prfctplcsreads

[prfctplcsreads]

if you're posting a whole fanfiction to tumblr you've got to put it under a readmore boss

[prfctplcsreads]

sweet as simon's sugar-mommy <3 (18+) PREVIOUS

you trace a line down the side of his mask. he looks so peaceful when he sleeps, and he sleeps like a rock with you. snores all thick and low. you needed a nap after work, and you just curled up right here on the couch, and he just followed your lead. now it's dinner time, and you're hungry, but you don't want to wake him when he looks so cute.

as your hand falls over his lower stomach, you're reminded he's not so cute everywhere. nope, not cute...but delicious.

you wake him up with soft kisses to his cheek. you tease the band of his sweats, smoothing a palm over his happy little trail, and when he blinks his eyes open and turns his head towards you, you pucker your lips and slide a hand between his thick thighs.

"can i?" you purr, and simon sighs deeply. his blushes always show on his chest, pale skin burning a little pinker, and you giggle when he nudges his nose against yours.

it's heaven with you. you look so cute. bobbing your head, pretty lips wrapped around his cock, suckling on his tip all sloppy and wet. you pay special attention to the underside of him, wrapping your hand around the tip and tugging gently until he spurts hot cum onto your tongue.

it's all worth it when he cups your face to kiss you and you feel the sting of the ring he's wearing, white gold band on his thick finger on his left hand⏤just where it's meant to be.

you sit like that beside him at the dinner table, same smile on your face as you load his plate with veggies (you need more greens, baby) that you did putting his dick into your mouth not even an hour earlier.

he takes you to work now. you hate the manner in which he does, that obnoxious motorcycle that makes way too much noise, but you couldn't help yourself when his birthday came around. you saw the helmet in the boxes when he finally moved in (just until you get back on your feet, yeah?), and you woke him up that morning naked with the keys to the bike between your teeth.

if you fucked him with the helmet on later that day, too, well...no one had to know about that.

he's getting better at receiving your gifts. at first, you had to pretend they weren't gifts. when he came out of the shower, you'd hand him some new clothes, or he'd touch something on the shelf at the shops, and somehow he'd find it in the bags once you got back home. he learned slowly that giving him things was your love language; the shine in your eyes when you saw him using something you gave him made him warm all over.

you're still getting him used to baths, too. your bathroom has a magnificent tub--white porcelain, wide and large, jets, gold detailing. the first time you tried to get him to take a bath, he couldn't find it in himself to sit still like that and relax. he doesn't know how to relax.

your new strategy seems to work, though. you kick off your heels from work. simon's in the living room, his tools laid out on the coffee table. there's a disassembled handgun there, and he's oiling up one of the chambers when you lean over the couch and wrap your arms around his big shoulders. you kiss the side of his mask, watching him, getting a little too distracted watching a thick finger push into the cylinder slowly to clean it.

"hey, hot stuff," you coo in his ear. he grunts, looking away, but you hear the heavy swallow in his throat as he tries to be anything but bashful. "i'm exhausted. gonna get in the bath. wanna join me?"

simon doesn't say anything at first. he's still feeling it out, the relaxing part, but when he turns to look at you, you're unbuttoning your blouse and shimmying out of your work skirt. both fall at your feet, and when you unclasp your bra and toss it, the drop of your tits is enough to have him on his feet and following you into the bathroom.

simon always gets in first. he settles with his back against the far side, and then you get in. you make a show of bending over to sit, and simon snarls a little when he's facing the curve of your ass for just a beat too long. you lean back against his chest, letting the warm water and bubbles cover you both. his arms circle around your middle, and you close your eyes once the water has settled.

"feel nice?" you mumble. simon just shrugs, and you turn over a little until your chin rests on his shoulder. you cup the back of his neck, scratching as his cropped blonde hair with your nails, and he hums a little. your new manicure is simon-approved, it seems, and he leans into your hand as you drag the tips of your nails across his head and soothe him that way. "you deserve it, baby."

it's hard for him to hear it, but you try to say it anyways. there's good days and bad days. some days, it's failed cake recipes and good takeout and hours spent on the couch watching movies. he'll be smiling all day, enjoying the quiet and peace of his new life, and then you'll make love and take a long walk and sleep in the next morning.

other days, the pain in his back seems to hit him tenfold. the spasm in his knee acts up, and he'll falter a little, and he'll look ashamed when he has to take a seat, even if it means sliding down the nearest wall until he's sitting on the floor and cupping under his knee with a hiss. those days, you see a little less of simon riley, and a little more of something else. he looks defeated. you know he must feel useless. his body betrays him, but his mind knows better, and you know it kills him inside because he'll spend the rest of the day quiet and in another headspace.

it doesn't matter how much of himself he is that day. simon deserves it, you know he does. he deserves good food and expensive wine and nice things. he deserves hot baths and hydrating moisturizers and as much chocolate as he can stomach. he deserves messy kisses and more than one orgasm, and if you can give him even a fraction of it, it's money and time and love well-spent. simon has always been dealt the worst hand⏤he's earned this life of luxury.

"my..." simon clears his throat as you sit in his lap at your vanity, draping a cool face mask over his face. you're listening still, just concentrating on smoothing the edges of the face mask over his nose and along his cheeks, massaging the excess product into his neck. "my team is gonna be around next week. goin' to the pub. if..." simon swallows, and you meet his eyes. "if y'd like t'come..."

you smile a little.

"is this...your little task force?" you tease, and simon just purses his lips.

"just...they want t'meet you."

you put your hands on his shoulders, giggling. he looks so cute with the face mask on, and he's even cuter when he's being shy. those eyes are deadly--a killer's eyes, you know this deep down, but simon will never scare you. he's your big, soft teddy bear, and he sleeps in thousand thread-count cotton sheets now.

"you told them about me?"

he gives you that dead stare, but all it does is make you laugh. you scoop out a generous amount of body butter from a container on your vanity and start to massage it into his shoulders.

"you are so adorable, simon," you murmur, watching and feeling as the tension in his shoulders starts to melt under your warm touch. already, your fingers are working the knots out of his neck, and he leans towards you as they touch a particularly tender area. "right there, baby? oh..."

the conversation quiets. you're much too busy concentrating on pampering your sweet lieutenant.

simon's never been nervous seeing his team before, but he's also been out of service for more than a year now.

they have experiences without him now. life or death situations that they've survived together, without him. jokes and hours spent sleeping on dirt floors, places they've seen and people they've met, and simon's been here, sleeping in a king bed and learning about how much better his skin feels now that he uses that hyaluronic acid serum you gave him a few weeks ago.

he's got a ring on his finger now. there's a credit card in his new wallet (no more velcro, baby) that he doesn't pay for, and even his mask looks different now that you insist on daily rotations of them and frequent washes.

he's a pampered fucking prince, and he doesn't know whether they will laugh at him or not be able to recognize him.

which is worse?

they look the same. his captain still looks like a tired bear, and he still wears that awful hat. johnny still has a giggly grin on his face. kyle still is the one to retrieve the drinks so he can try and talk up some bird that he'll definitely take home later.

they still leave the spot closest to the corner with the wall to his back open for him.

"where's the missus?" john asks. he's nursing a warm drink, ice long melted, and simon scratches the back of his neck.

"workin'. she'll be 'ere soon."

you're on the phone when you walk in. hair clipped up out of your face, perfectly manicured hands holding the phone to your ear as you make your way inside. you walk very assertively, expensive purse over your shoulder, and johnny leans back to look you up and down as you finally come into view. you're wearing a perfectly tailored work suit, blazer over your forearm as you talk animatedly.

your eyes light up when you see simon. you wave at him, blowing him a kiss, and simon shuffles in his seat a little.

"bloody hell," kyle mutters, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "tha' her?"

"tha's her."

you get to the table just as a server brings drinks. he sets down the beers for the sergeants, another whiskey for their captain, but you put the phone aside as you pick up the bourbon and take a whiff of it.

"what is this?" you ask.

"bourbon."

you raise a brow. "really?" you laugh a little. "that's bottom shelf, honey. open up a good bottle, and⏤i'm sure he asked for it on the rocks, did you ask for it on the rocks, baby?"

"he did," johnny grins, and you smile at the server.

"and bring it on the rocks."

you tuck a few notes into the server's shirt pocket and look at captain price expectantly.

"you gonna move, captain, so i can sit next to my fiancé, or should i sit in your lap?" you raise a brow. "great to meet you, by the way. i've heard so much about you."

john chuckles, slipping out of the booth, and you hop up onto it after him. you cup simon's masked face and kiss him softly over it, rubbing a thumb under his eye.

"you alright?" you coo, and simon just nods. "you ate dinner, right? it looks like you didn't eat dinner⏤" the server comes back with the bourbon, on ice, and you hold up a finger, "⏤do you have a menu? you know what, it doesn't matter, just bring us some fish and chips. whatever you have."

johnny can't wipe the smile off his face. he nudges kyle with his elbow, looking at him with wiggly eyebrows, and kyle just chuckles.

you pick up simon's bourbon and take a sip of it, humming low.

"finally. some good fucking liquor."

you pass it to him with a wink before turning back to his team.

"alright, what did i miss?" you ask. you put your phone on silent, sticking it back into your purse, and you assume a relaxed place there in the booth, nails scratching along the back of simon's balaclava as you pay attention to the conversation. simon nearly purrs as you scratch him, leaning into your hand as his eyes flutter a little.

you are enchanting. johnny's enamored with the way you pay such attention to simon even when you're enraptured in conversation. you always keep a hand on him somehow, always showing him you're actively thinking about him with your fingers rubbing circles in the back of his hand or smoothing a touch over his head or leaning your cheek against his shoulder. always touching, always soothing him, always checking in even without words.

kyle notices the way simon is so relaxed. his shoulders are low, his eyes are lidded, and he doesn't fidget like he normally does. he's just leaning into you, completely at ease.

john adores the way you take charge. you always have an answer to everything, and you know exactly what you want. from just the drink you order to the way you talk about your new life, there is nothing timid or questioning about how you feel, about yourself or simon.

where you live? you have places in manchester and london, you come back and forth. are you really getting married? you've never been more sure about anything in your entire life. is simon really that pretty under the mask? he'd be in more magazines if he was out of your bed more often, probably.

on the way out, you pay the tab. you slide a heavy credit card over the table, and you don't even look at the receipt, just sign it quick and take simon's hand when you get outside, waiting for your car.

"you're always welcome at our place," you tell them, smiling wide. "got plenty of guest rooms, don't we, simon?"

"plenty," he echoes, and simon opens the car door for you when it pulls up to the curb. "give me a minute, love."

you duck your head and slide inside, and simon turns back to his team, shrugging his shoulders as he looks at them.

"so?"

"mighty fine, LT," johnny grins.

that's all he really needed to hear.

his belly and his heart are equally full when you ride him that night. he's naked on your bed except for his mask, tattooed arm anchored around your waist as you throw it back, pussy squeezing his cock as your thighs meet his all languid and heavy. your mouth is open, hot breaths leaving you as your dig your nails into his shoulders, and he grunts as he feels his balls tighten up every time you gasp his name.

"what would i do without you?" you whine, and simon grips your ass tight with the other hand, shaking his head.

"i should be askin' tha'."

"n-no," you kiss him, tongue wet against his, and he groans into your mouth as you wiggle your hips, until his cock nudges against your cervix, and you can feel him in your stomach. "i need you, simon. i need you⏤"

"bloody fuckin' hell⏤"

"you deserve it," you babble, fisting the sheets beside his head. you move your hips quicker, cupping his cheeks, and the part of his face that you can see flushes pink at your words. "deserve m-more, simon, y-you deserve⏤"

your breath gets knocked out of you when he flips you onto your back. ankles hanging off his shoulders, back bowed, mouth fallen open, you melt right into the sheets as simon fucks you straight into them. he's so heavy, a big weight pushing him even deeper, and the angle has your toes in a tight curl as he throws you over a cliff's edge as his pelvis stimulates your clit just enough, right there, just like that⏤

his cum between your thighs is warm. you bite your lip when you feel his thick fingers cup your pussy, sliding through your folds before he pushes two fingers into you, soft and slow. you whine from the overstimulation, but your hips push into his hand anyway.

"you spoil me," simon mutters in your ear.

"how's that?" you whisper, nudging your nose against his. he props himself up on his elbow, pushing his fingers into you to the last knuckle. your legs shake a little, and your back arches again, pebbled nipples pressing against his taut chest as you give into him.

"olways givin' me wot i want," simon hisses. "olways sayin' yes ta me. keepin' me fat 'n happy...think i don't know wot y'r doin'?"

you giggle, touching his lips. he's fighting a smile, dark eyes trained on your own, and you trace his bottom lip as he pulls his fingers out and swipes an eager tongue over them.

you pinch his hard jaw between a few fingers and bring him closer. when you kiss, he relaxes, and the thought of simon having just another good night's sleep in your big, comfy bed makes your heart clench.

seeing his team tonight made you think, and while it hurts to admit it, you are happy simon will never go back with them. he'll never join them again. he'll always be here, his head on your silk pillow. he'll always be home, eating good food, getting the attention and the care he so desperately needs.

what he's so desperately owed.

simon would've died for king and country, and they don't deserve it. they can't have him.

he's mine.

"thanking you for your service is all, lieutenant."

it's the truth, even if he doesn't want to hear it. he's warranted this kind of life, even if he doesn't believe it, even if he rejects the soft hands and the comfy cushions and the filling food. simon is an abused dog; he's not violent to his core, he isn't a biter or a fighter by nature, but when you are forced into a corner for all your life, it's the only thing you understand⏤it's all you know.

you don't want that kind of life for him. you don't think it was the one meant for him. simon's been looking over his shoulder for his entire life, but it's over now.

it's time for him to lay his head down. it's time for him to rest.

"do you miss it?" you ask. you know he's not asleep; his heartbeat hammers under your ear, and even though it's dark in the room, you know he must be looking at you. you can feel his eyes, even though you can't see them on you.

do you miss them? do you wish you were there and not here? is there a part of you still stuck there, finger on the trigger, mind over matter, life in-between death?

"no."

simon tells you this with ease. his voice doesn't waver. his hand anchors itself to your back, where you know it will stay⏤where you know it will be tonight and even into the morning.

[prfctplcsreads]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: if anything regarding the abuse or suffering of children, or SA, triggers you do not read. I wanted to tell you so there are no surprises.

The world sharpens as your senses return, zeroing in on the empty, crumpled sheet where Blue had lain beside you. She’s gone. Your deadened limbs failed her. Guilt rises, choking your dry throat. When your hands can move, you grab the pillow, pressing it to your face. A few hot tears escape. It smells like her hair.

They took her. 

She's gone— 

A gentle voice speaks, and a hand settles on your shoulder. Only then do you notice your body trembling. You lift your face from the pillow, staring up at Nereida. Her lips move, but her words don’t reach you. Something stirs inside you, deep in your chest, clawing its way toward your mouth. When the door creaks open and Salome steps in with a tray of dinner, it finally bursts free—a roar of pure rage.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t tell me where she is.”

Salome startles, nearly dropping the tray as you fling yourself at the bars.

“I-I understand you’re upset, and I’m sorry we had to subdue you again, but it was only—”

“I don’t give a fuck! Answer me! Where is she?”

Her knuckles whiten around the tray, eyes darting away. “The child has... her own job, as we all do.”

Your lip curls. “Are you brain-dead under that stupid veil? Why take her? She’s a child! Why not one of us?” You lean closer, voice breaking. “If you want me pregnant so badly, fine! Do it now! Just bring her back—bring her back!”

Salome blinks, unnerved, her composure slipping.

“If you’ve killed her,” you hiss, heat flooding your face, “I swear to God, I’ll kill myself—”

“No!” she interjects, stepping forward, wide-eyed. “Don’t speak like that, I beg you. She... She’s alive. For now.” Her voice drops, reverent. “But Maman has plans for her. You must understand—Maman knows the Lord’s will. It is not our—" her throat bobs with a swallow,"Our place to question her decisions.”

“Alive for now ?” you snap. “What plans does that bitch have for her?”

Salome hesitates. For the first time, she looks uncertain.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. “I can’t... I mustn’t say. In time, you’ll understand.” She lowers the tray onto the floor and nudges it closer, staying out of your reach. “Please. You must eat. It’s only food this time, I promise. And the tea is for your bodies—to prepare you. Maman insists you drink it all.”

“You really think we’re stupid enough to eat or drink anything you give us?”

Her voice dips into a whisper. “I fear I... I must insist. If you refuse... I’ll have to tell Maman. She’s chosen to keep the males you came with because they are healthy and strong. But if she hears of your disobedience...” Her voice falters, and she tucks her hands into her sleeves. “There needn’t be any unnecessary deaths.”

