak for anything of the sort. Again, another night passed, alone and quiet.

The thunder was starting to scare you now, the great rumble haunting you every time the sun fell, and the sky began to grow darker. It made you hide beneath the dining room table, hands covering your ears as you sniffled quietly. It was too similar to the loud bangs in the facility, when one of you would be punished and the only sound heard was the slap of the whip against the metal pipe next to where the hybrid would stand. Likewise, it didn't help that the couple next door would argue more and more aggressively these days, screaming curses you couldn’t understand and slamming doors shut so loudly. Sometimes at night you’d hear the small patter of footsteps, a drunk walking through the flat, but you could only lay awake in the safety of the bathtub, hoping no one could get through the locked door.

It was only the seventh day when someone finally came by, the doorknob turning making your heart fill with relief knowing Ghost had returned, before quickly filling with dread when you realised it may not be him at all. You curl behind the couch, squashed to say the least but one of the best spots you can consider. Only a small glimpse of the door is visible from your hiding spot, a man entering only to reveal another following close behind. They’re both military men, strong and bulky, one with darker skin and velvety eyes and the other lighter, intense blue in his irises. As they approach the living room, you can see them better as they snoop around. 

“Where’s the pup?” The one with a mohawk says, eyebrows furrowed as he crouches to look beneath the table. You’re suddenly grateful you chose not to hide there. “Price said they should be here… maybe they’re in Ghost’s room?” They seem to know him which is a good sign, but you’re afraid now, wondering if this really was a setup, one to take you far away for good. You tremble as you think over it, unable to stop the tiny sniffle that escapes you. 

The brown eyes meet with yours, crouched at one end of the couch as you hide the best you can in the darkness that comes with it. “There you are. Are you going to come out of there? We just wanna make sure you’re doing okay whilst he's on deployment.”

Deployment? What’s that? You didn't understand the word, nor could you formulate much of a response to him, only staring back at him in return. He carefully reaches out, taking one hand to see if you’ll be okay with him touching you before using both of his hands to slip to your waist and gently pull you out. You’re light–or maybe he’s just that strong.  Shorter than him too, thanks to your crossbreed genes. He has no problem settling you on the couch cushions, the mohawk man approaching once he realises, but you’re caught off guard by the man who lifted you, who now had a hand outstretched towards you. You take it and he shakes it gently. “I’m Kyle, but you might hear someone refer to me as Gaz too.”

The other one is not as careful as Kyle, walking right up to you and eyeing your tail before crouching to meet your height, just so he isn't as tall and intimidating as he had been before. “Ye don't look too happy lass, bet you’ve been missin’ Ghost a lot, hm?” He reaches out his hand too, shaking yours a little more fervently than Kyle had, but you just look blankly back at him. “Johnny, or Soap, up to ya.” It’s weird, you had been begging for someone to come by, someone to fill the void in this apartment. But now you were silent, unknowing what to say, what to do, waiting for orders rather than the playful innocence you used to own.

Though Kyle is more concerned about the temperature in the room, seeing as you have goosebumps climbing up your arms. “Why’re you so cold? Did Ghost not show you how to change the thermostat?” You shake your head, showing your first sign of response before he picks up the note Ghost left. “Oh, there are instructions here though? See, Ghost wrote you turn it clockwise and then press the set button—”

“I can’t read.” Finally, you speak, sickness filling your gut when his eyebrows raise like that, the fur on your tail stilling as Soap’s touch. You don't have to look behind to see Soap’s reaction, the shame already thick as it filters through you, from your head down to the jelly feeling of your legs. 

The two of them excuse themselves, whispering quietly to each other in the kitchen. They keep nervously glancing back at you, murmuring things like ‘Shouldn’t Ghost have known she couldn't read?’ and ‘Price said she was a bubbly little thing, only a little shaken up. What happened?’ 

You’re not sure if you should tell them that your ears can pick up on everything they're saying, especially due to your hybrid genes. It seems a little rude to intrude, so you eventually just settle on holding your ears down with the palms of your hands instead.

