#Riley is an instigator

[verdantcreek]

au concept that has taken me by storm .. cia soap who is working on the downlow after the events of mwiii :) i have a few comic/drawing ideas for this and i am quite excited. it is my personal canon also btw

[sequenceofmind]

gale weathers vs. tatney and the carpenter sisters. they're so alike and we love to see it X X

[b33zlebubz]

I just know that ghost was very smug about reader punching ghost considering it was him who taught them how to punch

ghost behavior

[rileyslibrary]

You burst into the office and slam the door behind you. Ghost jumps from his seat and looks up from the paperwork he’s been filling out. His eyes widen as you sprint towards him.

“What the f-”

“Just play along,” you interject, dragging a chair and plopping down. You grab two sheets of paper from the pile next to him and snatch the first pen within reach.

He keeps staring at you dumbfounded before managing to utter something.

“Can you at least-”

“Nope,” you cut him off while focusing on the papers and nibbling on the pen. “No, can’t do. You need to trust me on this one.”

“Define what ‘this one’ is.” He demands.

“Shhhh,” you hush him, waving your hand dismissively and glancing over your shoulder at the door. “He’s coming.”

“Who’s com-”

The door swings open, and footsteps approach. They settle beside you, and a hand slams on the desk. Ghost looks at the hand, then upward.

“Captain,” he says. “What brings you in-”

“For the love of everything you hold dear, Simon, you better not be involved in any of this,” Price warns. He slams his hand on the desk again and looks at you. “Why were you running away from me?” He asks.

You stare at him with furrowed eyebrows before removing the pen from your mouth.

“I wasn’t running away from you, sir,” you reply, pointing the pen at Ghost. “I was late for my meeting with the lieutenant.”

Price turns towards Ghost, seeking for an appropriate answer. The lieutenant sits up straight on his chair, clasps his hands together and motions with his head towards you.

“Very punctual, this one.” He says.

“Cut the crap, Simon,” Price orders and turns to you. “What were you doing inside Bravo Unit’s barracks last night?”

“Bravo Unit has barracks?” You ask Ghost. He shoots you a side-eye and raises one eyebrow.

“Stop playing dump and answer the question,” Price warns and points at Ghost. “And don’t look at him—he’s not covering for you this time.”

“How about you start from the beginning, boss,” Ghost interjects. “What happened?”

“Someone broke into Bravo Unit’s barracks last night and stole every inch of toilet paper they had,” Price says, looking at you, then turning to Ghost. “And not just toilet paper, mind you! Kitchen rolls and tissues are gone as well.”

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Ghost murmurs, shaking his head. “Such an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience, Simon?” Price whispers, leaning on the desk. “The entirety of Bravo Unit had to wipe their ass with parchment paper this morning.”

Ghost brings his hand to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. He lowers his head and takes deep, laboured breaths. Price is already fuming, so you decide to intervene.

“I was never inside Bravo Unit’s barracks, sir,” You state. “I just happened to walk through it once.”

“Oh, I see, I see—you walked through it once,” Price repeats, nodding. He removes something from his pocket and slams it on the desk.

“The instigator left this behind,” he states, looking back and forth between the two of you.

You and Ghost look at the garment on the desk—it’s a skull balaclava that once belonged to the lieutenant. He gave it to you last Winter since your ears and nose tend to get cold during patrol.

“Now,” Price states, “would you care to brief me on who this belongs to?”

“Hm,” you murmur, setting the pen and papers on the desk. You pick up the mask and start examining it. You look at Ghost, who stares at the mask with his eyeballs threatening to pop out of his face. He shoots you a deathly stare, and you redirect your attention to Price.

“That looks like it must be the lieutenant’s,” you reply, lifting the balaclava next to Ghost’s masked face. “With the skull and all—it’s a perfect match, actually.”

You both turn to Ghost, whose expression has transformed from utter disbelief to an inexplicable calmness.

“Indeed, that looks exactly like the one I lost,” Ghost confirms, taking the mask from you.

“Is it now?” Price asks in a high-pitched voice, tilting his head to the side. “Do me a favour and smell it for me, Riley.”