Unnecessary deaths. 

The door clicks shut behind her when she leaves. You sink to your heels, spine against the bars, as Nereida reaches for the tray. Closing her eyes, a single tear escapes before she rubs her chest and exhales. With no choice, you both eat the braised beef and roasted carrots, though you bitterly imagine it tastes like the unseasoned squirrel meat you're used to.

The tea smells herbal and bitter. On your tongue, the taste makes you recoil.

"I think it's turmeric and parsley," Nereida says softly, taking another sip. "It's good for... regulating our cycles."

You stare into the mug, swirling the warm liquid inside. The urge to dump it on the floor flickers, but the risk of someone noticing holds you back. Instead, you take another sip, chasing it with food to mask the taste. Your thumb brushes the rim, finding a sharp chip in the ceramic. Pressing it deeper, the sting hums as a bead of blood wells up. You suck on it, brows furrowed, a half-formed plan taking shape. Without hesitation, you finish the tea and smash the mug on the floor, startling Nereida.

"Why did you—"

You gather the two biggest shards. "We have weapons now. Break yours when you're done."

"So what’s the plan? Stab her with it?" She shakes her head, frustration clear in her voice. "She’s dumb, but not dumb enough to get close enough for that—not after you just said you want to kill her."

"Well, it's something." Your lips tighten along with your hand on the sharp edges. "At least I’m trying to think of an idea instead of just—just praying my military husband comes to save me."

Her eyes flash with hurt. "I'm trying to think realistically instead of acting rash." She gestures to the broken pieces. "She just threatened to kill them if we do anything to upset this Maman person, and you go breaking the cup. You think they'll be happy about that?"

"I'll say it was an accident. I'm a clumsy female who just couldn't help myself."

"You're not thinking clearly, Twix. I know you're upset about Blue—"

“And you’re not?” you hiss. “We failed her. She’s just a kid, and we failed her. Who knows what they’re doing to her right now. We don’t have time to sit around waiting for Price. He’s not coming! Even if they don’t kill him now, you really think they won’t at some point? These people are insane.” Your voice drops lower. “They’re going to rape us, Nereida. Don’t you see that? They’ll wait for us to ovulate, then breed us like livestock to feed into their delusions. What happens when they find out you can’t have kids? You think they’ll keep you around? You think they’ll still ‘covet’ you?”

Moisture wells in her eyes, and she blinks. "I don't—I don't know. But what can we do? We can't reach her, and they won't open the cell without drugging us again. Even if we could get out, we can't handle everyone out there with just pieces of a broken mug." The tears spill quietly, and she stuffs her face in her hands. "You're right. I've always relied on him. I don’t know how to survive any other way."

Your face softens a little, and you breathe deeply to regain some composure. "I shouldn’t have said that. We’re both scared."

She whispers through the gaps in her shaking fingers. "I was never supposed to live like this."

You reach for her hands, holding them tight. "You were, or you wouldn’t still be here."

The words offer fragile solace despite how steady you force your voice to be.

The rest of the meal is in silence.

The helplessness in the room is suffocating, reminiscent of the week you spent alone in the woods, sleeping in trees and dreading the break of dawn. No—it’s worse than that. It feels more like when Ghost broke your bow and left you for dead, chewing on pine needles to soothe your empty stomach. Funny how this time there’s a delicious meal in front of you, and you’re swallowing it down only because you’re forced. You even have a real bed to slip into, a yielding pillow to rest your head on, yet the helplessness remains, unwavering.

"I'm sorry, Blue. I'm trying," you whisper, clutching the shards of ceramic and slipping them under the pillow.

You replay everything in your head: the lack of items in the room, the bolted cell door, and what Salome said— Maman has plans for her. The moon rises, and you remain awake, even as Nereida succumbs to fatigue. You force your eyes to keep scanning the dark surroundings, despite the lingering effects of the drugs threatening to pull you into sleep. There has to be something you're missing—maybe not in the room, but in Salome's words. What else did she say? You were so angry, you can hardly remember.

It feels like well past midnight when you hear a male voice outside the door and the shift of footsteps.

"Trois minutes, Hugo."

A low chuckle. "Trois minutes, c'est tout ce dont j'aurai besoin."

"N'oubliez pas de ne pas toucher. Et ne vous en vantez pas auprès des autres. La nouvelle se répandra et Maman ou Alexandre l'entendront."

The air shifts when the door parts. You launch up, inhaling sharply when a shadowy figure enters along with the faint scraping of boots. Salome? But broad shoulders give way to an unfamiliar man that steps into the sliver of moonlight, and panic sets in quickly.

Breathless, you rip the sheet from your body.

Nereida stirs. "Twix—?"

You rise to your bare feet, standing a meter from the bars as you take him in. A light smile plays at his lips, which might’ve seemed friendly if you weren't poorly covered by the barely-there slip dress. Unlike Salome, his face is exposed beneath the hood of his grey cloak. You make out a strong nose, ashen brows, and blonde hair. He looks to be in his thirties, much shorter than Ghost. He murmurs something in French beneath his breath that makes your hands clench, then reaches into a pocket in his cloak.

He retrieves three metal chains. 

In his upheld hand, the dog tags quietly collide.

Your breath hitches as his eyes flick to yours, and the moonlight catches on the engraved names.

"I'm a friend of your friends," he greets coyly in a hushed, strong accent.

"John," Nereida whispers, ripping herself up from the bed. 

The man nods, the subtle smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, but it fails to reach his eyes. They remain cold. "Yes. We've all grown rather acquainted."

"You've hurt them," you snap, grabbing Nereida's wrist and pulling her closer. "Cut the bullshit."

He wraps the chains tightly around his wrist before tucking them away, then looks at you in a way that leaves your mouth tasting like the dinner you just ate. "A female who bites. I will look forward to making you submit as a God-fearing woman should."

You clutch at the hem of the gown, terror whispering in the back of your mind from his words. Something feels wrong.

"Why are you here?" you ask measuredly. "I thought... it isn't the right time for us to... to get pregnant. I thought only women are allowed to see us right now."

"I've heard whispers of the new beautiful women God has gifted us," he says, his English choppy. "I wanted to see for myself. I've been... working hard to please the Lord, you see. Your friends are not so easily broken. Surely, in His eyes, I've earned just a glimpse."

Nereida tenses beside you. 

You rear a snarl at him. "Where are they?"

He holds up a finger. "Ah, ah, pretty face. You will have to let me see more if you would like to know. I have just three minutes with you. Two now that we've been wasting time."

Cold sweat coats your palms as his request sinks in, and you glance at Nereida. "I'll do it," you whisper. "You can just... just look away."

"No," his growl interjects. "Both of you, or nothing."

Even in the dark, her face pales. But when he pulls the chains back out and waves them around harshly, her hands dart to the hem of the dress and she peels it up without the chance to rethink it. You follow in stride, teeth gritted, as you scoot a step away from her and do the same, feeling the chilled air brush sickeningly against your bare skin. You've done this before, yet this time you are wholly naked under the stranger's gaze, and your hair is not long enough to conceal your breasts. 

When you hear him unbuckle his belt, you remove yourself from your body, mentally retreating to a far corner of the room to block out the horror.

"Tell us where they are," you press.

He chortles, breath catching when he grabs himself. "This land belonged to Maman's husband. It is a farm. New men we keep in the old slaughter house, by the barn, like the swine they are."

"And what about the girl," you interrupt urgently, "The young child who was with us. Why would Maman want to take her? Where else would she be keeping her?"

He grunts low. "I never said I'd answer about the girl, but if you touch yourself, I will consider it."

Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding. Nereida breaks, folding into herself and whispering, "I can't. I can't."

"I will," you whisper, your hand already sliding down your stomach, your eyes locking on his. "If I touch myself, will you tell me?"

His eyes narrow to where your hand dips unthinkingly between your thighs. You keep it there, doing what he wants, putting on the show that will make him talk. His shoulders ripple at the sight and audible groans bounce off the walls.

He clears his throat, voice rough. "I haven't heard nothing yet about the girl. But Maman says God’s punishing us... the land’s... sick. The wheat grows less and less. Only way to fix it—feed God's enforcers." 

"His enforcers?" you question.

"The démons."

"The Greys," you whisper, confusion flickering before clarity dawns.

A flash of the vermin-filled chapel plays through your mind—the bites in the corpse—and your hand jerks away from your thighs. The horror clicks into place, slow and suffocating, until all the color drains from your face. Blue... Is she an offering? An offering to God, just like the one you saw. They think the Greys are His enforcers. They will feed her to them. The thought claws its way through your head, and you feel a fresh wave of cold horror crash over you.

"When?" you croak. "When would Maman— feed them?"

"God's wrath... started on the sixth day," he murmurs absently, eyes rolling back. "That’s when we seek His forgiveness."

With a final grunt, his body jerks, and the spill lands on the floor. Bile rises in your throat, but you can’t even register it as you watch him stuff himself back in his pants and smear the mess with the sole of his boot, muttering something under his breath. You snatch the dress from the floor and stuff it over your head, legs wobbly. Faintly, you hear him laugh quietly.

"I can only pray I'm deemed worthy come the next coupling season. And when that time comes, I will be sure to choose you." 

---

B

Warm water kisses the back of her neck, and gentle fingers scrub soap through her hair. The woman bathing her hums softly, matching the rhythmic pulse in Blue's arm. As Blue closes her eyes, she tries to separate reality from nightmare, pressing two fingers into the clothed wound as if the pain will help her understand. She remembers the Greys coalesced in the old building, the chains used to restrain them, and the terror-blurred walk back to the small commune. After that, everything becomes hazy. She slept a little, she thinks. Was made to eat again. Then somehow, she ended up here, submerged in a wooden tub of lukewarm water, while a young woman quietly encourages her to dip her hair back to rinse.

"There. Time to dry off now."

There is the shuffling around as she fetches a towel. Blue crosses her arms over herself as she accepts it numbly, the air prickling her wet skin. Her feet land on cold tile floor as she dries off, the woman lingering beside the bathroom door with her head bowed. Blue feels like someone has strings coiled tightly around her limbs, puppeteering her. 

"Put this on for now." A light smile is offered as the thin gown is placed in her palms. "Maman will have a much nicer dress for you to wear tomorrow."

A puppet string is tugged, making her nod. "Can you... can you look away please?"

The woman turns and stares at the back of the door while Blue drops the towel and changes. 

Then she is taken back to the room she came from. The one she first woke up in, where the old woman's sewing needles still rest on the table. Morning light caresses the paintings on the walls, all oiled landscapes of land that looks similar to the one outside. The woman, whose name Blue thinks she mentioned to be Eloise, shuffles around the room, tidying things, before collecting the tray from breakfast. But when she glances back at Blue on her way out the door, her lips part in concern.

"You're bleeding."

Blue looks at the bandage on her arm, where red blood oozes in a trail, a bead dripping onto the floor from the tip of her finger. She frowns, confused, when Eloise sets the tray down to tend to the cut—as if they aren't the ones who caused it. As if the blood smearing her skin when she unwraps the cloth isn't the same blood they used to draw out the two Greys they brought back to the commune and locked up in a small shed. 

"I know you're frightened," the young woman whispers, her voice carrying an understanding that feels deeper than anything Salome ever said. Behind the veil, her eyes flick up to meet Blue's. "I can only pray God's mercy makes it quick." She dabs Blue's arm gently and rewraps it with a fresh strip of cloth.

"You mean they are going to kill me, right?" Blue whisper distantly. "With the Greys from yesterday?"

A glint passes through the woman's eyes, and she lifts her hands. "Yes," she says quietly, then leaves the room. 

Blue stands in the silence, eyes fixed on the drop of blood. She presses her heel into it, smearing it across the floor. Then, she moves. The fear she's carried since the old woman led her into the trees claws at her chest, but she swallows it. Trembling hands sweep over the room—checking the window, the locked door. The bed, the table, the paintings. Beneath the bed, only cobwebs.

A helpless croak escapes her lips as she collapses onto the bed, teeth clenched against the tears. Her father would never accept her giving up. Tomorrow they will kill her. She sits up, palms pressed to her forehead, knees drawn tight, dry sobs wracking her body. Through her tears, she notices the smear of blood from her heel left on the white linen. She flips over her foot and traces the dried blood with her finger, then digs her nail into the broken skin where the gravel road tore into her feet, seeking more pain—urging fresh blood to rise from the indent she leaves behind.

---

G

The last time Ghost was chained, he hadn’t known about the little girl who shared his blood—someone who truly needed him. Tommy was still alive then, of course, but he had his own family. If Ghost had succumbed to Roba’s torture, his brother and mother would have mourned briefly, held a small funeral, then moved on. The world would have forgotten his name. Part of him would have been pleased with that—but somehow, Simon Riley’s more stubborn side had survived.

That stubborn part of him refuses to close his eyes, not even for a second, because this time, he is fully aware of the girl who needs him.

With no windows to mark the time, Ghost can only gauge it by the man who beats him. The man alternates between striking him with a metal bar and taunting him with food and water, tossing them just out of reach so the smell can ignite pangs of hunger. There was once he showed up with an old woman, who clinically poked and prodded at Ghost's arms and abdomen, as if in approval. The longest absences of visitation likely indicate the man’s sleep, meaning two nights have passed since Ghost woke up here. His increasing difficulty in keeping his eyes open confirms it. 

Even through swollen eyelids, visions invade the darkness—four faces merging, their screams echoing, sharp and pleading. First, his mother. Then Sara. As they turn to ash, the two other faces remain, their screams fading into buttery laughter. Water splashes his cheek as they play, then their lips fall silent, and their faces sink below the surface. He reaches for them but can only stare as their eyes drain of life. Still, they remain accusatory. Disappointed. 

A slam of the door shatters the images.

"I think you will be pleased to hear the news I bring, Brit."

It must be morning. Ghost's gaze drops to the floor in persistent defiance, refusing to acknowledge him. His muscles loosen in preparation for the bar's routine assault, but a vein in his jowl ticks when he detects a new sound; the quiet slither of a whip against the concrete. 

Without warning, it recoils and lashes out with a sharp crack. The sting spreads through every nerve-ending, and he feels a gush of hot blood from the newly opened wound. A quiet, strained grunt slips through his teeth, and his chin dips to his sternum as pain robs him of the ability to hold it up. 

Casually, like a friend, the man hums, only his boots visible in Ghost's vision. "I saw them. They are well-kept, you should know, and they are indeed beautiful. A gift from God." The tail-end of the whip caresses Ghost's shoulders then slips to the floor soundlessly. "The child, though, I am disappointed to say she wasn't there."

Ghost stiffens.

His nostrils flare.

"Why wasn't she there?" he forces out.

"Ah. The child is yours, yes? The... fierce one was concerned for her as well." He bends, rubbing his jaw callously. "So concerned, in fact, that she was willing to show me more than I had even come for. Quite eager, too. Let me tell you what I told her—I know nothing of the plans for the girl. I can only guess, as you can, that they will not be pleasant."

"I will... kill... you," Ghost manages, his low voice thick with fury, each word a strained rasp through clenched teeth.

When his fingers twitch, weakly forming fists, the man pats his shoulder with a light laugh. "I will say, I am sorry you do not have a son, instead. Maman says daughters are the purest, most God-abiding of us all. With all due respect to her, this is where we disagree." He tilts Ghost's head back, locking eyes with him, his breath brushing against Ghost's face."They’re whores, all of them. Waiting to be bred. That's why the fierce one was dripping wet when she touched herself—"

In one swift motion, Ghost sinks his teeth into the first piece of flesh he can reach, tearing through skin. Blood fills his mouth, spilling between his teeth. The man jerks back, part of his cheek torn away, his eyes flashing with pure rage as he clutches the bleeding wound with his hand.

"You fucking, lowly swine." He spits out a mouthful of blood, then retracts the whip with a savage snarl. Another strike lands on Ghost's back—harder this time. Another follows. The blows come faster, until blood pools beneath his boots, and his eyes finally close no matter how much strength he tries to muster to keep them open. 

---

T

The sixth day.

If the Sabbath is the first day, then that would be Friday.

You trace the wrinkles in the sheet, trying to count back to the last day you can remember—back when Blue still announced the dates from the calendar Ghost kept track of. You recall it was the 12th of April, weeks ago. But what day of the week was it? Frustration bubbles up as you tear at the sheet, the harsh reality sinking in: you don’t even know how many days have passed since then.

Morning breaks in washed-out hues, accompanied by the low call of a nearby dove.

Growing content with the regular feedings, your belly hums in anticipation against your will.

"Ask her what day it is when she comes for breakfast," you tell Nereida. "We need to find out when Friday is, and you... you're better at talking."