Eventually they return, Soap gently brushing a finger over the curve of your ears and nudging your fingers away. The fluffy ears atop your head flicker up, perking once more as he scratches at the base. “How about you come with us, hm?”

He had expected gratitude, maybe even a hug for saving you from the perilous neglect you were clearly experiencing, but you don't, just stare back at them silently. This is it, you think. This is where you’re stripped away from the one you’re supposed to be loyal to, too useless to stay in line like you should’ve. “Did I.. fail the test?” You eventually murmur out, half expecting for Ghost to pop out and give you that absent glare, the one that makes you tremble more than this cold ever would. Gaz just quietly shakes his head at you, confused before gently sitting on the couch beside you. “No—no. You’re clearly not doing well, and Ghost is still on deployment so—”

“What is deployment?”

“He didn't tell you that either..?”

Soon enough you’re wrapped in Soap’s thick jacket as you ride in the back of their truck, eyes lost on the surroundings outside as they mutter amongst themselves. You had told them you could hear them, but they didn't seem to mind, and now they discussed quietly what they’d need for you whilst you stayed at base. After a bit of back and forth, Gaz explained to you that he wasn't taking you away from Ghost, just looking after you while he was out. He looked noticeably worried though about the idea of leaving you with him again. Something nags at you though, a little parasite saying it's because of the fact he deems you as annoying as Ghost does—if Ghost hadn’t told them already that is.

They lead you through the halls, Kyle’s gentle hand in yours that you just let him take; it’s not like you’d ever fight back anyway. People were staring though, soldiers who looked abnormal in their tight gear, dangerous weapons carelessly handled and yet you’re ogled at, watched and scrutinised. It feels like punishment enough, to be seen, and you’re starting to wonder if this is what it would have felt if Ghost really had talked to you. Your hand subconsciously squeezes Kyle’s as you step into Price’s office whom they had called up earlier, nervously explaining the situation to him. Now he greets you warmly, albeit looking a little too tired as it is. But he doesn't show it in his manner, gesturing for you to take a seat which you do, albeit very quietly. You remember him; he had been the one to leave you in front of Ghost’s door, murmuring empty promises that he’d warm up eventually, and you’d just ‘have to be good for him’. 

“Bet this deployment has been hitting you hard. Let’s have a talk, hm?” He takes a seat on the couch opposite you, your hand somehow still in Kyle’s who takes a seat beside you but not too close, allowing some space for you to breathe at the very least. “How’s living with Ghost?” 

You’re quiet, almost silenced, but he knows you can and will speak since Soap had told him so. There’s not much point in this conversation with them, at least that’s what you’re convinced. Forcing the wrong puzzle piece wouldn’t work, just like shoving you with an owner just because he has some issues to sort out. Sure, it was better than being on the streets, and you were excited at first, wondering if this was actually where those hybrid disappearance cases really ended up. A warm home, hot food and someone who treated you well, not as a princess but as a person. Now it only felt like a countdown, a series of stages to make sure you were given a fair treatment, but the end goal was always the same—you would return to the streets.

A warm hand on your shoulder snaps you out, blue eyes looking straight at you. “Lass?” They must’ve been watching you whilst you were lost in your head, swimming deep in your thoughts, because now they’re all staring intently for a response you can't give.

“Okay, how about yes or no questions? Price offers, and you slowly nod your head in response. Ghost was still yours though, or rather you were his. You refused to demonise him, refused to cry and wail about how he’s shown you nothing but misery, he wasn't that bad—but that was true, would you even have to bother defending him?

“Has he been feeding you?” Nod

“Bought you clothes?” Well, he tasked a soldier with the budget, and now you have a good few sets available to you. Nod

“Was your tail like this before he left?” Nod

The two younger soldiers share a glance, one that you can feel burn into your skin. 

“Did you tell him you couldn't read?” Shake.

He raises a brow, looks at the others and then back to you again. You’re getting bored by this now, the drag of this all, the inevitable end playing with your heart. “Did he not ever tell you how to change the thermostat then? Kyle said it was freezing.”