Ghost does exactly as he’s told. He brings the mask close to his nose, sniffs it, and nods. “Yup,” he confirms. “Smells exactly like me, too.”

Price sighs, takes a bottle from the pocket of his cargo pants and slams it on the desk. “So you want me to believe you use ‘Magnolia Blossom with Moroccan oil’ as a shampoo?” he asks.

“I’ve got dry hair.” Ghost shrugs.

“You should try coconut oil instead,” you suggest to Ghost, “it’s cheaper.”

Price kicks the chair next to you, and you both turn to look at him. He presses his lips together, and a red flush creeps on his neck, threatening to reach his head. He opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

“Why did you go through peoples’ stuff without their permission, sir?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going through anyone’s stuff,” Price explains. “You just were dumb enough to ditch the balaclava right behind the barracks. The detection dog picked up on the smell and led us to your stuff—it was a perfect match, just like you said.”

“You had sniffer dogs involved in this?” Ghost asks.

“I had to.” Price replies. “Pair the parchment paper with a day full of training, and Bravo Unit developed the worst rash they had since wearing diapers.”

A chuckle escapes Ghost, and he tries to silence it with his hand. He takes quick gasps of air, and you try to retain your laughter, too.

“Please tell me you’re not laughing!” Price shouts.

“No, boss,” Ghost says and wipes his tears, “It’s just so-”

“-sad,” you say and wipe your eyes as well. “It’s so sad.”

Price looks at you, then at the lieutenant. Now defeated, he sighs and throws his head back, shutting his eyes.

“I’m done with both of you.” He says, lifting his arms and dropping them to his sides. “I expect all toilet papers to be returned today. And as for you, you are responsible for cleaning Bravo’s toilets for the entire month.”

“For the whole month?!” You shout and wince at the idea.

“Be glad I didn’t make you wipe their asses as well.” He shouts as he walks to the door and slams it behind him.

Ghost recovers from the laugh and directs his attention to you. He tries to be serious but his teary eyes betray him.

“That was a hazardous operation you did back there,” he says.

“I didn’t do anything.” You reply, still vouching for your innocence. “But whoever did it taught Bravo Unit not to mess with our thermostats again.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I just happened to walk through the barracks once,” he says, repeating your earlier statement. “What were you thinking? Who walks through barracks?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, shrugging. “Ghosts would be my guess.”

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

folie à deux

or: the toxic ex boyfriend Ghost AU

PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader 

WARNINGS: || 18+ only MDNI || Toxic masculinity || Possessive & obsessive behaviour || Slut shaming || Groping || Gaslighting || Implied & referenced cheating || Mildly dubious consent

w/c: 5.7k (Read on AO3)

a/n: this was supposed to be like 5 paragraphs, so PLEASE if y'all hate it i dont want to know

It starts with a knock on your front door when you’re only half expecting to see Simon Riley.

He even knocks with a sense of entitlement, and it enrages you.  Three hard raps, and that’s it.  He won’t knock again.  If you don’t open the door, he’ll kick it down to get to you—those were rules you’d learnt the hard way.  

You mentally reinforce your motivation when you fling the door open: You’re scared he’ll break your door down, again, and this time, when they try to evict you, Simon won’t be around to terrify them into letting you stay.

How on earth you’d ever found the prick attractive is beyond you in that minute.  Except, no sooner does the thought enter your mind do you dismiss it.  Of course you had—and still—found him attractive.  That had never been the problem.  

He wore his military career on his face, much easier to see than the chest candy he bragged about but no less attractive to you–scars and burns, healing and the not-quite healed bruises plain to see on his face, a cacophony of yellows and purples.  A nose that had spent more time broken than not, its slight curve most likely a combination of never having been set by a professional nor the opportunity to heal without being broken again.  A thin scar dissected his lip, went all the way up the side of his face to his brow, almost like someone had taken a knife to him, carved him up like a piece of meat.  You’d never asked, and it’s not like he’d ever volunteered the information.  