Luckily, Salome either doesn’t notice that one of the mugs is missing or is willing to keep the fragile peace by not mentioning it. Again, she lowers the tray at an unreachable distance and slides it over. She lingers for a few minutes this time as you nurse a bowl of fresh fruit and sour yogurt, more mindful of how it tastes. But you don't suspect they have a need to drug you this morning—not with Blue already taken.

Nereida manages a bit of small talk, flashing a friendly smile you envy her for. It's enough to get a few pieces of information from Salome—mostly useless. She's about six months along, Maman suspects. There are two other pregnant women, and three infants already born over the years. A few have died during harsher winters, including this past one. The land is sick, that man mentioned. With a flicker of sadness, Salome adds that she had a miscarriage, and for a moment, you almost feel sorry for her.

But when Nereida asks about the day, Salome tenses, wariness creeping into her eyes. "Well, I forget the name in English, but it is the fifth day following the Lord's day."

"Saturday, you mean?" you speak up for the first time since she walked in. You try to hide your eagerness with a clearing of your throat. "I mean, Saturday is usually the Lord's day, right? That's how it was at my grandmother's church growing up."

Salome nods. "Yes, Saturday. That is the Sabbath."

Then tomorrow is the sixth day.

The weight threatens to crush you.

When she finally leaves, you fling the pillow off the bed and flip the mattress, screaming soundlessly into it.

"We have one fucking day, and I have no clue how to get out of here."

Survival hinges on not panicking. Panic makes you weak. But still, your fingers curl into your hair, tugging desperately, trying to silence the hysteria rising inside you. For a moment, a silent prayer takes hold in your mind, mimicking the ones you overheard from Nereida. You screw your eyes shut in a pathetic hope that maybe when you reopen them, Ghost will materialize with the key on the other side of the cell. When he doesn't, you grab the nearest shard from the mug you broke. Nereida tugs on your shoulder, trying to calm you down, but you furiously press it against your wrist.

It's the sight of blood, not the pain, that makes you freeze.

Suddenly, your panic smooths into a fresh memory.

"She panicked, didn't she?" you whisper, lifting the shard and gently thumbing the shallow cut you've created in its wake. "When I threatened to kill myself. Her eyes—they held fear. Fear for what?"

You turn to Nereida and swallow thickly.

"Fear of... fear of us dying," Nereida finishes slowly, a pinch in her forehead.

"Fear of what would happen to her if we died," you say. "She seemed... scared when she spoke of Maman. Of course she is. She's the one responsible for us right now. What would Maman do if she can't take care of the two new coveted women?"

You reach for the next largest piece and place it in Nereida's hand, tightly closing her fist over it. 

"It might not work," she whispers, eyes darting across your face.

"It's the only idea I've got."

Over the next few hours, you smooth over the details in whispered exchanges. These are the only cards you have to play: the value of your bodies here and the power Maman holds. Nereida is uneasy at first but eventually grows convinced. Speaking through the plan helps soothe your nerves, keeping the walls from fully closing in. You remember that Salome usually arrives before the sun sets to bring dinner. So, when the window casts amber shadows across the walls, you suck in a breath, dig the shard into your wrist, and watch as blood spills onto the white linen.

[prfctplcsreads]

✦ . * ocean blue eyes pt. XVI | r.c

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

author’s note: hi hi hi sorry this was supposed to go up three days ago i’m sorry😭😭😭 pls enjoy smmmm!! if this is the first part of ocean blue eyes you see, you’re soooo lucky bc there’s fifteen parts for you to catch up on🤭

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

liked by prettylittleyn, ynandrafe, jarah4ever and 1.402 others

ynrafeupdates yn via instagram stories today

view all 210 comments

ynsunshine what in the softlaunch….

whationlylistentoyn remember when yn used to hate LA and now she’s there all the time😭

➞ ynismybaby she’s in lurve🤭

princessyn what do the ynrafe deniers have to say now

➞ ynandrafe i wanna see what they’re pulling out of their asses😭

sunburninmiami is this yn making them insta official??

rafesgf they could just be friends, nothing about this says that they’re dating

➞ rafescameron what…

↳ rafesgf honestly it might not even be rafe

↳ princesses now ik you're lying

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your phone:

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liked by youruser, sarahcam, loewe and 1.870.789 others

rafe no 🧢

view all 2.566 comments

sunburninmiami boyfriend material

❤️ liked by youruser

rafesgf he’s sooo dreamy😫😫

kiecarerra lame 👎🏼

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youruser 🧢

❤️ liked by rafe

raferforlyfer he's so 🥹🤬🤩🥵

johnbroutledge not the booty pic on main

➞ rafe247 main??? so there's a priv account????

↳ johnbroutledge who said that?

↳ rafe247 you's said that

↳ johnbroutledge no I didn't 🤨

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liked by rafesbaby, cameronmymind, rafelover and 231.312 others

rafeupdates rafe via sarah’s insta story

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jjsandrafes OMG a new photoshoot incoming😭😭

allaboutrafe model is modeling

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➞ kelleigh_leclerc 😭

cameronsbaby it’s giving scooby doo

➞ rafefan help??😭

abrmsyn it’s so cute how sarah supports him🥹

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nothisisyn no i’m a star

view all 25 comments

kiekie oh?

➞ nothisisyn 🤭

rafewhoelse they called you to set for like 20 mins

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sarbear in her actress era

thebetterjustin lazy

➞ nothisisyn excuse you

ohnocleor feel dat

➞ nothisisyn you get it🙂‍↕️

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youruser 🤫🔜

view all 2.877 comments

ynsbaby i’m SO ready

rafe 😎

➞ youruser 🧐

sarahcam i know something you don’t 😚

➞ youruser 🔐

kiecarerra soon? more like NEOW

➞ youruser 😭

ynovereveryone I'm seated. The Spotify employees are scared and asking me to leave because the "song hasn't been released yet" but I'm simply too seated

➞ youruser im DEAD😭

↳ ynovereveryone HI OLUCE YOU

↳ rafesgf are you and rafe dating?

↳ princessyn be FORREAL😭

cleogriffith my star🤩

➞ youruser ily😭

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author’s note: chaos ensues hehehe. going according to plan

[prfctplcsreads]

I know we love to cast Gaz as Mr. Perfect relationship goals but I genuinely think it's not until he dates you that he learns what a relationship is outside of appearances.

Like you start dating, and he brings you your favorite flowers every two weeks (even though you prefer pictures, bc the smell of them makes you sneeze) because he sees Price do it for his wife.

He gives you back massages (even though what's really bothering you is your feet) because Soap was bragging about how he did that for his bairn at home.

He even eats you out every time he spends the night (this...this you don't have a problem with) because Simon mentioned that's how he keeps his Bird happy, and Gaz knows that happy wife equals happy life.

But he doesn't understand compromise. He doesn't get that you want him to go to the work party and mingle with the ass hats you complain about every day.

He doesn't understand why you want him to stay in with you instead of going out with one of his mates for the fifth weekend in a row.

Because you're still there at the end. He romanticizes the idea that he comes home to you – because that's what the books on your shelves say, right? The bit who's so jaded by life but had a soft spot for you?

It's not til you're halfway out the door, tears streaming down your face, that he realizes how superficial he's been. When you ask him "what do you even like about me? What do you even like about what we do?" And he can't answer.

It takes him weeks actually.

Weeks to figure out how you would actually listen when he'd critique interrogation techniques on TV. Or the way that you agreed to go to the military ball with him – even though you'd rather have cuddled up with a movie and some snacks. But worst is how you'd make his mom's soup whenever he had a particularly hard week, not because he asked, but because you knew he needed it.

Once he does figure it out, though, he's determined. He will be getting you back. And he's going to be the best thing that ever happened to you.

[prfctplcsreads]

ok reverse the TROPE !!!!!! sugar-mommy!f!reader x retired!simon <333 (18+)

he got discharged on a medical injury. his knee flares up now, phantom pains that shoot up his leg and pinch his spine. he feels like a failure--a lieutenant in his prime, and now he has to acclimate to civilian life and grit his teeth instead of drown the voices in his head out with gunfire.

he's been deployed as much as he could be just to stay away from this kind of place. so he didn't have to get on a train, or take the tube. so he didn't have to think about looking over his shoulder in the shops or learn how to pay a wifi bill. he hates going to the doctor's office, and he hates learning how to properly open his bank account, just to learn that there's nearly nothing in it.

the numbers just dwindle before his very eyes. the rent is too high, even in his shitty studio. when did cable cost that much? why can't he go to the pub for just a few pounds anymore? where is the compensation for giving more than a decade of his life in service of his country just to have to wait in fucking lines to get his medication and argue over the phone about where all his fucking money went.

maybe he never had any. maybe it's all lost somewhere. he'd ask his former captain, but he's halfway across the world, and over his dead body would he hold a hand out and ask for charity when he's 36 years old.

"don't get that one."

simon turns his head, a snarl caught in his throat. there's a pretty thing standing beside him, also staring at the array of ramen packages in focus. you take the orange package out of his hand and put it back on the shelf before reaching for a different package. it's got japanese characters on it, so he can't read the label, but you smile up at him.

"this one is way better. good price for it, too."

"'s more expensive."

"yeah, but you get eight packets in this one. that one only gives you five."

at the till, you notice him subtly counting the notes in his wallet. you pretend not to notice, rocking back and forth on your heels, but just as he picks up his bag to leave, you speak up.

"you wanna get a drink? on me."

and fuck, he could use a bourbon. on the first one, he thought your presence was pleasantly tolerable. by the fourth, he's staring down your shirt, dark eyes mapping out what the curves of your breasts might look like in the palm of his big hand. by the sixth, you're pressed up against a sticky bathroom wall and holding on for dear life as he pounds into you from behind, knickers in his back pocket, manicured nails digging slits into his tattooed forearm.

you sink those claws in that night; and you do not let go.

the third night you ask him out, he sees your flat for the first time. in a nice building downtown, doorman holding the door open for you. the elevator ride is long enough for him to see the tops of buildings, and when you step inside your flat, he swallows hard when he realizes you are way out of his league.

gorgeous leather seats and couch. large tv with surround sound. a french kitchen with a gas stove. your flat is filled with knickknacks and candles, low yellow lights and wonderful collections of art and little glass vases and sculptures. your home is filled with warmth, and you don't belong with him.

just as he thinks about backing out of the place, you turn and grip the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer. you touch your nose to his over his mask, smiling, and you push the door closed behind him and press him up against it.

"so, which room do you wanna christen first? i thought we could start in the kitchen."

you're a woman that knows what she wants, he'll give you that; and he doesn't have it in him to say no.

the sun wakes him up in the morning. he doesn't remember falling asleep--he doesn't like to make staying over a habit. when he sits up on his elbows, he takes a deep breath, realizing his back hurts a lot less. the mattress of your bed is wonderful, much more supportive than the flat mess he has on the floor in his own place, and he blinks himself awake when you come out of the bathroom.

you're freshly dressed, makeup on, and you're putting on your jewelry when you see him. you smile at him, coming towards the bed, and you bend down to kiss where his mouth would be under the mask.

"good morning, simon. sleep well?"

"mmm..."

you take that as a yes, cupping his jaw, and you kiss him over his mask again before going to get some shoes from your closet. he doesn't comment on the fact that when you open it, he realizes the closet there is only for shoes...

"you hungry, baby? want some breakfast?"

"i--oh..." simon lays back down when his back tweaks, and you reach for him when you see him fall back in the mirror. you smooth a hand down the side of his body, frowning.

"why don't you stay in bed? i'll have my assistant bring you something."

"no, tha's--"

"i'm not asking, simon, i'm telling you," you coo. you pick up one of his hands and trace one of his scars with your finger. you have long, almond-shaped nails. there's pretty chrome nail art over the wine red color you wear, and he focuses on it as you kiss his knuckles gently. "will you wait for me to come home?"

"where y'goin'?"

"gotta work, honey," you wink down at him. "and i want you to be here when i get back."

"tha' so?"

"mhm," you smile. "right here. in my bed--" you lift the covers a little and peek, giggling as you put it back down after getting a glimpse at his cock resting against his lower stomach. "just like this, simon."

he doesn't remember if he ever goes back to his flat. he thinks he went one more time, to grab a few bottles of his medication, but the tick in his knee hadn't been so bad with the great physical therapy you started paying for and the warm massages you gave him every night.

and his back--your bed always contours perfectly against the muscles of his back, and he finds himself sleeping a full seven hours every single night.

not to mention his new work outs. simon hadn't been to the gym much since coming home, but he knows he must be burning hundreds of calories with you. you test his limits. as soon as you're home, you jump on him, and the stress relief your pussy brings him is just what he needs to get the edge off. you're a fiend, especially after a rough day, and the way you bounce on his cock in every room of your flat keeps him up at night sometimes with the most glorious wet dreams.

you're up late that night. you're curled up on the couch in one of simon's shirts and a glass of red wine, and there's a mountain of papers around you that you're focusing on reading. you have a huge presentation tomorrow, and everything needs to be perfect. simon comes into the living room, shirtless, and you smile when you see him standing there. he's wearing the new sweats you got him, but you can't focus on that too much when you're staring at his pudgy, toned stomach and his nice pecs. you bite your lip, taking a long sip of your wine, and simon hikes up his mask to take a bite out of his bowl of ice cream.

"gonna be up late tonight?" he asks, and you nod. "want me to sit with ya?" you nod again, lifting up your legs, and when he takes a seat next to you, you drape them across his lap. you lean over to give his scarred cheek a kiss, and when you turn back to your paperwork, a thought comes across your mind.

"we should get married," you say softly, circling a note over something. simon keeps eating, as if what you said doesn't phase him.

"why's tha', love?"

"tax benefits."

"mmm..." simon drops one of his hands and thumbs against your ankle. the flat is warm. his stomach is full. his body hurts less, and his heart aches with something nice. "olright then."

you smile.

"good. cause i already bought the ring."

[prfctplcsreads]

joe burrow masterlist

as a reminder, my blog is STRICTLY 18+!! i know i write some soft stuff, but i have written and will write smut again. thanks in advance!

requests are open! | main masterlist

* = smut

one-shots

only you*

sweet as sugar

to the runway*

baby bliss

flood gates

on your doorstep

bad day

late nights

babysitting

burnout

home to me

the one i run too

always a winner

take a breather

good enough

slip of the finger

lover

none of the bullshit

mini series

the view between villages pt. 1

the view between villages pt. 2

the view between villages pt. 3

the view between villages pt. 4

the view between villages pt. 5 [FINALE]

coming soon!

polaroids*

only an hour*

[prfctplcsreads]

i’ve never been more ready to kill an old lady than i am now

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: this chapter is all from Blue's perspective. if anything regarding the abuse or suffering of children triggers you do not read. though it is really not graphic at all (imo) and the SA is EXTREMELY implied and subtle (just a woman looking/potentially touching Blue's private area to check for virginity). I wanted to tell you so there are no surprises.

B

Blue hasn’t been without her father for more than an hour in over five years. There were moments when she'd imagined him disappearing, especially when he said no to her, when he could annoy her, push her too hard, or withhold the words she craved. And yet—now, with her head resting in Twix's lap, she can only long for him. The thought of his absence fills her with cold dread. The kind that erupts goosebumps on her arms despite the stuffy air in the room. Twix’s fingers gently stroke the back of her scalp, but it does little to ground her as her mind drifts to Ghost. He’s alive, that woman said. But it's been over a day, and he still hasn’t come for her.

"Do you think he will come soon?" she asks quietly.

Twix's fingers pause at the top of her hairline. "I think... I think he is doing everything he can to find you."

Blue is old enough to know that is a non-answer.

She knows, deep down, that Twix doesn't think he'll be coming, either.

"I will figure something out, okay?" she promises.

"Okay," Blue whispers noncommittally.

"Hey." A faint smile. "I've done pretty good at getting us out of shit in the past, right?"

Blue mumbles, "I guess so."

But this time felt different from those times. No matter how many times she catches Twix squinting around the room, murmuring things to Nereida, even Blue knows that a bright idea won’t magically appear. Not in here, where there is nothing except the three beds, the bolted cell, and the out-of-reach door that Ghost has yet to barge through.

When Blue's fingers instinctively search for her wrist, Twix’s face softens, and she gently encloses her palm over Blue's knuckles. "Alright. I want you to close your eyes and imagine that beach you showed me once. The one with white sand, and super blue water." Blue plays along with a deep sigh, closing her eyes as she feels a callused thumb brush her cheek. "Almost as blue as your eyes. See it?"

"I guess."

"Good. Now, I want you to imagine that you are lying on the sand, eating all the Twix bars and Nutella you want. Oh, and Grim is there. He was trying to make a sandcastle but got his head stuck in the sand."