“He never speaks to me.”

It’s like a pin has dropped in this room, somehow the bustle soldiers that filled the halls grew quieter. Or maybe it’s because Soap hands have curved around your waist, pushing your face into his chest, the one that’s dripping with salty wetness. You don't remember your voice trembling the whole time, nor your hand squeezing Gaz’s so hard. But it hits you like a tidal wave, the realisation that comes with the silence, the hurt that comes with it. You knew, but you didn't really let it sink in– how you were treated, how he acted, how he hated you. And now you shake, hard, hushed voices of comfort fading as your eyes squeeze close, hands clenched near your broken heart. 

Taglist: @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes @alyssajofreitas @asksergantdrift @pinkfqiry @gogeroni @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @thetastewassweeter @dreamtofus @milanriol @xsoftdead18 @zozo-spooks @calicocelt @kiwijustreallylovesfanfiction @ddaikko @softhandsofgingercat @iiriam

[c-r0w5]

Concept of a concept time:

Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.

Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.

Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.

Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.

These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.

Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?

Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.

So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?

Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.

Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.

Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.

Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.

Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.

Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.

Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.

It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.

John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.

John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.

John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.

Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.

And it’s not fair.

[c-r0w5]

Simon Riley adopting a stray cat, a lot like him. They co-exist like housemates, the odd scratch on the black cat’s head as Simon fills his pet bowl, but they mostly keep to themselves.

Just calls him Cat. Simon talking to him like he would Johnny.

When he’s on a long tour he’s get the old lady next door to feed him, hands the cat over before he leaves and doesn’t look back knowing the old dear will over indulge him.

But when he comes back from his latest mission, Cat smells different and there’s a little silver collar around its neck. The rough patch of fur by the side of its neck is smoothed out, he doesn’t know how it’s fixed itself.

No the old lady smells of mint and antiseptic, like she swallows tcp on the daily. This is sweet and heady, he’s not quite sure how to explain it. He can’t quite get rid of it, it’s how he finds out that Cat sleeps on his pillow.

It’s not till Simon spots you on the neighbouring balcony stroking the cat on the brick wall. The little traitor. He really needs to get a divider now that the flat has someone living it in now.

A few days later the old lady tells him she had to ask you to look after Cat whilst she was in hospital for five weeks, only just getting out a few days before he returned. She warns him that you’re forever in your night clothes and work from home.

So Simon’s knocking on your door not long after, standing back as you peeked through the gap of the door as you opened it. A sliver of a chain stopping you from opening it wide.

“Simon Riley.” He points to his flat. Your door closing and jingle of the chain sliding off its guard, opening it up for him to enter.

You leave the door wide open, a soft hello leaving your glossy lips.

He enters your small studio flat, looks like the landlord divided the previous one to make two small ones and double their profit. That floral and heady scent hits him as he steps over the threshold, leaving a trail behind you. Your body is shimmery, smooth looking and he tries not to look at your long legs on display. The small silk night dress and matching dress robe not leaving much for his imagination.

A meow pulls him away. Cat, the fucking little traitor, is stretched out on your bed playing with a fuzzy fish toy.

He realises that Cat is totally different around you. Apparently he doesn’t like heights, but he’ll climb all over Simon’s shelves and the top of doors, push stuff off. No the little fucker doesn’t knock off the little piles of girl stuff in bowls or the many trinkets on the sides in your flat. Content to play with the little fuzzy fish toy or nap on the blanket.

“I hope you don’t mind, he’s been visiting me ever since Mrs landry asked me to look after him.” You sit down on the bed, which is right by the patio window and the balcony. Simon thinks how’s his bed is on the other side of that wall.

“Nah, actually gotta proposition for ya.”

You looking after Cat whilst he’s away and him slowly starting to looking after you when he’s home.

[masterlist] > [part two]

[c-r0w5]

Hallucinated Simon giving reader an orgasm would be something

anon is talking about this SMUT, MDNI, +18

You know what? Hell yeah.