It just sat there along with the three thousand other things he’d deposited in the chasm that stretched between the two of you. 

“You…Jesus,” he breathes, and slams the door shut behind him, making you wince.  “Where are you off to, then?”

“N’ wearin’ that?” He prompts again when you don’t answer, motions to your body with his chin.  

You roll your eyes when he pulls you into him and plants a hard kiss on your mouth, ignoring your squirming.  “Fuckin’ about to spill out, little dove.” 

“Spill?  Simon, I’m sewn into this dress.”  You pluck at his shirt that has deliciously little give where it sits on his hard chest, leaving your palm there as a little treat for yourself.  “You would know.  You capable of wearing shirts your own size, or does the SAS make it mandatory to have your tits straining against them?”

When he doesn’t respond, you push away from him, and step back, crossing your arms against your chest, definitely not pushing your tits up slightly, and he mirrors your movement.  He’s leaning against the wall by the front door now, blocking your exit, and you can only roll your eyes at the foreseeable display of machismo.  

“Your stuff’s in the front room.  Grab it and go, I have to finish getting dressed.  I have plans.” 

“With a pimp?”

Back when you were blissfully ignorant of Simon’s penchant for keeping you destabilised at all times, unconditionally wanting the last word, his crass words would have made you sputter and struggle to respond.  Oh but you know him so much better now.

Now, the blatant transparency in his delivery just makes you laugh.  

You interrupt his next words with a wave of your hand and turn to retreat to your room.  “Get your shit and leave, baby.”  

You hear his harsh exhale at the dismissal, and once upon a time, the repercussions of dismissing Simon in the middle of a conversation would have excited you.  You used to do it to get a rise out of him, instigate him into chasing you around, fucking you silly when he caught you.  Now, you just do it because you can. 

“No need to be a bitch.  I’ll be on my way in a second, just wanted to check on you, little dove.”

Your laugh is breathy, and you have to pull your mascara wand away from your eyes so you don’t end up stabbing yourself with it.  “‘No need to be a bitch’ says the man currently being a bitch about me not telling him my plans.”  Your laugh is mocking when you turn back to the mirror.  “You ever tire of this routine, Simon?  Because it’s tiring to me.”

Your words only make Simon’s eyes soften, and he looks at you almost indulgently, patronisingly, as though you were a child throwing a tantrum to get an adult’s attention.  “Could never tire of you, little dove.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, but he only snorts in response.  

It’s all a game to him, you know that.  He makes it very clear how much amusement he derives from watching you fumble and fall, how much he gets off on the stress he gives you.

And yet, you’re drawn to him, every single time.  Every single time, you play mental gymnastics to find a reason to write off his bad behaviour because, well, it’s Simon.  He’s…like no one else you’ve ever known.  

Your choices have always been limited between a cruel, mercurial god and inane, paltry men.  

Except today.  Today you hold your response back, try not to rise to the obvious challenge.

“Come on then, I’ll drive ya.”

“Are you insane?” you screech.  “You’re not driving me to my date, you’re not driving me anywhere, what the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?”

A glimpse of his Adonis belt as he stretches his arms above his shoulders and cranes his neck from side to side briefly grabs your attention. 

“Don’t be difficult, little dove,” he gently scolds you, and your eyes snap back to his—yours wide with incredulity, his calm and collected in that beautiful, honey brown.  “What were y’gonna do, take the Tube with y’tits out like that?  If the prick ain’t pickin’ you up, I’ll take ya to him.”  He jerks his chin in your vanity’s direction and plops himself on your bed to watch.  “Come on, love, finish yer preenin’ then.”

“Preening,” you mutter under your breath as you turn back to the mirror.  “Fuckin’ weirdo.”

It’s only when you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears do you catch his eye just as he brings a cigarette up to his mouth, and you squeal.  “Simon!  The fuck are yo—don’t smoke in my bedroom!”

“Our bedroom—”

“What?!”

“—’n ya didn’t care before.  Y’wanna share, ‘s that it, little dove?”

“Oh my god.”  You turn around slowly, your hands against your lips, joined together as though in prayer.  “Simon.”