Blue's lips twitch despite herself. "This is dumb."

"Dumb? Well, I don't think Grim finds it dumb. He can hardly breathe right now so you better stop eating chocolate and haul his ass up."

Blue snorts quietly, eyes screwing tighter as she imagines it; pulling the bunny out of the sand, giggling, the waves crashing. She falls back onto the sand with him in tow, but he darts away from her hands, toward the water. When she looks over, sun glaring, someone else is there. It's her father, and for a moment she is ready to jump on his back and beg him to play in the waves with her. That's when she notices he is keeled over, ripped apart, bloodied and battered.

Blue jolts, inhaling sharply. When she reopens her eyes, the image is still there. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I just saw—" she rubs her eyes profusely, but he's right in front of her. Blood begins to spurt from a sever in his throat. His head snaps forward, hanging by a thin thread of tissue. "I see him! H-his head is..." 

She jerks upright from Twix's lap, her eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off the vision. When that doesn't help, she buries her face in the pillow, but the image remains too real to ignore. The thread snaps, and her father’s head rolls away silently.

Twix’s voice cuts through, her hands gently shaking Blue’s shoulders, but it feels distant, like a shadow compared to the sickening thud of her father’s headless body hitting the ground. Thick blood pools at her feet, and she tries to move, but her muscles won’t obey. The blood rises and rises, suffocating her, until she can’t breathe.

"Blue, it's just... you're imagining it."

"I can't... I can't..."

Someone flips her over on the bed and hugs her shoulders.

Twix's chapped lips press into her cheek.

"Please, Blue. I'm here."

The touch is enough to drain the blood and free her lungs. Her father's dead body floats away. She gulps for air, cold sweat clinging to her neck, and curls into the body beside her. Lingering panic races through her heartbeat, but then, after a minute, it begins to slow considerably. A new feeling washes over with the force of a tidal wave; fatigue.

Blue suddenly feels so tired that she can't keep her eyes open. It’s as though the terrible images have drained her entirely, leaving only murky water in their place. Her mind begins to float, and the edges of the world blur. Twix's face is in front of her yet feels so far away. Her lips try to part for words to come out, but it takes three tries just to manage: "I feel strange."

Across the cell, Nereida whispers, "I do, too."

Weight shifts on the mattress as Twix tries to sit up, leaning against the wall. Her head dips slightly, then snaps back up. A shaky inhale. "That... that fucking bitch. The oatmeal!"

The oatmeal? Blue’s thoughts latch onto the warm meal they’d been forced to eat, but the memory slips away before she can hold onto it. The slow descent snowballs. Twix’s voice distorts, blending with the chirping of birds outside the window. Her body slides down the wall, crumpling back beside Blue. She tries to hug Twix again, but her arms won’t cooperate.

Minutes later, or maybe hours, Blue hears the metal screech of the cell door swinging open. Veiled ghosts drift in. She can do nothing to run from them. Murmured voices, speaking words she doesn't understand, bleed through the heavy blanket of fog lying over her.

"Vous avez dit que celui-ci était intact?"

"Oui, Maman."

"Nous offrirons son corps pur au Seigneur. Les deux autres seront aptes à avoir des enfants."

"Mais elle est une... Je veux dire, oui, Maman."

She feels something cold and sinuous lifting her—snakes. No, not snakes. Hands. Cold, unfamiliar hands. Twix shouts something slurred. Then Blue is dragged by her feet, her spine no longer supported by the bed. She tries to squirm free, but her limbs feel heavy, useless. More hands clamp down on her arms.

No, no.

She wants to call for Twix, but her voice is muffled beneath a palm, the sound dying in her throat.

A weathered voice coos in her ear. "Sweet child. There is nothing to fear."

She can't scream.

All she knows is Twix is no longer the one beside her.

Cold fear surges through her veins, and she claws at someone’s arm. The retaliation is swift—a prick to her neck.

The strike of pain intensifies her dizziness, the last fight in her body fading away. They're dragging her again. The hard floor beneath her feet melts into soft grass, and the stark white ceiling shifts into a blue, cloudless sky before everything fades to black.

A gentle melody repeats in her subconscious until she rouses.

The same three-note tune, over and over.

Peeling her eyes open against the buttery sunlight, the first thing she notices is an open window above her head, its thin white curtain dancing in the light breeze. Upon the windowsill sits a small, cooing bird with pearly grey feathers and a black ring around its neck. Its head tilts almost mechanically, two little black eyes regarding her. She stares for a long moment before her eyes fall closed once more, lulled by the familiar call. Only when the bird quiets does she truly come to her senses. The sudden silence jolts her upright.

This isn't the same room she was in before. There hadn’t been a window in the cell, and certainly not one left open. The air there had been thick with the scent of old wood and lingering dust. But here... here, the air is different. It smells of fresh flowers, of the tall grass she used to wade through with Ghost while hunting. 

The bird calls once more before flittering away, leaving her reeling.

"A collared dove."

Her gaze snaps to the right where an old woman sits in a mahogany chair, knitting needles in hand. Without looking up from the red yarn she weaves, she explains idly, "They are very common. Lovely, but common."

The accent of her old voice is nothing like Blue's Mancunian one. But she understands each word.

Her voice pulls through her teeth with great effort. "I don't... Where am I?"

The old woman's brow furrows as if she is deep in thought, but it smoothes over after she undoes a stitch and loops it again, hands moving with an unnatural slowness. "You had them in England, yes? They are very common there, too."

Blue's fingers spread into the fine linen, her pulse ticking as she blinks a few times to sharpen her vision. The woman before her is older than anyone she has seen in a long time, though there is a faint resemblance to a woman deep in her memory who she believes was her grandmother. Unlike the woman who visited their cell with food, this one does not wear a veil over her face. Long wisps of gray hair fall over her shoulders. Wrinkles etch around her eyes and lips. She is still cloaked in white, but around her neck hangs a red cord beaded with a cross dangling at the end.

Her fingers clench. "I don't care about the-the stupid bird. Why am I here? Where are my friends? You..." she swallows the feel of sandpaper in her mouth, "You put something in the food. You made me lose control of myself again!"

Finally, grey-blue eyes flicker up beneath a questioning brow. "Oh, sweet child. You are so full of fire." With an unsettling calmness, the woman sets down the knitting needles on a carved side table. Pressing a palm to the surface of it, she rises slowly, then laces her hands in front of her. "Come, and perhaps your questions will be answered. Though, I wouldn't try to run." She moves toward the door, her gait shuffled but steady. A glance over her shoulder beckons. "Your friends are under my care."

The mere mention stiffens Blue's spine. She forces herself to her unsteady feet, swaying slightly, bare toes digging into the wood planks. Each small step feels lighter than the first time she woke up from being drugged, though her body still protests. Ahead, the woman is already walking away. It wouldn’t take much to catch up, but Blue lingers, her eyes sweeping the room with deliberate caution—always stay aware of your surroundings.

For a moment, she considers grabbing the knitting needle and stabbing the woman. But then what? Everyone, her father included, is under her care, and any misstep could mean their deaths. Ghost always told her to never act without some type of plan—to wait for the right moment. Blue doesn’t even know where the others are.

As she hesitantly steps out of the small house, the realization hits her. There are more people here than she’s seen in a long time. Almost like a town, but not really. Smaller than that, but more than her group. The building they just left is a small, home made of light grey stone. To her right are more homes, smoke billowing from the chimneys. She counts at least four of them. Straight ahead of her is gravel road. This is where the woman heads, with Blue trailing behind her. To the left is a stretch of green lawn, bright and lush. She has the itch to sprint over it, but a voice ends that idea.

"Catch up, girl." 

Gravel bites her toes as she walks to the woman's side. She is still only dressed in the simple, white slip. She hasn't worn a dress before.

"Where are you taking me?"

"There are some things I wish you to see." 

"Why... why can't the friends I was with be here to see them, too?"

From the corner of her eyes, Blue catches the woman smile lightly. "What do you think of France?"

Blue digs her nails into her palms, swallowing down her frustration at the non-answer. "It's... nice, I guess." It isn't a lie. The beautiful beach they left from, the fields of wheat and flowers, were things she'd only imagined before. 

"Good. My husband was from India but owned this land. I never wanted to leave it. France is the most beautiful place. I knew I wanted my son to grow here." She exhales in a quiet appreciation. "My husband said this land would thrive, even after the plague. He was right. The Lord spared it. He did not spare Ashwin, though."

Blue doesn't know what to say to that. If she should feel sorry for this person or not. She didn't state her husband's death in a sorrowful way, merely factual. As they walk, they pass a few men hunched over tree stumps, chopping wood. The smell of fresh earth and spilt sap wafts up her nose. The men glance up, their gazes lingering on Blue a moment too long, making her shift uncomfortably. Then, they lower their heads respectfully toward the woman. She speaks to them in French, and their chuckles follow her words.

Under a warm afternoon, they approach what looks like a large barn, bordered by wooden fence posts strung with taut wires. Inside the fenced area, Blue notices a white horse, smaller than Cherry, along with four cows. More men are working nearby, some tending to the animals while others, farther off, wield sickles to harvest stalks of wheat.

When they stop in front of the fence, Blue can't stop herself from asking, "Where are all the girls at? Like the one who fed us? I've only seen guys so far."

The woman doesn't look at her. "Our community is built around the roles God intended for us. Men have bodies made for working under the sun. Women, like those beautiful young ladies you traveled with, are vessels to be cherished, protected. Especially in these times when they have become rather scarce."

A few of the words fail to make sense to Blue, never having learned them from any of the books Ghost read her. "Um, is that why you separated the girls in my group from the men?"

She hums, a slow sound. "Women are kept in their own quarters with the infants."

"Okay," Blue rocks on her feet and grips the hem of the dress before the light air can catch it. So is her dad one of those men working, then? She squints, confused, and shakes her head. No; if he was anywhere out here, he would've come to her. He must be locked up, too. A wave of anger buzzes in her chest, louder than the cicadas. "That still doesn't explain why you are holding Twix and Nereida prisoner. If women are so special, why are they locked up and I am out here? And where are all the men from my group?" Her mind briefly flashes to the others; Kyle, Price, and... Ari. 

"None of them are prisoners, child. They are merely being readied for the role their bodies were created for, by God."

Blue grits her teeth. "You're not really answering my questions. What about me? Why did you bring me to," she glances back at the working men, who haven't stopped to look at her like the others had, too engrossed in the strenuous labor. "A fucking farm. What could you possibly want to show me here?"

"There is someone I need here before our next stop." She leans closer to the barbed fence and calls out, "Pierre! J'ai besoin de toi et de trois hommes pour nous accompagner jusqu'à la cale. Apporte les chaînes."

A man—Pierre, she guesses—strikes one of the cattle's hindquarters, wipes sweat from the back of his neck, then shouts in French to three others following behind him. They unlatch a gate in the fence and slip inside a small shed for a brief moment, emerging with rusted chains in hand. They approach, causing Blue to falter and step back. An old, strange woman is one thing, but three strong men are another. A fissure of terror cracks through her, and she inhales shakily.

"You need not be afraid."

She blinks up at the woman, who for a moment, conjures something similar to a comforting expression. Blue nods, and then they are walking again, with the four men trailing behind them. The sound of the chains dangling in their grasp makes her feel uneasy. What are they for, and why are they coming with them? She is ready to build the bravery to ask when the woman ghosts a hand on her shoulder.

"What is your name, child?"

"It's... um, Blue."

A soft chuckle. "The English and their strangeness. This is not your real name, is it?"

For some reason, Blue finds the truth stuttering out of her. "No, it's—the name I was born with is Amelia."

"Amelia. Much better. Tell me, Amelia, did your mother have blue eyes?"

Blue nearly chokes, her footsteps halting in the grass as she flinches away from her hand, curling her fingers into fists. "What the fu—why are you asking me that?"

The woman stops beside her and clasps her hands together, the long sleeves of her gown falling over them. She is a small woman, hardly taller than Blue, and can't be any stronger than she is, but something about her emits control. Blue can't look away from her eyes, even as her jaw tightens, stomach swirling.

"There are many answers to questions that can be discovered on their own if one simply looks for them. I know which one of them is your father—"

"How could you know?" Blue demands. "I haven't even said any of them was my dad."

Thin lips twitch at the side. "A daughter gets the shape of her face from her father." A bony finger reaches to trail the edge of Blue's cheek, and she trembles from the cold feel of it. "But the features are all from her mother." She looks away and continues walking, speaking over her shoulder, "A little dove might have also told me he was asking for you."

When the men step forward, Blue is forced to continue walking. It feels hard to breathe, even though the canopy of trees offer fresh, rich air. "Then why are you asking about my mother?"

"Your eyes are blue, but your father's are not. I was simply curious."

"My mother is dead," Blue finds herself gritting out. 

"I figured. Neither of those women were her, and many mothers have been lost. A very terrible thing. A child needs its mother. You will call me Maman, Amelia. This is what French children call their mothers."

"I am not going to fucking call you that. Tell me where we are going," Blue presses, swallowing as she looks back at the farm behind them. Through the gaps between the men's shoulders, she sees that it is rather distant now, along with the small homes. She looks back ahead; nothing but overgrown vegetation. Even the flowers have grown sparse over here. It is quiet and still. She can hear the thrum of her own heart.

"Your fire is admirable, but you need to learn respect." For the first time, Maman's voice carries an edge, one that sends a shiver down Blue's spine. A foreign bird call echoes through the leaves, and the woman holds up a hand, signaling for everyone to stop and listen. "Ah. That’s the Bluethroat, if I’m not mistaken. Much rarer than the dove. You won't often find those in England."

The bird calls again—a trilled chirp—as they crest over a small hill, and the air suddenly grows heavier, more pungent. A smell Blue knows well makes her freeze, but a strong grip on her arm keeps her moving toward the source of the stench: an old, smaller building made of much darker stone. The sharp rustle of wings through the trees fades into the distance, but the tension in her body doesn’t ease.

"You, too, are rare, Amelia," Maman continues, voice steady and unhurried. "A pure, young female like you—so virtuous—carries more favor from God than any other. Your friends have their purpose, and you have yours. Each of us plays a part in shaping the new vision of God's children."

The men move in front of them now, except for one who continues gripping Blue. The tremble in her body intensifies, and a cold pit grows unbearable in her chest, thundering. She is forced to stand about four meters in front of the large door, where one man grips the handle while two others, including Pierre, stand beside it, their hands ready with chains and their stances wide. It’s now, through the stinging film that grows over her eyes, that Blue notices large metal muzzles attached to the chains.

Blue is too stunned—too confused, yet frightfully aware—to move a muscle when Maman procures a knife from inside her robe. Pierre shouts something in French, but Blue can barely hear him. Her senses are fixed on the bead of sunlight glinting off the knife, and on the scratching and snarling she hears from the other side of the door.

"Please—" she gasps, unable to finish the thought.

Maman ignores her in favor of snatching hold of her wrist. Cold fingers force her arm to extend, and a burning pain cries out when the knife slashes a laceration from her elbow to the rim of her palm. 

"Une seule coupure pour les attirer."

The blood weeps, and the door shakes from the ignited frenzy behind it.

Tears finally escape Blue’s eyes just before the door opens. She feels it—the sensation of her body being torn apart beneath rotten teeth. She squeezes her eyes shut, thinking of Ghost, when she hears more shouting and the harsh sound of chains being whipped through the air. When she opens her eyes again, the men are wrestling two Greys into the muzzles.

"Deux c'est bien!" Maman orders, and the door is slammed shut over the others that threaten to spill out toward the fresh wound. 

Blue is alive.

Her arm numb and bleeding. 

Maman yanks something else from her robe—a strip of cloth. She wraps it roughly around Blue's forearm, then issues another command. Without warning, Blue is hoisted from the ground and callously tossed over the shoulder of the man who had held her in place. They start heading back the way they came, the leashed Greys trailing behind them, and finally, a scream rips from Blue’s throat.

"You said this one was intact?" "Yes, Maman." "We will offer her pure body to the Lord. The other two will be fit to have children." "But she is a… I mean, yes, Maman." "Pierre! I need you and three men to accompany us to the hold. Bring the chains." "One cut to attract them.” “Two is good!”

[prfctplcsreads]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-nine —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.4k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

You trip over a tree root, catching yourself against the rough bark. You don’t stop. You scream for him again, your legs propelling you toward the road, boots sliding over loose gravel.

He pushes past the others and closes the distance.

You slam into him, nearly falling, and grab his shirt, using him to steady yourself. “Simon, we have to go. Now. We need to leave.”

“What’s going on?” Someone asks—Price?—but it barely registers.

"We need to fucking leave!" you urge.