Simon was MIA. They never found a body. Just his tags and some blood, enough to tell a story no one wanted to hear. You buried an empty casket, let the folded flag sit heavy in your arms, and listened to the eulogies spoken by people who didn’t know him like you did. And then you tried to move on.

Tried.

But his absence could be felt deep into your bones. Some nights, you swore you heard his footsteps in the hall. Other nights, you turned in bed, half asleep, expecting warmth beside you. Your hands found only cold sheets. Always cold sheets.

Until tonight.

A sharp pull in your stomach dragged you from sleep, your breath catching in your throat before you even knew why. The room was dark, but there was something—someone—between your legs, broad hands gripping your thighs, keeping you open.

The first stroke of a tongue had you gasping.

It felt real. Too real. The slow way he worked you open and that deep groan vibrating against your skin like he was savoring every second. Your fingers curled into the sheets, heart hammering. This wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be.

But it had to be.

Because Simon was dead.

Your head spun, pleasure crashing into disbelief. “This isn’t real,” you whispered, voice shaky. “I’m hallucinating again.”

A rough chuckle. Lips dragged up your inner thigh, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “Tha' so?”

That voice. His voice.

Your breath hitched, fingers moving on instinct to bury themselves in his short, unruly hair. He was warm; the scrape of stubble against your skin sent a shudder right through you.

“I—” The words turned into a whimper as he sucked bruises into your skin, his tongue pressing deep, working you over like he had all the time in the world.

It felt too good.

And right now, you didn’t care if it was real or not.

Your thighs trembled as pleasure was overwhelming, pulling you under until you shattered with a cry of his name. He didn’t stop, didn’t let go until you were boneless beneath him.

Then, slowly, he climbed up your body, pressing soft kisses along your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. By the time his lips met yours, your hands were already gripping his face, desperate to keep him there.

And he let you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your face. His eyes, dark and endless, held you in place.

“I’m home, love,” he murmured. “Finally home.”

----------------------------------------------

i'm just gonna tag all of you that wanted me dead after part 1 <333

@daydreamerwoah @nightunite @dahighqueen @dao-shay @lay-z @grendolin @anythingneverythingnstuffs @massivescissorsthingperson @armycaratlover @fruitymoonbeams-blog @ghostslollipop @canyonmooncreations @sadl1lsunshine @maskfiend @holycowboytiger @postm0rt3m @goochfiddler99 @m33pl0v3 @lemonfreak97-blog @jasontoddsgirl81 @prettygirlwhoreadsatnite @acosmisted @fey-rouse @stillinracooncity @iwyzz @lialucis @skeletonsucker @kylies-love-letter @star-buck-barnes @lets-turn-and-burn

[c-r0w5]

The man who approached you didn’t even get a chance to hit on you before “my boyfriend is crazy, he kills people” came out of your mouth and you pointed over to Simon who was giving a death glare to the man. Simultaneously stepping out from behind him were Soap and Gaz (they definitely choreographed and practiced this) “and his boyfriends are also crazy and kill people”

[c-r0w5]

Cats that became infected with bird flu might have spread the virus to humans in the same household and vice versa, according to data that briefly appeared online in a report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention but then abruptly vanished. The data appear to have been mistakenly posted but includes crucial information about the risks of bird flu to people and pets.

For context: The OgreBloodKing of America recently issued a declaration that the CDC is not to be in contact with any other organizations or have any public releases or research, in an effort to destroy the American health system, reduce regulations, and rely only on data collected from private corporations.

The data appear to have been "mistakenly" posted but includes crucial information about the risks of bird flu to people and pets. In one household, an infected cat might have spread the virus to another cat and to a human adolescent, according to a copy of the data table obtained by The New York Times. The cat died four days after symptoms began. In a second household, an infected dairy farmworker appears to have been the first to show symptoms, and a cat then became ill two days later and died on the third day.

In case you thought the internal resistance against the nazification of the government wasn't going to happen, its there, and will not be stopped. Also, just to let you know, we might have another pandemic brewing, and the supreme leader doesnt want you to know or do anything about it.

Source: NY Times, February 6th, 2025