“Yeah, baby.”

“You don’t live here anymore.  This isn’t your flat, it’s mine.  This isn’t your bedroom, it’s mine.”

Simon just continues to smoke as though he hadn’t heard you, dark eyes taking the slow, leisurely route back to meet yours. “Y’look good, baby.”  His voice is hoarse, the words slow and deliberate and raspy, and…you can’t deny it.  The pull he’s always exerted on you, the undeniably ruinous sirens call—you burn hotter and brighter than accretion, you’re a helpless sailor caught up in his thrall 

“Simon” 

“Did’ya always look so good?”  The way he looks at you as though in a trance…you know he’s not listening, seeming to just be thinking out loud.  When he stands up, you take an automatic step back, then cringe when the vanity hits the back of your legs.  Nowhere to go to escape his looming presence.  “No…not like this. Somethin’s changed.”  He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you around so you’re both facing the mirror.  

The back of your neck feels particularly warm as he pushes his entire front to your back, and you can feel him there, hard and insistent against your lower back.  When eyes meet in the mirror, he looks at you like you’re a puzzle for him to solve.  “Nothing’s changed,” you whisper.  “You’re still a dick.”

“Hmm,” he mutters, then lifts your face up with one hand around your neck, and brings his cigarette around to your lips with the other. 

Your instinctive inhale makes him shift against you slightly, and your eye twitches from how good he feels pressed up against you like this.  How he smells to you—that familiar mix of aniseed and icy menthol, fingers eking that potent hit of nicotine straight into you from where his fingers dig into your skin.  “Definitely somethin’ different.”  He pulls one strap of your dress down, and you exhale as he places one warm, lingering kiss on your exposed shoulder.  “‘S good.  Whatever’s different is good, little dove.”

“We can’t—,” you whisper, and his eyes glint at you with interest and arrogance through the mirror.  “We can’t do this.”  

“You’re so pretty all dressed up like this.  Always were so pretty.  So soft, and—” he inhales deeply at the spot just under your ear “—always smell so fuckin’ good.”

“You can’t,” you moan in response, but press yourself closer to him, anyway.

“But I can,” he responds gruffly.  “‘Nythin’ I like, little dove.  And I know y’like it too.”

“Fuck, just—”  He interrupts you by giving you another hit, and this time you turn around in his arms to exhale in his face.  He doesn’t even flinch.  “What are you playing at, Simon?  What do you want from me this time?”

Simon continues to look at your mouth as you speak, and almost as if on auto-pilot, slips his thumb into your mouth.  You want to bite him for his audacity, you almost kick him in the shin, almost almost almost…  But what you really end up doing is accepting it, licking the pad of his thumb and letting him push it into your mouth.  

Your initials on the space between the base of his thumb and index finger catch your eye—it’s a new tattoo, and you know this entire game is a ruse to draw your attention to it—but you don’t react.  You may be stupid horny for him, but you’re not stupid.

“Always such a good girl for me,” he praises, and it brightens you up on the inside, sparks hot and bright under your spine.  “Tell me, love…still me you think about when you touch your pussy?”

Your harsh exhale and slightly narrowed eyes are the only indication you give of having heard him at all.  In response, his thumb moves slightly deeper, sitting heavy on your tongue, and you let him.  

Your stubborn silence makes him chuckle, and he stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray you (still) keep on your vanity, pushing your dress up over your ass so he can grab your cheeks possessively.  The movement is so quick, so fluid that your protest turns to ash on your tongue when he finds bare skin and squeezes hard.

“Forgot somethin, did ya?”    

“No.”

“No?”  His hands grip you tighter and pull you harshly into him.  The angle makes you grind into his cock, and you know that he’s not even half as unaffected as he pretends.  “Gonna put out on the first date, then, like a slut?  Don’t remember you givin’ me any the first time I—”

“It’s not my first date with him.”

Simon pulls back to look into your eyes, and you’re graced by the first genuine smile on his face all evening—the most brilliant of Rayleigh scatterings put to shame.    “It is your first date, love.”