Ghost clamps onto your shoulders. “Twix, breathe. What did you see?”

“There is a body—and blood, on the wall—I don’t know what it says, but it's fresh—” You shake your head, heart erratic. The words won’t come out right. You can’t explain the wrongness crawling under your skin, the terrible dread in your stomach. You thrust a finger in the direction of the chapel as if they will understand. The quiet air rolls through the flowers. You feel it now. It's too quiet. Too calm. You can only manage a whisper. “Someone had to have written the words. We’re not alone.”

You barely catch the unfurling of his eyes before the world erupts into black smoke, and then you can't see him at all.

They already knew you were here.

He grabs you, shouting something you can’t make out.

Your first thought is Blue, and your second is the bow.

Your hands fumble as you blindly slap an arrow onto the string, but someone's body slams into yours, and it falls. You can’t even see where it landed.

The cloud of smoke burns your lungs, and a string of coughs spasm up your throat.

Ghost’s grip slips from you.

"Blue!" you choke out. 

You stumble forward, reaching aimlessly, even though you don’t know what you’ll do when you find her. Your vision blurs with painful tears, and then you feel it—a sharp prick at your neck.

The pain is a numb, searing sensation down your spine.

Your muscles seize, then convulse.

"Ghost," you think you say. The soft ringing in your ears drowns everything. You try to take a step, but your leg won't move. You succumb to the numbness. The ground rushes to meet you, though darkness steals you first.

You swim between disjointed visions. Viewing them from behind plexiglass. At first, you are talking to Paul. It's a sunny day. The birds are chirping through canopies of oaks. Then, you are in a room bathed in white. Fingers prod at you. You can't react to them. A soft voice hums sweetly, almost soothing, but it twists and warps back into Paul’s voice.

"The world kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."

You bite a smile. "You know I have those words memorized."

"Good. Don't forget them," he says, not looking up from the wooden bird he whittles between leathery hands. It is a raven, you think. Though, you're no expert like he is. 

"You missed the first part, though."

His brow lifts. "Remind me."

"The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places," you recite. 

A weathered mouth stretches at the corners. "Which one will you be, then? Broken or killed?"

You look down at the knife in your hand, the one you've been using to carve the arrow for the bow he's made you. The blade is dulled. You drag a thumb over it, shrugging. "I guess only time will tell."

"I suggest deciding for yourself, Twix."

You look back at him. "What did you call me?"

He responds, but his voice slurs into something unintelligible. 

White sunlight catches on his knife’s blade, almost blinding you. You close your eyes against the glare, but the light doesn’t fade when you reopen them—it grows, washing out the blue sky until it shifts into a stark white ceiling. Paul is gone. The birds have been silenced. The crisp scent of fresh linen reaches you. Is this a new dream, or the kaleidoscope rolling before the surrender to death? Your body feels like a borrowed shell, your mind straining to instruct your fingertips to move. They manage a weak press into the soft sheets below, rubbing against the fabric as if to convince yourself it’s truly there.

You are alive, then. Or the brain is incredible at tricking you into thinking so. 

Moving your neck feels like a daunting task, as if the vertebrae in your spine have been rewired, so you shift your eyes, searching for clues, but your memory is faulty at best. The walls are all white and bare. There is a dark wood table at the far corner, and a single shut door to your right. Then, there are...bars. Metal bars stripe the view, and you realize with a sudden jolt in your chest that you are enclosed by them, kept in a confined rectangle at one part of the room. 

Awareness strikes as you realize you're nearly naked, clad only in a thin, white shift. Someone has changed you. You ignore the lingering ache as you crane your neck upward and steal leverage from your elbows. The small bed below you creaks with the shift in your muscles. 

There are two other cots in the enclosure, and in them lay two unconscious figures. One lays flat, limbs spread in an unnatural way, while her black hair curtains over the white linen like splats of ink. The other is a smaller girl, her body curled into a haphazard fetal position.

There is no one else in the room.

Only you, Nereida, and Blue.

Audibly dry breaths stagger up your throat. Your mouth feels like painful sandpaper no matter how much spit you try to gather. You try to sit up more, but your legs won't move the way you tell them to, and you end up almost crumpling onto your back again. 

"F...uck."

They are still asleep, or knocked out, or whatever it is that has been done to you. They are alive, though. This much you know, based on the steady movement in their chests. Still, you want to reach them. You try to lift up once more, managing to lean your back against the wall for support, but just when you are ready to throw your weight into swinging a leg over, a gentle creak comes from the door.

"Tu es réveillée!"

Your gaze snaps to a young woman—a stranger—dressed in a long white cloak with a hood and veil. She might look like a ghost if not for the faint shimmer of her features on the other side of the veil: soft cheeks, a slightly crooked nose, but still pretty. She can't be older than you. In her hands is a tray with three mugs of what appears to be a porridge. Nothing about her emits a threat except for the fact she is on the other side of the metal bars. A sharp intake floods your lungs, a scream caught in your throat as she approaches, tilting her head in a look that feigns concern.

"Forgive me, I forget you speak anglaise. Please, do not be afraid. My name is Salome." The accent is thick but ignorable. She glances at the other two with a gentle smile. "I am happy you are awake. Your friends will be awake soon, as well. Are you hurting?"

When you say nothing, frozen, she reaches a mug through the bars and sets it on the floor. "Here. For you. Eat it slowly. Your body is still recovering."

A stretch of silence hangs between you, broken only by your uneven breathing. The understanding sinks in with full force as you glance between her, the other two, and the mug. It’s an understanding spliced with confusion—missing pieces. All you know is that your nostrils twitch, and you have no desire to move an inch toward the offering of food.

You observe her in more detail. The cloak hangs loosely on her frame, but she isn't boney, in fact a distinguishable swell shifts under it when she adjusts the tray in her hands. She is pregnant. A pregnant woman is your kidnapper. No, that's not right. She couldn't have carried the three of you, nor could she have done whatever the hell has been done to the four males who are clearly not present. There has to be others. The thought digs your nails into the soft mattress. 

She looks ready to say something again when her eyes dart to the side. You follow her gaze to see that Blue is moving her leg, eyes still closed, but she is moving.

The sight gives the rush of adrenaline needed to rip the sheet off your body and bring your feet to the floor. On wobbly legs, you rush to her cot, ignoring the woman's presence in favor of cupping Blue's cheeks, checking her pulse. Her skin is warm and the artery is beating steadily. You give her a little shake, but her eyes won't flutter. 

"She might not wake for longer than you. Do not be worried. The dosage has a stronger effect on children."

You stiffen.

A snarl cuts through you as anger surges, ripping free from the pit in your chest.

"Dosage?" 

You whirl around, careening toward the bars, gripping them when you almost lose your balance. "Do not be worried? You drugged a fucking child and shoved us in a cage." Your hands tighten, the metal biting into your skin. You don't care that your voice hurts from disuse. "Where are the others? Why aren't they here?" She startles back a step, her soft eyes downcast.

"I see you are upset," she says, her tone soft and careful. "I know this is... much for you. Sometimes God works in ways we do not understand right away, but I promise, He has blessed you. You are safe here." A light touch to her belly. Whispering now, she adds, "You are coveted." 

Then, she lowers the other two mugs through the bars and slips out of the room, cloak silently brushing her feet. 

Breathing hard, the energy deflates.

You half-crawl back to Blue's bed.

Staring at her pink cheeks.

Head pounding.

She claims you are safe. The lack of hostility might suggest that, but the enclosure and fact that she could not answer your question about the others say different. 

You spend a strange amount of time sifting through the recesses in your brain, plucking the memories out, from the bloody chapel to the smoke to this, before Nereida shifts in her bed. Her eyes actually open, and then she is gazing around, the same process of understanding contorting on her face. 

"Twix," she breathes. "What is—where are we?"

You tell her about Salome and everything you know, which is next to nothing. 

"But the guys—"

"I don't know where they are. She wouldn't tell me anything."

The mugs of porridge go cold. 

You hear movement outside in the distance—someone stepping through the grass, a passing exchange between French-speaking men—but the window is on the other side of the bars.

"Maybe if we try to just..."

Nereida attempts to poke half of her face through the bars to look out, but by the way she claws at her hairline in frustration, you don't need to ask to know she can't see a thing. 

Your muscles feel mostly in control now, and despite the howl in your stomach, you refuse to eat.

Nereida does, too. She does some silent prayer—if that's what you could call closing her eyes and humming hypnotically to herself—and when she is done, she reopens them and says, "John will come soon. He will."

"They could be dead."

"We would know if they were."

"No, we wouldn't."

"I would know," she whispers, and circles her arms around her knees, thumbing the scar on her shoulder. "He isn't dead."

Neither of you speak for some time. 

You watch Blue, her pulse steadying you, even if by a little. Absently, you stroke her hair. The pieces of the puzzle fall together with grim clarity. No weapons. Ghost, Price, Kyle, and Ari could be dead. The thought is a weight you can barely carry. You shove it away, refusing to let it consume you. If you let yourself linger too long on the possibility, you'll break down. You can't—merely for Blue's sake, not when you're holding onto the fragile thread keeping you together.

As the sunlight through the window starts to fade, you try to determine whether it's been a day or more since you were knocked out, and when exactly Salome will return. That's when Blue finally wakes up.

"Twix?"

Her lashes flicker.

"Blue. Blue, I'm here." You carefully scoop her in a tight hug, breathing her in closely. 

"What... what happened?" She lamely pulls away, shoulders sagging, and trembles in confusion. "I can't—I don't remember anything."

"We were drugged. Someone—I don't know who or why—but someone is keeping us in here."

"Are they going to kill us?" she whispers.

"I think they would have by now if they wanted to."

Her breath staggers. "But where is—why isn't Ghost here?"

You swallow. "I don't know if he... I don't know where he is."

Her eyes dart around.

"You mean my dad—he could be..."

She clutches at the shift on her chest.

At first, when you see her eyes begin to gloss over, you fear she is in pain. But then the panic becomes palpable, tearing through her ability to breathe, and she starts clawing at her own skin. 

"My dad is dead! My dad is fucking dead! He's not here. Why isn't he here!"

Her screams pierce the room.

You grab her wrists to stop the damage from her nails, welts already beating red on her neck.

"Blue, stop! Stop it!"

But she won't stop. She grabs the pillow and stuffs it in her mouth, howling into it, her face red and wet.

She begins to rock violently.

"I can't survive without him."

You watch helplessly, trying to hold her. 

"Please, just—breathe. We don't know if he's—"

The door opens. Salome rushes in beside an older woman similarly dressed in white. 

"Le pauvre enfant a peur! Dieu montre ta grâce." The other woman carries the tray this time, with what looks to be more food along with a syringe. She hands it to Salome. "Dites-leur que cela aidera."

Salome offers the needle through the bars as you glare at her, tightening your arms around Blue. "This will help her calm down."

"I am not giving her that. Stay the fuck away."

Blue is shaking so hard she bumps her skull into your jaw. Nereida touches your arm. "Twix, it could help her."

"You don't know what the fuck they put in that thing," you hiss at her. "I'm not drugging her even more."

"I will leave it here for your choosing. Your dinner will not be hot for long. Please, all of you, eat." Salome bows her head as she places the syringe and tray on the floor in front of the cell, and leaves with the other woman before you can demand more from them. 

It is only after minutes of listening to Blue scream, unable to stop her from scratching herself any longer, that you concede and ask Nereida to bring it to you. Carefully, you sweep the hair from her face, steadying the tremble in your hand as you sink the needle into a vein in her arm, with Nereida helping to keep it extended.

"There. Please, Blue, please calm down. We cannot think the worst. Not yet, okay?" Your eyes threaten moisture but you blink hard to keep it at bay.

Whatever it was acts the moment it seeps into her bloodstream. She sags into you, face turning sticky as the tears are given time to dry, and her wailing dies down to silence. 

"Are you hungry?" 

She shakes her head.

That first night is spent without sleeping. 

You entangle yourself with Blue in the cot, watching the evening turn to a sliver of moonlight across the floor. She doesn't fall asleep, either, oscillating between silent tears and a void stare at the ceiling. Nereida stays in her own bed, humming here and there in that way that she does. At one point, you hear her whisper into the pillow: "John, give me strength. You always do."

You keep your emotions steady by counting the notches in Blue's spine, one by one, then starting back at the top. As you do, you think about what Salome said. You are not just safe, you are coveted. They want you to eat. They are not trying to harm you. Coveted. She's touched her stomach when she said it. The connection between it all grows starker in your mind. 

You share this with Nereida at the break of dawn when Blue seems to finally have succumbed to fatigue.

"They want us because we are women. That's why the others aren't here."

She nods, whispering. "I was thinking the same."

"Then we use that to our advantage."

"How?"

You palm your temple. "I don't know. I mean, we have some standing here. They value us in some way, right?"

"But we don't even know who 'they' includes," she murmurs, leaning her forehead briefly against the wall, then sitting straighter. "There are men here, too. That much we know. And if they were able to take out all of us at once, then there could be many."

"But none have come to see us," you point out. "Why is that?"

"Because they aren't allowed to." She places a finger on the wall, drawing it around, as if it helps her think. "Why would they be? We are coveted, remember? Something to be protected. Why else would they bother feeding us and keeping us tucked away in here."

"So maybe the guys aren't dead yet," you exhale, wishfully. "Maybe they are just in separate... housing or something. Another cell of their own. Kept away from the women, that's all."

Based on the interior of the room, this feels it was once a small, detached home. Maybe on a farm. The walls are painted stone; cold to the touch. All of the buildings you recall seeing on your way here were old, little farmhouses. Perhaps they have an established settlement. 

Mewling it over, you finally touch the cold food, taking a small bite of the cut-up meat to confirm it's something you haven't tasted in years: beef. They have cattle. What else do they have? Drugs, apparently. Or at least some type of sedatives extracted from plants. They are well-versed in the land. They are religious. And women are coveted for reproduction. 

"But then what was the shit in that chapel for?" you whisper to yourself, the image of the mangled body staining the backs of your lids when you close them.

When they reopen, Salome is at the doorway.

"Bonjour, mesdames. I have some oatmeal—" she frowns at the tray on the floor. "Oh... my. You have not eaten for two days. This is not the Lord's wishes. Your bodies are chosen, and they are in need of—"

"Tell us where they are, and we’ll eat," you cut her off, rising to your feet. You grip the bars tightly. "Tell us if they're still alive. One of them is her father. If you don't want her screaming again, you will tell us if he's okay."

She stares at you, then nods. "Eat first. All of you."

The oatmeal is sweetened with ripe blackberries that burst on your tongue. Blue awakens just when you and Nereida finish scarfing the last bite. You hand her the last bowl of oatmeal and urge her to eat, knowing that Salome won't cooperate if she doesn't. Blue takes minuscule bites. She hacks some of it back up, but with a sip of water passed through the cage, she is able to finish the rest.

She wipes a hand over her mouth and looks at Salome. "My dad. Where is he?" Her voice is low.

"He is alive. Of course, he is. They all are." A tremendous sense of relief washed over you. She cups her belly, her fingers tracing the shape. "Life is sacred... and so is death. We must be careful not to let more death come than is needed. The world... it has already seen too much of it."

Your brow scrunches. "Bullshit. I saw that corpse you guys left in the—"

Nereida gives your wrist a light squeeze, a reminder to hold back. You bite your tongue, knowing this woman is the only one who might give you any answers.

Salome tilts her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "I do not mean the world does not deserve the plague it bears. Men... they grew too sinful. Strayed far from God's will. It was His plan for them to atone for it." Her lips stretch into a faint smile, a thin, almost sad expression. "Your friends—they cannot come closer to God until they make amends. They must atone before they can be worthy of the future we will bring."

You blanch. "What the hell does that mean? 'They must atone?'"

Her gaze drifts to the left, and she mutters something under her breath in French, her words faint, then lowers her head to collect the tray, her back to you. You can’t hold yourself back any longer, pushing your face between the bars. "Don’t you fucking dare. You’ve hardly told us anything!"

"I... I fear I cannot say more." She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "You are in a delicate state, and Maman will see to you today. Please... trust me, this is the way it must be."

Maman?

The door quietly clicks shut and you growl at it.

A hand cups your shoulder. 

"She told us they're alive. That's what matters, right?'

You face Blue, leaning your spine into the metal. "Yeah. But we still have no way of getting to them."

The red rim around her eyes has faded to the same flush as her lips. She takes a slow breath through her chest, clenching and unclenching her hands, before asking, "What do you think they are doing to them?"

"I don't know," you say with a heavy exhale, your tongue pressing between your cheek and teeth.

G

Pennies.