The blunt, matter-of-factness in his words gives you pause, your mind still coming to terms with what he’s just said, your heart starting to race at the barely concealed confidence about your whereabouts.  “How do you—what are you saying to me right now?”

“Truth, little dove.  Like I promised.”

The casual, off hand remark to one of the most devastating conversations in your life gives you whiplash and you have to physically shake your head to get rid of the feeling of something crawling up the back of your neck.  You put your hands firmly on his chest and push him away, and he steps back easily.  

“Are you…Simon.  Are you having me followed?” 

“Don’t need to.  I know you, little dove.”  He takes another step back from you and cocks his head at your dazed expression.  “Put some knickers on.  The white ones, y’know ‘em.”  When you don’t move, he motions towards your underwear drawer with an expectant expression—as though you’re frozen because you’ve forgotten where they are rather than because you’ve just learnt that your ex boyfriend’s stalking you.

When he crosses his arms, you’re jolted to action.  In a daze, you pick up the first pair your hands grab and pull them on.  He thrusts your purse at you, and leads you out your front door with his hand clasped tight around yours.   

You wish you could say that your ex boyfriend driving you to a date with another man is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you, but that’s not realistic for a life lived around Simon Riley. 

***

The drive is silent, but one big hand remains on your inner thigh.  His fingers are so long that they almost touch the seat on either side of your leg.  It feels invasive but it’s also familiar, so you don’t say anything.  Classic— he never had to try hard to get what he wanted from you.

When he asks you for a smoke, you light one up for him and stick it into the corner of his waiting mouth, and he kisses your fingertips as they retreat.  You still don’t say anything.  Instead, your eyes stay determinedly on your initials tattooed on his skin, his warm hand almost a brand on your thigh, and you think about your life with him in the .

The implication that things were normal in the before is wildly misleading, and a genuine disservice to the shit he’d put you through.   

Once upon a time, you’d been delusional about your place in Simon’s world; now it just leaves a bad taste in your mouth.  He threw special forces and taskforce and lads need me in your face every opportunity he’d gotten, and worse. Simon Riley was not a man who did or could be convinced to do something he didn’t want to—and you’d hardly ever asked for any explanations from him but still, the excuses were on the tip of his tongue, ready to be flung at you at Mach speed.

You’d bargained with yourself for weeks—oscillating between wanting to proactively end the relationship yourself or allowing its inevitable heat death.  He was one of a kind.  No one had ever made you feel like he had.  No one had fucked you like he had.

No one had fucked you over like he had either, but on good days, you show yourself some grace and let that thought slide.

***

You find yourself falling into old bad habits easily—you wait inside the car until he’s on your side, opening your door for you and practically lifting you out of his car.  

The warmth of his hands seeps through the material of your dress, through the skin on your hips, superheating the bones underneath.  He squeezes the flesh there appreciatively, and though his expression remains hidden to you, you can safely guess the smirking just by the creased skin by his eyes.  

“I never want to see you again.”

The words make Simon pause.  He considers you for a second, the smirk never dropping.  “Go’n, give us a kiss, then, if this is the last time.” 

“I would never,” you insist, finger poking at his hard chest, and he retreats from you, puts his hands up in mock-surrender.   “You’re a manipulative bastard, Simon,” you hiss at him.  “And I’m going on this date.”  With your piece said, you walk away from him.

“Never stopped ya, little dove,” he calls out, a hint of an aggravating laugh in his words.    

 You flip him off without even turning around.  “Drop dead, Simon.”

To your great disappointment, your words don’t inspire the heavens to smite him where he stands immediately, and when you quickly shoot one last look back at him over your shoulder, he stands against his car, arms crossed, looking for all the world like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Asshole.

It wasn’t even that Simon was a bad boyfriend to you—though he was certainly the fucking worst—it was the fact that a) he was a bad person and b) you’d become a bad person by osmosis.

Case in point: you wanted to leave your date mid-meal, battling the intrusive thought of just putting your drink down and walking out the front door, but you couldn’t even say why.  Your date had kindly acquiesced when you’d insisted on the worst table on the floor.  The one overlooking the car park.  The window overlooking the only car parked there—the massive black one, with illegally tinted windows and a suspiciously missing owner.

At least the bar was nice.  Great ambience, dim lighting and pretty interiors, it should have been the perfect first date.  Your date himself was fine too—nice enough with a sweet smile he flashed at you, politely having taken to talking at you when you’d made it clear with your apathy that talking with you wasn’t going to happen.  

After just two drinks, you start to have flashbacks—even an hour spent in Simon’s company clearly manifesting as literal madness—which was disconcerting by itself, but the uncharacteristic subject matter has you really worried.  Every time you blink, you see Simon’s face…or his cock…and when your date asks if you’d like to share dessert, you answer, “Simon…” before hearing yourself, and feeling the heat of shame dance on your cheeks.  Your date just looks confused.

A quick glance outside the window shows the empty car park and…nothing else.  No car.

Had he fuckin’ left?

The thought incenses you, and the irrational nature of the anger makes you feel even more shame.  Why should you care?  When had he ever done what you’d expected of him?  And when had he ever been there for you when you’d needed it.

Fuck it, you think.    

Maybe you were finally free of Simon and his toxic, shameless, unbreakable hold on your life.  Maybe it was time to move on.

You allow yourself a satisfied smile when, in what feels like divine approval of your plan, your date offers to take you home.

***

There are cracks in your ceiling that you’d never noticed before.

You resist the urge to wince, then try to moan but give up when it gets stuck in your throat, and your date misinterprets your sigh of boredom and discomfort as one of pleasure, choosing to go down on you with more enthusiasm than before.  Things could not be worse for you—the man between your legs is clearly in need of a compass and a map and trying so hard that you feel guilty about the whole thing—but you’re determined to tolerate it.  So that the point is made.     

When your date finally leaves, your shaky smile and poorly concealed look of relief convinces neither of you of a second date.  You suppose you should be grateful that he left without a fuss, but you’re just relieved that he’s gone.  You’re contemplating—holding your head in your hands while your elbows rest on the kitchen counter—when you hear him.

“This is pathetic, even for you.”  You turn around, and yep.  It’s him alright.  Sitting at your dinner table, your flimsy chair all but invisible behind his massive frame.  “Breaking in, Simon?  Seriously?”

“Y’gave me a key, little dove.”

“Yeah.  When we were dating.  A key that you’d returned?”  

When there is neither a response, nor any change to his posture, you turn around and start to pour yourself a glass of water.  Then change your mind and grab two whiskey tumblers and your decanter.  “Pathetic,” you repeat.  “How long were you planning this?”

His sudden breath on the back of your neck makes you exhale harshly, and he steadies your trembling hands by placing his on yours.  Together, you pour two glasses of whiskey, but his hands don’t leave yours even when you’re done.

“How was the date?”

“You tell me, Simon.”

“Wasn’t invited, was I?”

“It didn’t stop you.”

He places a small kiss behind your ear in response.  “No.”   His hands knead at your breasts and your head falls back to his shoulder with a sigh, and he grinds into you.  “Feel that?  What even your fake little noises do to me?”

“You were listening?”  The thought is…unbearably hot, and you stubbornly refuse  to examine it any further in your mind.  

“You belong with me, little dove, you know this.  You’ve always belonged to me.  All of you.  Every single inch.  Where would I go?”  

You reach behind you to touch him, and he’s thick and warm to the touch, even through the layers of fabric, and it’s familiar, it’s all so familiar to you..  “This is fucked up.  You were here listening when another man fucked me?”

In a quick succession of lithe, almost impossibly quick movements, he’s picked you up and placed you on your kitchen counter, one glass of whiskey shattering on the floor.  “Made your point, baby?”  

Your robe is off your shoulders and pooling around your waist in a second, and Simon doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk when he pulls off your panties and pockets them.  You don’t bother protesting.  It even feels like trouble when he runs a single finger over the seams of your cunt—you’re damningly wet and if you had enough withal to curse your body out for it, you would.