When Ghost swims to the surface of semiconsciousness, the smell of pennies wafts up his nose first, then the feel of icy, hard restraints around his wrists hits him second. It is the kind of smell that is deeply woven into the floors and walls. Old blood calling for new. He could remember smelling it for the first time in Mexico when he'd awoken in a cell, stripped. The flush of air against his chest suggests this time is now different, but upon forcing his lids apart, a glance downward reveals he still has jeans on.

Ghost thinks he hears someone scream his name—Simon!—but it is merely a memory from right before the world went dark. He'd fought against it all he could, keeping the tail of Twix's shirt in one hand, and trying to seek Blue with the other, but then he had to choose one to let go of to grab his gun. The memory swims up to the forefront; the fumbling of his fingers at his belt loop, seeking the pistol, the loss of motor function as something pricked his neck. The pistol slipped from his grasp, and so did they.

He forces the reel of Twix's screams to the back of his mind where they play in a distant loop. Through hazy vision, he looks around, taking in the lack of light. No windows. It is a small room, with grey stone walls, and only one door at the far end. None of the others are here. Not the girls or Price or Gaz. There wouldn't even be space for all of them to fit in here. The shackles on his wrists are rusty, nicking his skin when he tries to shift around. His heart thumps steady and slow between his ears. Whatever they drugged him with is fading with each shake of his head and forced blink of his eyes.

He tugs on the manacles once more in vain when there is a voice from the other side of the wall.

It is muffled through stone, but grows crisper as booted footsteps close in.

Then they stop.

The door creaks open.

The man who steps in is cloaked in grey.

He waves a metal bar, whistling lowly, and kicking the door shut behind him. 

"You must be an early riser." His chuckle is wry. "Up before your friends. Tell me, Brit. What brings you all the way to l'Hexagone? Not a fun trip over the water, is it?"

The man circles him. A light tap of the bar on his bare shoulder blade. 

"No? Not much of a sharer?" The end of the bar presses in, just slightly, but the pain doesn't register. Only the cold wetness of a trickle of blood on his back when it pulls away. A hand fists his hair, and yanks his head back. "Nous allons régler ça, sale racaille. Je me ferai un plaisir de t'aider à retrouver la lumière."

His head is thrown forward with force. Ghost blinks down at the floor, teeth grinding. Through them, he breathes hard—

"Where are they?"

"Which ones? The pretty ones?" The accented voice lowers to the shell of his ear. "I would not get your hopes up of seeing them again. They will be saved for the most worthy of us."

- Nous devons expier nos péchés...We must atone for our sins. - Tu es réveillée!...You're awake! - Le pauvre enfant a peur! Dieu montre ta grâce....The poor child is afraid. God show your grace. - Dites-leur que cela aidera...Tell them it will help. - Nous allons régler ça, sale racaille. Je me ferai un plaisir de t'aider à retrouver la lumière...We'll sort this out, you dirty scum. I'll be happy to help you get back to the light.

[prfctplcsreads]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-seven —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.2k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex!!! SEX. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

It is difficult to tell who lifts the mask.

You think you start it, then he finishes it with a shove up to his nose. 

Your mouth claims his, ivy to stone.

His lips part for your tongue as your arms loop around his shoulders. His fingers dig in your scalp, sharp enough to draw a hiss, while his other arm yanks you closer by the waist, heat searing against your bare skin. It's not a kiss—too unruly for that. His tongue grazes your chin; you taste the edge of his nose. The world narrows to the harsh sound of your breathing, the scrape of your teeth, a tangible truth:

You want him, too. 

He pulls back with one great heave of breath just after the tear on your lip is reopened. A strand of pink-tinted saliva connects you. His eyes search your face, hesitation flickering in his gaze. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I clearly just did.”

His jaw tightens. “I need words. Tell me you understand what you—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, voice trembling with a mix of frustration and need. “Don’t act like I can’t make my own decisions. Like I can’t handle you.” Rising on your toes, you bite his lip, hard enough to draw a matching drop of blood. “I’ve handled you before—Simon."

A shudder wrenches his shoulders.

Your words rip a growl from his throat, snapping the last of his restraint.

His kiss devours you, raw and unforgiving, until everything else fades to red. Not blood, but something else, something you’ve kept hidden for longer than you care to admit. It burns in your chest—the terrifying realization that you might break if you don’t have him here and now.

His grip on your hair shifts to your thigh, lifting you with ease. Tree bark bites into your spine. You trail kisses down his jaw to the hollow below his ear. Your ankles lock around his waist, dragging up his shirt. The metal buckle of his belt presses where you ache, the friction drawing a sharp gasp. Even through the layers, he feels impossibly thick.

He forces your neck to the side, mouth sucking down your throat to your collarbone with urgent deliberation, as if he wants to memorize every inch but realizes neither of you possess the patience for it. He licks, then bites, the pain making your hips angle in upward seeking. Your reaction pulls a smirk from him. His teeth and tongue glide lower, and he hikes your damp bra up to expose your breasts.

"Fucking hell." A guttural exhale before hand and mouth devours them.

Thought evaporates.

Your chest turns sheen with spit.

You thrash against the tree, your nipple caught between his teeth. He teases it with a graze, then sinks in.

Heat punches the pit of your stomach with a ferocity that makes you cry out.

You claw at the back of his mask. "I need...I need—more."

He groans, low, staving the bite mark with his tongue. This time when he rolls the other nipple between teeth, it is in combination with two fingers slipping under your underwear. The muscles in your thigh jerk. A rough finger grinds circles into your clit, and another glides through the wet seam of you. It is impossible not to fight for more. Delirious with greed, you cant your hips down to slip his middle finger inside. 

He takes the hint and works a second finger into you. Your legs tighten around him in unending tremors that must make keeping his arm between your bodies uncomfortable, his wrist straining to reach you. Arousal leaks steadily onto his hand. You turn less vocal now that you're close, vision failing you, and he tongues at the shell of your ear with a growl.

"I'm not going to fuck you until you cum."

"I'm—"

Strong fingertips curl into the sensitive pad within you, coaxing an orgasm much stronger than the one you gave yourself. It beats through your blood in hot bursts, robbing you of the ability to keep your head up. You lean onto his shoulder, feeling it flex as he fucks his fingers once, twice, then three more times before drawing them out. Through the haze, you hear the drag of his tongue over them and then a soft wet release.

"You will give me more of that."

A flush consumes your face. Your lips part to speak; you can't—

"What happened to my mouthy girl?" he taunts in a murmur.

His tone snaps the world into focus. "She's here."

"I thought she could handle me."

You lift your head to narrow your gaze at his, despising the tick in his brow. "You are insufferable."

"Ah. There she is. I was worried I lost her."

The striking awareness that you are almost naked, while he is fully clothed head-to-toe, suddenly irritates you. You curl your fingers around the fabric bunched by his ear. "Take this off. I've already seen you. It's pointless now."

"You'll have to take it off yourself."

You’re about to move when he pins your wrist to the tree, then the other. A silent challenge. You squirm, but it only drags the belt across your sensitive cunt, making you hiss. You've been here before—restrained by him. But this time, his weakness is clear, a heavy, undeniable pressure pressing against you.

You nudge your nose against his and kiss the taste of yourself from his mouth with slow, ribbing strokes of your tongue. The change in pace makes him sigh into you. You give a swirl of your hips, grinding into him, staggering his breath. When he moves again, pressing for relief at the juncture of your hip and thigh, you still your movements, leaving him hanging.

A growl vibrates in his chest as he squeezes your wrists. On his next attempt, you swiftly unlock your ankle and jab your knee into his ribs.

He flinches, but doesn't loosen his grip, laughing softly. "A valiant attempt," he mutters.

"Shut up," you mumble, breath huffing out of you.

"Was that your entire plan?"

"I'm not fucking you until it's off, you know."

"Make more of an effort, then."

Fine.

You slowly run your tongue over your lip, offering a teasing shift of your hips. His throat bobs, a quick, instinctive response. Your thighs tighten around his torso, holding firm. "You are needy for this, too, Simon. Don't act like I am the only one." Your voice comes out hoarse, almost foreign. You move your hips in a steady rhythm, your lips finding the tender skin just above his collarbone. "I bet I could make you cum, just like this. You won't even need to be inside me."

It is an experiment, really, but the thundering of his heart confirms your claim. With your panties bunched to the side, your arousal glides over him, staining his jeans. He matches your movements with firm presses at the base of his clothed-cock. You taste the pulsing vein beneath your tongue, swirling and nibbling, a smoldering heat blossoming in your stomach once more.

"I touched myself thinking about you," you whisper into his skin, ego swelling when his breath stills, then rushes out from his nose. "My fingers didn't feel nearly as good as yours." You purposely moan, almost a whine. Impossibly, he feels harder. Swelling towards release. His skin feels hotter. You nose the underside of his jaw. "You're going to cum soon, aren't you? I can tell. I haven't even taken off any of your clothes yet and you're going to cum. How does it feel to be weak for me?"

His jowls flex from your words and his hips buck with a mindlessness that makes you smile. The heat between you is obliterating. It almost crumbles your vengeance. But when he digs his nails into your wrists with a slight tremble, ashen lashes fluttering, you interrupt the moment before he can finish.

You bite the skin where his throat meets his jaw and kick his ribs again. His eyes snap open, his hold faltering. He stumbles back, and you grapple his shoulders, forcing him to the ground. You fall on top of him, knees bracketing his hips, fingers moving swiftly to tear off the mask.

For a few seconds, you merely stare at each other, like a deer gazing at a hunter.

Face to face, truly, for the first time.

His face, flushed red, is even more handsome like this—rugged and scarred, bared at your mercy beneath you. It makes your heart falter over a beat. His hands drag down the notches of your spine before fiercely gripping your hips, never breaking eye contact. Because you’re paying such close attention, you catch it—a sweeping glint in his gaze. Admiration, maybe. Or just lust.

You swallow thickly and give a tug to his shirt.

He rips it over his head.

You finish yanking the damp bra off.

Your underwear is next.

When you're both bare, exposed and raw, jeans bunched awkwardly at his ankles, the game ends. Neither of you are willing to play anymore. His fingers dig into your hips as you grip his cock, heavy and slick with the evidence of the edge he was pulled from. You drag the fat head of him through your folds, just once to make him shudder, before lining him up with your hole and sinking down.

Pain flares. Either because it has been years since you've been stretched like this, or because he is just that thick. You hiss through your teeth and pause halfway down, scratching over the hard plane of his chest in search of relief. You feel him deep already, uncomfortably so, and his touch softens over your skin despite the veins sticking out in his neck.

"Take it slow."

"I can handle it."

"It's alright if you can't," his voice softens over the gravel in it.

"I can."

Stubbornly, you take another centimeter, then another, before slamming all the way down, the full length of him breaking through the last layer of resistance until you are fully seated. The press of his fingers into your ass is as rough as the exhale that follows. You feel him twitch within you, his balls heavy and tight, but he allows you the time to adjust, slowly rocking your hips until the discomfort teeters toward pleasure.

He is so big that the tip of him reaches a crevice between your inner wall and cervix. When your pace quickens, the pressure of his pubic bone on your clit makes your body quake with one fierce tremor. You fail to keep yourself upright, the jolt of it bringing your face to his neck. Strong arms tighten around you, hands pressing firmly against your shoulder blades, holding you anchored to his chest as his hips rise to drive him impossibly deeper. He is in you and around you. All at once. Every inch of grey rot living in you is replaced with damning hunger for him. You swirl and grind and bite his neck, breaking capillaries. 

"That's it, yeah." The raw grit in his voice makes your muscles clench around the base of him. "Take what you need." 

He grips your ass firmly, supporting you as his upward thrusts meet your flesh with echoing smacks. When his firm, neatly corded muscles begin to quiver, his movements lose their precision. He is trying to hold back from the ledge you left him on. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking you back from his neck, and his teeth sink into the tender skin below your ear as a distraction. His breaths come hot and quick, cooling the sweat slicking your skin. 

You feel like a conglomerate of broken pieces about to be shattered, every carefully stitched seam straining, ready to snap. Your eyes roll back. Your toes flex and curl. You are so close—

Without warning, and all too soon, he lifts you off. 

"Fuck—"

His cock bobs between your bodies, liquid heat frothing over your stomach in pulses. His eyes are screwed shut, lips parted to let out a noisy rush of air, all of the hardened lines on his face unwoven in the wake of pleasure. You hover over him, blades of grass indented into your knees, watching with silent fascination despite the frustrated fizzle of your own approaching orgasm. When his eyes reopen, they are glazed and unfocused, yet somehow he had more wherewithal to remember pulling out than you did.

Then, he flips you over with a heaving push, cock still hard. You are neatly caged by the sprawl of his muscle, reminded that he easily could've overtaken you before if he wanted to.

"I can go again." It sounds as if he has to dig the words out with great effort, still breathless. 

You reach between your bodies to keep his slippery cock at bay near your thigh. "We can't. It wouldn't be safe after you just—just came."

His lashes flutter in resignation, a firm nod as he dips his head to your collarbones. He rests it there for a moment, likely ignoring the ache in his cock that vies for more attention, and you stare down at the flexing brawn of his back, at the firm swell of his ass. Then he kisses your sternum, over your heart, and sucks his way down the soft curve of your abdomen, gentle, chapped lips against faded bruises.  

When he reaches the raw flesh between your thighs, he lifts your legs and urges your feet on his back. His nose nudges your clit, inhaling deeply the scent of where you'd just been joined, and your breath hitches in anticipation. 

He kisses you here, a curious circle of his tongue around your clit that mimics his finger, before sliding through the slippery seam. When you fist his hair and dig your heels into his shoulders, his gentleness ceases. He closes his entire mouth on you, working furiously to reignite the heat from your spine, which arches off the ground in desperation, driving your puffy cunt harder against the pad of muscle. You grind your hips in combination with pulling on his hair, keeping his tongue right where you need it. It strokes your hole, pushing in and out.

"That's so good, Ghost. So good. I'm—"

You cum hard on his tongue, free hand fisting the grass. It is less of a precipice that you fall off of, and more a crashing wave, like the one you nearly drowned in, but this time you let it sweep you, searing white through the backs of your eyelids. He keeps his tongue there to catch the leakage with an obscenely wet sound you barely hear over the ringing in your ears. By the time it fades, you feel wrecked, spit out on the shore, your mind blank. The wave recedes. 

You hear a soft grunt and then his forehead drops on your sticky belly. The tremor in his shoulders indicates his own release, which he emptied in the grass.

You lay together like this for minutes, recovering your breath.

Fingers against his scalp.

Staring at the sky.

It’s as if you’re drifting through a dream, aware only of the heavy thrum of your heartbeat and the measured breathing of the person nestled between your legs.

Finally, awareness seeps in as the sound of fluttering birds and the quiet ripples over the creak. 

The hum of life returns around you. You'd almost forgotten where you were or how you got here. How long has it been? Your fingers slacken in his hair as you gaze around, the silent trees your only witness, and the sun beginning to dip toward the horizon. The understanding sinks in that you are both absent, and returning together at dark would—

The thought is tucked away when strong arms lift you up, scooping under the crook of your knees.

He is able to walk steadily even when you aren't certain you could.

He carries the mess of your body to the water. The peaceful warmth of it converges over you, highlighting the soreness that you were able to ignore in the throes of it all. Wordlessly, and with a thoughtful crease between his brow, he holds you up with one arm while scrubbing your stomach with the other, rinsing off his essence. It is not an uncomfortable silence, just a thick one, only broken by little drips of water as he cleans you with more intent than you did the first time.

You try to piece together everything in your mind, but the thoughts slip through your fingers like the water. You don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling—a stark contrast to the clarity you found in the heat of him only minutes ago. His body has always been the more decipherable part of him, but now even the stiffness in his shoulders feels like a cipher you can’t crack.

When he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your damp hair, it doesn’t feel affectionate, exactly. It’s not distant, either—just tender in a way you’re not sure how to interpret. The gnawing questions fill your brain: When was the last time he did this with someone? How many more times will you do it together? Not just once, he said. But what does that mean?

Why do you feel hesitant to ask, even though you were just brindled with confidence while riding his cock?

You try to wipe his own stomach but he brushes your fingers away and does it himself, nodding his chin toward your clothes. "Get dressed. You'll go first."

"Huh?"

"They think I am scouting up ahead right now. I'll be back later."

"Oh," you say, not able to conjure a meaningful response.

He raises an eyebrow at you but offers nothing else except a gentle thumbing over hair that sticks to your cheek. You follow his directions, returning to the grassy bank while the cool air prickles your wet skin. You feel his heavy stare as he watches you towel off, trying to ignore the obvious marks on your hips, stomach, ass, and collarbones. They taunt you with a blush to your cheeks. Luckily, when you slip on the oversized shirt, the majority of them are concealed, your hair finishing the job of covering your neck.