“You've got such a pretty pussy, little dove,” Ghost says as he fingers you, his voice half-muffled because he's pressing a possessive kiss to your forehead.  “And so wet baby, you’re dripping on my fingers.  All of it fo' me?  Or was it that twat, hm?” 

You're seething inside, raging that your plan backfired like this.  “It was him,” you say, before you can help yourself.  “You heard him fuck me, yeah?”  

“Fuck you?” Simon’s chuckle is dark and ruinous.  “He didn’t fuck you, baby.  He just stretched you out for me.  Good man. Saves me the work, innit.”

Before you can react, before you can breathe, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, picks up his glass of whiskey in his other hand, and brings you to your bedroom.  Fuck, your sheets are still rumpled, dress and bra strewn on the floor, sandals sitting like a death trap of heel and straps by the foot of your bed.  The room even smells of sex and the cologne your date had worn—it’s disorienting.  You almost feel bad.  Almost.

But…Simon’s presence is all over your bedroom too.  The smell of his aftershave lingered in the air, noticeable if you closed your eyes and breathed in deep.  Other signs too—the faint bitterness of his cigarette from earlier that evening, it’s corpse in the ashtray on your vanity.  When he sets his drink down on your nightstand, he sets it on the coaster you keep there—they’re strewn on almost every surface on your flat.  Mementoes from Simon from different countries he’d go to on deployment.  

“Told you he fucked me,” you say, cheekily—trying to dissuade your mind from leading you towards sentiment—and get a smack on you ass for your trouble.

“‘Course, little dove,” Simon drawls in response.  “‘N you enjoyed it too, yeah?  Tryin’ t’make me jealous.  Took him to the same place we used to go, huh?”  Another smack on your backside, this one hard enough to make you gasp.  “Think I’d forgotten, baby?  Fucked you in that car park, didn’t I?”

“Were you jealous?”

“Why should I be?”  He sets you down gently on the bed so you’re sitting upright, then takes a sip of his whiskey.  “Y’want this.”  

“I didn’t think you were giving me much of a choice.”

“I’m not.”  He takes another sip, and when he leans forward to kiss you, the whiskey floods into your mouth, rich and smoky and bitter.  He continues to kiss you and you have to swallow around his tongue, which makes him kiss you harder.  He’s a bully in every aspect of his life, and kissing you is no different.  His fingers clamp around your cheeks and you have no choice but to kiss him back.  Even in this he dominates you, trying to win even where there is no fight to be fought.

When he pulls away, your heart throbs at how he looks through the lights of the street outside pouring in through your window.  You’ve seen his face before, you’re one of the trusted few that can say they know what Simon Riley looks like, but it’s been a while since you’ve seen him like this.  The harsh lights from outside almost soften where they kiss the harsh angles of his face, where the sharp line of his clenched jaw disappears behind his ears, accentuating his thick neck.

He’s beautiful and cruel and bad for you and every adjective you can think of under the sun.

“Y’want this,” he repeats.  

“I want this.”

And then Simon moves so suddenly.  There’s no preparing for it, no accounting for speed that has no build up—one second you’re sitting upright looking up at him the next you’re on your back and he’s hovering over you, fingers making quick work of his zipper before, in one push, he’s buried in you.  Your breath feels like it’s literally been punched out of your chest.  He’s so deep in you, you can feel him in your throat—he allows you one deep breath before he’s got a large hand wrapped around your throat.  The one with your tattoo on it.

The thought of it incites something foreign deep in your belly, low and simmering hot—you can’t believe he’s tattooed your name on his hand after telling you that he didn’t think you were what he’d wanted.  

You can’t imagine your expression right now, but he tightens his fingers around your throat and it drags your attention back to him.  He’s gritting his teeth, his jaw clamped tightly shut while he grinds his pelvis into yours, each thrust driving you further and further away from him and towards the centre of the bed.  You don’t even understand the movement of his hips—you’re displaced and jostled from the sheer power of his thrusts—but the motion itself feels like it’s more of an up and down motion, dragging against your walls, punching into your G spot.  When your head falls back on a low moan, he jerks your body to alertness just by your throat, and you clench at the feat of strength even when he’s buried in you as far as he can go.  