You've no idea what hour it could be when you return, feigning nonchalance, but the setting sun means Ghost won't be out there much longer. In his absence, you feel colder than the temperature truly is. The deep ache that ebbs and flows with each step proves him right. There is no going back after this. No—you will still be able to feel him, like a phantom, even when the soreness between your legs fades. What you are meant to do about that fact is something you can sort through later when you have the state of mind for it. 

Will you ever have the state of mind for it?

You push the voice away and keep your gaze lowered as you approach Nereida, returning the borrowed soaps. The others are gathered around the fire—Kyle eating, Blue and Ari laughing about something, while Price hunches over the map, finalizing tomorrow’s route.

"Was it relaxing?" she asks.

"Hm?"

You blink, bringing your gaze to her, and only now realizing that it is still rather droopy and blurred, the look in her eyes barely in focus as she tilts her head. "Your bath," she clarifies.

"Oh. Mhm." You nod, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, it was just what I needed. I'm actually, um, rather tired now. I think I will sleep early."

She drags her eyes over you, causing your weight to shift, before she returns the smile. "Sounds like a good idea. Long day tomorrow. You should eat first, though."

"Right," you concede, tongue to cheek.

Ghost returns in the midst of you shoveling beans into your mouth, knees tucked to your chest in front of the flames, and his silence as usual. He reports to Price about the clear motorway, his voice clinical, but you catch the subtle roughness beneath it—something no one else would notice, the only detectable trace of what you shared. What you told Nereida wasn't a lie, you feel robbed of energy, and can hardly muster the strength to tie your dried hair in two braids before tucking yourself in a sleeping bag, staring dazedly at the oncoming stars. 

[prfctplcsreads]

okay so i was thinking how about you write the night drew and angel met and him finding out her age and stuff

you’d only ever seen drew around your dad’s movie set, the two of you had small convos and constantly exchanged ‘hi’s’ and little waves, but when you seen him outside set, you knew it was your only chance.

warnings/notes: both drew and angel drunk talking, drew liking little girls lol, angel tryna be sassy nonchalant, they’re both tryna play hard to get, suggestive ending! idk if i rlly like this

it started with constant eye contact, then before you knew it you were both drunk and having a conversation about your age. "fuck, you're nineteen?" drew rubbed his head, regret filling up his body. he couldn't be seen messing around with someone as young as you, but the alcohol in his system didn’t make it seem like such a huge problem.

"well when you say it like that, it sounds bad.” you rolled your eyes, toying with drew’s hand that was much larger than yours.

“it is bad.” he chuckled. “you’re like half my age.” he never broke eye contact with you, you liked it, he was mature. “cmon,” you rubbed your hand across his chest. “you’re that much of an old man?” you giggled.

drew leaned down, his lips pressed against your ear. “yeah. waaayy too old for you.” he whispered. something about the way his hot breath hit your ear made your panties wet; he was so big, so tall, so old. you both knew it wasn’t the best decision, but god, were you both intrigued. “doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.” you batted your eyelashes up at him, how did such a young girl like you know how to break him.

“yeah, what if you start to like me?” drew questioned you with a smirk plastered across his face. “what if you start to like me?” you turned the tables on him, trying your best to play along with his games. as if you weren’t on the verge of vomiting from the butterflies in your stomach. “who says i don’t?”

“well,” you looked away for a second, desperate to keep composure. “it’s gonna take more than that. i’m a classy girl.”

“classy girl, hm?” drew smirked, “those outfits don’t exactly scream ‘classy’.” drew looked you up and down, yeah, maybe he was using it as an excuse to check you out, but you didn’t need to know that. “yeah and you didn’t exactly scream pervert to me either.” you shot back. “but here we are.”

“woah,” drew set down his beer on the bar counter. “you’re sassy.” somehow the space between the both of you was closing, his big arms and chest practically bursting out of his shirt, you felt wrong and dirty for feeling as horny as you did. “what are you gonna do about it?”

“i don’t think you can handle what i’d do about it.” drew took another swig of his beer. you were both way past the point of drunk and horny. if drew was sober, he would’ve never came up to you in the first place. “yeah, okay.” you scoffed.

“you wanna find out?”

[prfctplcsreads]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-six —other parts

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

You run back inside.

Discreet steps against the wood floor—the bathroom door quietly clicks shut behind you.

You lean your back against it. Eyed closed as your heart pumps between your ears. He left you. But he kissed you back—the sting in your split lip is proof. You move to the mirror. Blown-out pupils and a swollen mouth stares back at you. You touch them with your fingers in disbelief, then trace the faint marks on your jaw where he gripped you.

"You liked it."

A whisper of acceptance. 

You grip the counter, knuckles bone-white, and quickly work the fly of your jeans. One touch to your underwear confirms you are soaked—a thick pulse between your legs that matches the artery in your neck. Furiously, you work your fingers through the slippery folds, a thumb to your clit and two fingers blindly plunging in. The first orgasm in years hits you swiftly. A jolting, cathartic wave. You bite your tongue to stay silent, filling your mouth with a pearl of iron blood as images of a skull mask flash through your mind.

You struggle to breathe. 

In and out.

When the pleasure fades, you wipe your hand on your shirt, wriggle your jeans up, and zip them.

"Twix—" a quiet tap on the door. "Are you in there?"

You nearly jump as if you've been caught. 

You swipe your tongue over your bottom lip as if to erase the evidence.

When you carefully open the door, blue eyes peer at you through the dark.

"Are you okay?" she whispers. "What are you doing up?"

A tight coil in your stomach. You can't look at her. "I just was, um—I couldn't sleep."

"Did you have a bad dream?"

The lie comes easy. "Yeah."

"Me, too. I woke up and realized you weren't beside me."

"I'm... I'm sorry. I'm coming back now." An exhale filters through your nose along with a wave of sheer exhaustion. "We really need to get some sleep."

You settle back in the sleeping bag. You touch your torn lip once more—it's like you can still feel him there—then curl onto your side. Sleep steals you, but it's thin and short-lived, fragmented by restlessness. Before the break of dawn, when it's still dark, Nereida rouses you and Blue with a tap to your shoulders. Ghost must've switched watch with Price at some point because he is inside the cottage, just waking up himself.

You try not look at him, but fail to catch yourself when you roughly roll up the sleeping bag. He looks the same, unchanged. You don’t know why you thought he might look different after what happened. When his eyes lift to meet yours, you quickly tear your gaze away.

Everyone eats a small breakfast—just enough for fuel but not enough to risk sickness from exertion. You shove everything from the night before into your box and readjust your focus.

Ghost and Kyle unload the truck, piling supplies into the raft while Price gives instructions. "If we keep rowing southeast, we'll eventually reach land," he explains. "The wind shifted directions overnight, now moving south. It should help keep the needle steady, as long as it doesn't change course again."

With the raft fully inflated, they carry it to the shoreline. The first light of dawn paints the horizon, a sliver of orange sun dancing over the water. The tide is gentler than last night, its waves foaming quietly over the sand. "Ghost and Kyle will swim first," Price continues, "but we all need to be ready to switch when they get tired."

You glance at the others as you start unlacing your boots, shoving your socks inside. Clothes will hinder your movement and offer no insulation against the water. Nereida stands beside you, undressing and handing you a sports bra.

"Wear this. It's basically a swimsuit," she says.

"Thanks."

It is much less tattered than the simple bra you own. You turn your back and let her cover you as you snap it on. It should feel embarrassing exposing this much skin—stripped down to your underwear and bra—but you imagine it as a bikini. The fact that all of you are just trying to get across alive helps.

But when you turn back around, the thought of survival is staggered by the sight of the last person you want to look at. He is pinching the collar of his plain black tee, lifting it over his head and revealing a bare, scarred torso. The skull mask is gone, but his features are unmistakable. Hard jaw. Strong nose. Thick brows. Your stomach tightens. His face is—

"Good to go, Simon?"

He nods firmly to Price, clad only in black briefs that hug his corded thighs. Bending to undo his combat boots, his eyes meet yours briefly. He left you. Your nails dig into your palms as you look away, following Nereida to the raft. Price has positioned it half in the water, half on the sand, where Blue and Ari are already settled. There are two oars. He hands one to you, keeping the other along with the compass.

Kyle has stripped, as well. 

He dips his fingers in the water, gauging the temperature. 

You wade in the ankle-high tide to get inside. It's lukewarm at the surface, and a bit colder at the soles of your bare feet.

Ghost scoops a handful and splashes it over his face, hair, and chest.

"Fucking kill me," you whisper under your breath. Nereida looks at you.

"You're okay?"

"Huh? Yeah." 

"Let me know if you get tired of rowing."

"Will do."

The sea used to be a place you visited during holidays with your family, diving into the waves with your sister. Now—you stare at the sunrise on the horizon and hope that by the end of day it will materialize into France. Ghost and Kyle push the raft fully into the water until it becomes too deep for them to stand, then you start rowing, with strong strokes that make you breathe hard through your nose. 

"Keep an eye on them for any signs that they need to get out," Price orders Blue, Nereida, and Ari. "Throw out the rope if they get far behind."

You glance back at them as your biceps flex. Your eyes land on a strong, tattooed back. He hates swimming, you know. But his body weaves through the water with strong strokes of his arms that keep him aligned with the back corner of the raft. 

You row for the first half-hour, your arm beginning to tremble wildly. Nereida takes over, rowing for another half-hour before Ghost and Kyle need a break. They cling to the raft's edge, struggling to keep pace. Getting back on the raft alone is impossible—it requires strength from someone aboard to pull you up, or the raft could tip over. Price hoists Kyle inside first, then leaps in. You grab a blanket, wrapping Kyle tightly to stave off his shivering. Minutes later, Kyle then helps Ghost aboard at the same time you swing your legs over the edge. Your turn. 

Salty water envelops you.

It threatens to enter the seam of your mouth.

You grab the back of the raft to situate yourself, an immediate tremble moving through your limbs.

Despite the May warmth, the seawater remains frigid this far out, with land nowhere in sight.

"Listen to your body. Don’t wait—tell us the second you can’t go any longer."

It's Ghost barking at you from the raft. You absorb his words and start swimming, moving each leg and arm in opposition. You crane your neck against the broken water to gulp in regular breaths of air. Already sore from rowing, it is not long before your pace slows down. You take a break, blindly snatching onto the edge, before continuing. Not even an hour later, you are sputtering, numb all over, and feel lightheaded. You call out over the water that you fight to not swallow.

"I can't—I need out!"

"Pull her in!"

You reach for the raft again, but a rolling wave fights against your arm. Your head dips lower, legs flailing to stay afloat. When your face breaks the surface again, the sting of salt sharp in your eyes, the gap between you and the raft has widened. The rope is thrown, but you dip under again, unable to reach it. Your lungs burn, a mouthful of water flooding in.

Panic seizes your muscles. 

A splash—

A body collides with your own, an arm beneath your breasts.

They paddle with the other arm, pulling you to the halted raft.

"Grab her!" Ghost shouts.

A gulp of air widens your lungs as someone else grabs you beneath the arms and lifts you up. A towel is wrapped around your trembling body as you curl up on the raft, conserving every bit of warmth you can, trying to catch your breath. Kyle puts another layer over you, rubbing your arms.

"You need water."

You nod, breath ragged, as the rim of a metal canteen presses to your lips. You take a slow sip, cautious, fearing your stomach might rebel.

For the next hour, you’re left to recover. Weak, but with each sip of water that Blue helps you with, your mind clears. The others rotate shifts and Ari and Blue help row. You all eat a little to replenish energy. Nereida swims for almost as long as you did, until she calls for a break. The sun beats overhead. You can't tell how long it has been, but you overhear Price estimate you can't be more than 10 kilometers out from reaching land.

Ghost and Kyle have held up in the water for far longer than you did, but when Kyle switches with Price, you grow nervous watching even Ghost begin to start losing ground beside the raft. A glimpse of his face against the water reveals paled skin and lips. 

You shrug off the blanket and grab Kyle's arm at the oar. "He needs another break. Help him up. We'll switch."

He hesitates. "You shouldn't go back in yet, Twix."

"I'm fine now, I can—"

"I'll go again." Nereida lets go of the other oar. "Take over here, Twix."

Nereida is in the water before Kyle helps Ghost in. There is a shiver over his shoulders that you try to silence with the blanket you were using, draping it over him and rubbing it into his damp skin furiously. Your eyes catch, but not a word is exchanged before he takes hold of the blanket from you, keeping it on like a cloak. You get him the canteen and then are back to rowing with the bit of strength you regained.

You borrow the compass from Kyle to double-check the needle is still where it needs to be. Southeast. The wind has died down some, and the current is steady. Price needs to rotate with Kyle a few kilometers later. Ghost is on the other oar now. Arms burning, you get a break at the back of the raft. Then the wind begins to change. The waves jostle higher towards the west. Ghost and Price have to push hard to keep the raft moving against the shifting waters.

You keep watch on Nereida and Kyle. Suddenly, her hand slaps for the edge of the raft. Her eyes roll back. 

"Shit, shit, shit."

You reach for her just as she starts vomiting in the water. 

You flex your core to muster the strength to lift her, but her eyes shutter and she becomes dead weight in your arms. 

"Someone help me! She's passed out!"

Price is there in an instant.

"Nereida!"

He pulls her body in without considering the weight limit. The raft threatens to lower and let in water before Ghost quickly jumps out. You help Price wrap her in a blanket as he presses two fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse. 

"It's slow," he grits.

Her lips are violet. You touch her cheek. It feels icy. "Her body is struggling to keep warm. It could be hypothermia. Take off her wet clothes—"

More watery bile expels from her mouth and he is quick to turn her so she can't choke. 

He continues holding her, rubbing her arms to ignite warmth. He strips off her wet underwear and bra and keeps her tightly swaddled in two blankets. Her lashes flutter, but she fails to fully regain consciousness, muttering slurred speech when he tries to talk to her.

You look up at the sun lowering toward the horizon. 

The unmanned raft has begun to float with the current.

"We have to keep moving," you say to yourself. You grab for the oar. "Ari, get the other one." 

He follows your command. Gritting his teeth to use all his strength.

The two of you row as Price keeps her up in his arms. 

"Come on, duchess. Warm up for me."

Firm kisses to her wet scalp. 

Only when she is able to keep her eyes open and hold the blanket for herself does he take the oar from Ari. "Keep checking her pulse," he orders the boy. "And talking to her."

Nereida is beyond weakened; she can't help anymore. You've been out on the water for at least seven or eight hours now—the sun is beginning to lower when you have to swim a second time. Ghost is in the water with you. When you begin to struggle again, holding onto the raft with jagged breathing, he swims up.

"Do you need to stop?"

"No, I've got it."

"Don't fucking lie—"

"We see land!" Kyle calls from the raft. 

That encourages you. You swallow more air and keep going, pushing harder.

Your entire body turns numb.

When a cold, rocky floor touches your feet, you almost cry.

Cold snot bubbles from your nose.

You hold onto the raft and wade through the water the rest of the way, Ghost wrapping an arm around your waist to keep your wobbly legs upright. The coast materializes as rocky cliffs and sand. You land on it, hands and knees, stomach finally hurling. You retch a few times before Ghost grabs you by the armpits and drags you. 

Price carries a wrapped-up Nereida out of the raft. "We need a fire. The temperature will drop soon."

Kyle heaves the raft all the way onto the sand, Ari helping. "Somewhere the smoke can't be seen."

"We don't have the time to search tonight. She can't walk right now. We all need rest and warmth."

The risk of a fire is forgone. You travel only a bit further, to the grassy cliffside, before collapsing. Ari and Blue collect softball-sized rocks from the beach and create a small pit as the rest of you wrap up in blankets and sleeping bags, drinking water and eating. Price forces Nereida to lift her head from his lap and take small bites of canned beans. You feel starved, but force yourself not to swallow too fast at risk of throwing it back up.

You are still shivering by the time the flames catch. The heat almost makes you moan. Even Ghost sticks his hands in front of it, the skin slowly regaining color. 

"You guys sleep, and we'll keep watch. We can wake you the moment we see something," Ari says once the sun sets. It is a struggle to keep your eyes open. 

Ghost seems ready to argue—

"You need to rest, Dad," Blue says softly. She presses her forehead to his shoulder and adjusts the blanket on him.

"The moment you see something," he says.

She nods. "We will."

---

B

Blue lays the pistol beside her. She pokes at the fire, trying to keep the crackling embers aglow. All of the adults are asleep. They still need warmth, that much she knows.

On the raft, the helplessness settled deep in her bones—the kind that came with being told to stay still, to do nothing but watch. The others were out there, risking everything, while she remained frozen, powerless. Ghost, the one person she’d always believed could handle anything, even he had struggled. She’d never seen him falter, never seen him wear down. But now, the weight of it begins to sink in—the world is bigger than before. Even Ghost won't be able to fight off everything that lurks in the dark.

"We'll need more firewood," Ari says, breaking her thoughts, his grip tight on the rifle.

She rests the poker by the gun and rises. "I'll get it. You keep watching."

There aren't any trees nearby, at least none she can see in the dark. She remembers the dry driftwood at the bottom of the cliff. Carefully, she skirts down, gathers as much as she can carry, and climbs back up. The fire breathes bigger as she places the wood in the stone circle, flames reaching like outstretched hands in the dark. 

She stares at the fire with her arms circled around her knees. The adults have all the sleeping bags. They need it more. Her jacket protects her from the sea breeze, but her cheeks are starting to grow numb. 

"Where are we again?" she asks.

Ari glances at her from the side. "France."

"France," she repeats, clenching her hands. Far away from her old home, he means. She looks up at the stretch of black water. There's no going back.

Her voice is meek. "What do you think it'll be like? The place we're going to."

Ari breaks a stick in half and adds it to the fire. Embers spit out, one landing on her jeans. "Better than this shit."

A sigh blows a piece of hair from her face. "Really, though."

"I dunno. There will be a lot more people. No Greys. There will be kids our age and maybe a football field. Some good food, not just stuff in cans. We might have to go to school, though."

"I don't think I want to go to a school."

He laughs softly. "Same."

She tries to imagine it, but she can't. The world from before feels too far away, like a dream. The glimpses of memories often blur with her imagination, filling in the blank spaces. She can remember a place her mother used to drop her off in the mornings, where there were other little kids. Toys, too. The blocks she used pull out onto the rug and be forced to share with others. Was that a school? 

A yawn threatens her lips, and she lazily blinks it away. She curls and uncurls her hands, trying to stay awake. Ari notices, lifting a brow. "Hey. We can't sleep."

"I know. I'm just... tired."

"Cold?"

"A little bit."

He unzips his jacket and leans over, draping it over her shoulders so they can share. A deep blush colors her cheeks as she glances back at her sleeping dad, then decides to snuggle into Ari's side. It offers her a small measure of comfort.

“Let’s play a game,” he suggests. "To kill the time."

"Okay. Would you rather get eaten by Greys or turn into one yourself?" she whispers.

"Is this your idea of a game?" He teases, before answering, "I guess get eaten, so at least it'll be over. Being a Grey means I've got to wander around for years like that."

"Unless someone shoots your brain."

"Right."

"Your turn."

"Would you rather kiss a boy or a girl?"

Her nose twists and she nudges his ribs. "Shut up. That's a dumb question."

"Well?"

She looks down at the dried sand on the toe of her boot. "I probably won't ever kiss anyone."

"You will someday."

"I think Ghost would kill them." Her tone leans serious. 

The boy beside her hums and whispers low in her ear. "He just couldn't know, then."

Her blush deepens and that feeling in her stomach rolls, mixing in with the fear she's tried her best to shut out since they left. When she looks up, warm lips give a quick peck to her cheek, and then pull away, the owner of them smirking when he sees her expression. 

"Just focus on keeping watch," she mumbles, but doesn't move even an inch as he continues to hold her close.

---

T

Sand is in your eyes. 

And your toes.

Every joint creaks when you awaken beside a French beach. The caws of seagulls makes your face twist. You slowly shift up, feeling heavy as if someone is laying on you. But that's just soreness. 

Kyle is the only other person up besides Ari. The boy is sitting by the cliff's edge, and Blue is curled under a jacket, asleep, beside him. When your eyes flick over to Ghost, his eyelids are still slack. In bright morning light, you can make out every scar and every hair on his jaw.

Kyle is warming canned soup over the fire. "Hungry?"

"Fucking starving."

By the time you scoop the first bite in your mouth, the others are waking up. Nereida is still tucked under a heavy blanket, curled against her husband. Bags painted heavily under eyes. Price takes a cigar out over breakfast. Apparently, he brought along two. VegaFina.

"Feels like as good a time as any to indulge," his timbre muses over the clanking of spoons and murmur of the sea. He inhales and offers it Kyle, then over to you. Fuck it. You gingerly accept, needing something to help ignore the ache in your bones and never-ending presence of Ghost.

"You should've enlisted, Twix. Could've done well."

The smoke burns your throat and you cough it out. "Respectfully, there were ten other things I would've rather done than that. Stripping being one of them." A silence follows your words and you look at their faces, handing the cigar back as you mumble, "That was a joke."

It’s isolated here, the kind of place where the world feels safer. The next three days pass in a blur of rest and planning. You also take your bow to kill a hedgehog you discover in a burrow, drying out the meat to keep with you. Getting here was just the first step—there’s still over 800 kilometers between you and the Swiss Alps. The first evening, Price and Ghost set out towards the nearest road. They read the signs, comparing them to the map until they confirm your location: near Sangatte. Along the way, they discover a culvert deeper inland—a better spot to hide the smoke from the fire. You move the camp.

Annoyingly, Ghost has put the mask back on, though it does help you to ignore him. 

"We should follow the road as much as we can, but stick to open spaces where there will be less Greys. We need to conserve ammo," Price mutters over the fire on the third night, studying the map. You steal a peek. The stretch of land you have to cross is intimidating; much bigger than England, and now you're without a truck. 

"Should be fun," you mutter under your breath. 

The plan is to keep moving tomorrow. 

One more night of rest.

Before then, you decide to bathe. You reek of dried sweat and saltwater. Your hair is still clumped from swimming, and your skin is chafed under your bra. Nereida has a small bar of soap and a handmade salve with milk thistle in it.

"It helps irritated skin," she claims, handing it over along with a towel. 

"Thank you, again." You study her, relieved to see that her cheeks are more alive. The hypothermia, luckily, was mild. A more severe or prolonged case would've been untreatable by just a blanket and fire. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes. I owe you my life, truly." She brushes your hair behind your ear in a gesture of gratitude and smiles softly. "John and I will not forget that."

The sea is the last place you want to be and won't help matters, but a kilometer up the road is a freshwater creak where Kyle got more water earlier. You head there under the cloud-streaked sky, afternoon turning to evening, and strip down to just your bra and underwear, leaving your clothes, knife, and bow in a neat pile by a tree. The water in the shallow creek is warm. A satisfied breath leaves your lips as you sink in, all the way to your chin. At first, you just sit there, reveling in the way life hums around. Birds in the trees, minnows through your toes. 

He got death, you got life.

You close your eyes for a moment but quickly reopen them when you see red against the backs of your eyelids. 

You move on to washing. First, scrubbing the soap hard through your scalp, ridding it of sand. Then, your armpits and unshaven legs. 

There is movement in your peripheral. 

You thrash around in the water. 

Ghost is leaned against the tree where your clothes are, watching you.

You keep your body submerged and lower your brows. "Do you get off to sneaking up on people?"

"Just a little."

His tone makes your lips twitch. "The name suits you well, then."

When he simply stares, you get out of the water, crossing your arms over your chest. You push past him, grabbing the towel and immediately covering yourself. You're towel-drying your hair when he grabs your shoulder and turns you around to face him.

"You can't ignore me forever."

A sigh of disbelief pushes through your nose. "As if you don't ignore me? I'm not the one who runs away in the middle of things." You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, and then shake your head. "If you don't want me, then fine. I can live with that. Let's keep pretending it never happened and just focus on keeping ourselves alive—"

His weight shifts as a hand reaches for the back of your wet hair, tilting your gaze up. You flinch away, but he keeps you put. "You'd had a shit day," is the reasoning he gives.

"Are you kidding?" you breathe out, almost choking on a bark of hysterical laughter. "Everyday is a shit fucking day." You roll your eyes. "You stopped just because I killed someone? I've doe it plenty of times before. I also almost drowned and Nereida—"

He stops you, eyes darkened. "What I mean is—if we kept going, I would've fucked you then and there. If I'm going to fuck you, Twix, you are going to be fully in the right mind to make that choice, because once it happens, there is no going back."

Your breath seizes. The blunt words make an unwarranted shiver, warmer than the water was, push through your spine.

His fingers tighten in your hair, continuing. "If I fuck you, it will not be just once. Do you understand?"

The world around you tips on its axis.

Your nostrils flare as you absorb his question: do you understand? No—nothing about this is something you could understand, and you don't think you want to. Your breath quickens, chest rising and falling, and your nipples suddenly feel uncomfortably tight in the wet bra you wear, a gentle breeze making them itch. Your mind goes blank for a moment as he stares down at you expectantly. You feel it now: the palpable want that bears down at you. That heavy something that passes through his eyes. 

Finally, you give an imperceptible nod before letting the towel around you fall at your feet, growling out a breath, and launching into him.

[prfctplcsreads]

| RAFE CAMERON vs. tik-tok trend.

an; i haven’t seen anyone do this, but if you have, please let me know and i’ll credit the original! this is just a silly little idea i had thought of and thought rafe would be the perfect one. also apologies for not posting anything (if anyone was waiting </3) i’ve been super busy! if you guys enjoy this, let me know if you’d like more social media/text oneshots!

‪‪❤︎‬ 2.1K 💬 300

sar.cameron putting yourself in an early grave, i see ฅ^._.^ฅ — creator | he loves me too much<3 rafe_cameron ➝ ฅ^._.^ฅ | guess again ฅ^._.^ฅ ➝ rafe_cameron | :(

smart man pope THE FIRST ONE 🤣🤣🤣🤣 rafe_cameron | watch your back sexy man maybank | bros so mad 😭 he’s not even intimidating anymore 👎🏼

john b 🌊 myyyyyy shaylaaaaa 💔💔💔💔💔 ฅ^._.^ฅ — creator | you get me :,(

sexy man maybank CROP FIRST ONE WITHOUT CONTEXT !!!!!! ฅ^._.^ฅ — creator | #greenscreen for jj only!

rafe_cameron your getting blocked btw. ฅ^._.^ฅ — creator | do you not love your sweet, loving, pretty angel anymore? </3 ฅ^._.^ฅ ➝ rafe_cameron | also…..you’re* topper ⛳️ ➝ rafe_cameron | you’re* we talked ab this bro.

‪‪❤︎‬ 1.1K 💬 100

smart man pope bro is corny sexy man maybank — creator | very corny. but the photo is glorious

rafe_cameron ‘very corny’ okay ‘sexy man’ maybank sexy man maybank — creator | thank you for agreeing with me hot stuff ❤️ ฅ^._.^ฅ ➝ sexy man maybank | and this is why we all can never hang out together😭

john b 🌊 myyyyyy shaylaaaaa 💔💔💔💔💔 kie kie | jb’s new stim😭 sar.cameron ➝ kie kie | he won’t shut up about it topper ⛳️ ➝ sar.cameron | if it bothers you so much, come hang with me. sexy man maybank ➝ topper ⛳️ | AND THE CROWD IS….is leaving??? kie kie ➝ topper ⛳️ | gross! think again! ฅ^._.^ฅ ➝ topper ⛳️ | you’re getting flamed dawg 😭 i wouldn’t show my face again if i were you! smart man pope ➝ topper ⛳️ | down, dog!

| this is so…. idk if i like it or not </3

| @oceanblvd111

[prfctplcsreads]

NOSTALGIA| Rafe Cameron

Pairing: drummer!rafe x singer!reader smau, friends to ? to strangers to ?

Summary: Eight years ago, you and five of your friends formed a band called Pogues as a way to kill time on the weekends when the waves weren’t big enough to surf. Six years ago, you released your first album and gained popularity almost overnight. Now, you’re onto release your third album after over two years of silence from you to the public. The only major difference between your life during your first album release and now— besides fame and fortune— is Rafe Cameron, drummer of Figure 8.

Warnings: swearing, no others as of right now

Song Mentioned: My Kink Is Karma by Chappell Roan

Rafe’s iPhone

A/N: AHHH! Welcome to Nostalgia, my first fic! I want to specifically thank @softspiderling and her Ocean Blue Eyes fic, and @zya8tracks for her Heartbreak: Live fic for giving me both creative inspiration and courage to post this. If it weren’t for those two lovely authors putting their own smau’s out into the world, I’d have never known there are people who enjoy smau as much as me and might potentially want to read my ideas for one as well. If any of this fic seems to similar to any preexisting fic (specifically an smau) that you’ve read, please let me know so I can try to fix it! The last thing I want is to unintentionally take inspiration without credit or steal others’ work!

Important: From Jan 5 @ 6pm CST to Jan 25, I won’t be on Tumblr, as I’m participating in a social media fast. That being said, I wanted to get this part out into the world before doing that to give it time to reach people and see if anyone would be interested in reading it any further. So please send your thoughts in and let me know if you enjoy what bit is here by giving a like, comment, or reblog!

[prfctplcsreads]

HEARTBREAK: LIVE | extra

All | MASTERLIST (SMAU)

Pairing — Ex-BF!Rafe x Radio Host!Female Reader

Summary — You and Rafe were the perfect couple. But after a mysterious breakup, you went off the grid. When your best friends pulls you back into the spotlight to host a on-campus radio show, you find yourself opening up to the world about your experience. This time, with everyone listening—including Rafe. And him? He wants you back.

Content — college au, football player!rafe au

[prfctplcsreads]

RED FERRARI CHASE | 02

MAIN | MASTERLIST | IRL & Social Media AU

Pairing — F1 Driver!Rafe x High School Sweetheart!(F)Reader

Summary — Before Rafe became one of the best drivers on the grid, he was yours. However, when his popularity skyrocketed, he became one of the most eligible bachelors in F1, leaving you behind to indulge in the notoriety of the sport. Yet, years have passed, and he hasn’t stopped thinking about you: his first love, his high school sweetheart, the only person to believe in him. When new management takes over his team, he’s afraid their new strategy could undermine his role in the cutthroat league. But in an unexpected twist of fate, Rafe discovers you returning to the circuit as part of the new leadership—now, with a ring on your finger. Engaged to his boss.

Content — formula one au

Zya's Notes — shoutout to adri (of @inthelibrarybtw) for helping me with all my graphics, with the f1 information, and everything in-between. i cannot express how much love i have for u <3

Navigation — Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

TAGLIST FOR RFC: @nemesyaaa / @promiscuousg1rl / @st4rlveur / @maybankiara / @harrys-housewife / @tashiagalinda / @bradshawed / @papercranesandinkstains / @murdockcastleslut / @yuckblushin / @helaenas-queen / @perfectprettypisces / @xoxosblogsblog / @w11ore4rina / @aias-fxtns / @searecs / @drewsephrry / @ilovefiction4lmen / @maybankslover / @krtsvig / @evelynffics / @elixirina / @vex-et-soleil / @frankoceanluvr11 / @adribarbie / @chenslucy / @lilithblackkk / @eviiiiieeeeeeeeee / @psychicnatural / @rafeslovergirl / @colbysbrocks / @a-lovers-card / @fahiries / @judesgfirl / @darlingchronicles / @xoxo-ada / @urbrunettebombshell / @cherrygirlfriend / @psychocitylights / @lou-la-lou / @lovedrewstarkey / @stelleduarte / @yolgart / @faephoria / @zuccheromorena / @cameronspecial / @rafecameronswifeyy / @sweetgoldwoman

[prfctplcsreads]

Husband!Rafe Headcannons

•Husband!Rafe who shows his love through acts of service. He loves doing little things for you that light up your day. Whether is picking up your favorite sweet treat or filling up your car with gas, he does it with a smile on his face!

• Husband!Rafe who loves playful banter! He loves joking with you and is very sarcastic.

•Husband!Rafe who buys you fresh flowers every sunday to brighten up your week.

•Husband!Rafe who will begrudgingly walk around the mall with you while you window shop.

•Husband!Rafe who lets you use his the back of his hands for swatches in sephora or ulta.

•Husband!Rafe who is fiercely protective and loyal. He wouldn’t dream of looking at another woman.

•Husband!Rafe who will fight for your honor. You’re his partner and if anyone says anything bad about you they will have to deal with him.

•Husband!Rafe who pushes you to follow your dreams and always supports you.

•Husband!Rafe who is secretly a huge teddy bear. He comes across as intimidating and brooding, but when you two are alone together he is literally the definition of golden retriever boyfriend husband.

•Husband!Rafe who never gets mad when you steal his hoodies or t shirts.

•Husband!Rafe who still hates when you hang out with pogues.

•Husband!Rafe who claims he hates your cat but is always cuddling with them.

•Husband!Rafe who still gives you butterflies. No matter how long you have been dating he knows how to keep the romance alive.

authors note: just a couple of rafe headcannons to get my obx writing started. pls send rafe or jj requests!