Simon groans in response, the noise sounding like it tears through his throat on its way out, but you’re helpless to do anything at all, just trying to breathe through the foreign sensations inside you right now, clamp tighter and tighter around him, threatening to break.  You’ve given up trying to look up at him anymore, the pleasure making you squeeze your eyes shut, one hand intertwined with his by your head, the other clawing at his forearm.  

“Shit, baby, hold on, fuck, jus’ let me—” He moves to adjust you, grabbing one thigh to spread you open, push himself deeper inside you, when he freezes.  

“Wha—Simon, what—”

“The fuck is this?” His voice is pitched lower than usual, dark and dangerous.  You follow his line of sight and he’s transfixed, eyes unblinking, looking at a spot on your inner thigh.  You know what he’s seeing, and in the midst of everything that’s happened, everything that’s about to happen, you wonder if you’re seeing the evidence of the existence of a just God.

“You weren’t…you weren’t meant to see it.  It’s from ages ago…”  He reaches out a slightly trembling hand towards it, stops inches away from it—and oh this is better than anything you could’ve imagined—before he brushes two reverent fingers over the little skull you have tattooed there.  “Simon?”

When Simon looks back at you, he seems more determined, somehow.  Like the final part of a puzzle has clicked into place, somehow, and a decision has been made.

This time when he moves, it’s deeper, more powerful but equally as deliberate.  The hand around your throat moves to your face, brushing sweaty strands away from it, and framing the entire side of your face where it rests.  “Got my mark on you, yeah?  Want t’keep me, is that it?”

“I want…want to keep you,” you nearly whine at him, and his hips kick up, hammer into you, in and out, in and out— “Want to keep you Simon.  Want to be yours.”

He bends over you, his grip on your thigh unyielding, long fingers digging into the tattoo on your skin.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I—” He uses your neck to muffle his own sounds for a second and then leans to kiss you.  But it’s more than that.  You feel Simon’s surrender in that kiss—the acceptance of the inevitable, your months of torturous longing for your torturer finding release—and when you come, you bite down hard on his lip.

It feels like your body is hot enough to melt the world into soft, sepia tones around you, and you don’t even understand what he’s doing to your body right now as he fucks you through your orgasm.  He readjusts your hips as you come, and the slightest brush of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your clit makes you vibrate from the shock of what feels like your second orgasm bleeding into your first.

And when he comes, he slams his hips into you like he’s trying to crawl inside of you.  His groan is long and tortured, and for a man who’s usually silent when he fucks, the sound is delicious.  You never want him to stop.  “Fuckin’ shit,” he murmurs, and traps you as he collapses on top of you.

In the aftermath, there is quiet.  

Simon lifts his head, once, to try to feel his way to the glass of whiskey on your nightstand, all while kissing you deeply.  Turns out, fucked out of his mind Simon is clumsy as hell, and so you grab it for him, draining it yourself before offering him the empty glass.

“Fuckin’ whore,” he mutters, unimpressed, before burying his face in your neck.  

“Says the man who slept with the entire British army in a matter of six months.”  You kiss his sweaty hair and his grip on your hips tightens.  “Bunch of slags.” 

“Don’t call my sergeant a slag.”

“Your serg—” you gasp, feeling your restart its pounding in its cage.   “Not Johnny!  You slept with MacTavish?  He fuckin—he fuckin’ offered to meet me for coffee so many times when we were broken up!  I thought he was being nice!”

“Was bein’ nice, innit.  Lookin’ out for his CO’s girl.”

Your head falls back to the bed as you stare up at the ceiling again.  “This is messed up.”  His casual tone feels like a barb, reopens old wounds and threatens to ignite a fresh wave of hostility inside you.  But before you can stew in your bitterness any longer, he kisses the side of your neck and moves off of you.

“Can’t keep doing this, little dove.”  He says, gathering your clothes from where they’re strewn all over your room.  

You get up on your elbows and cock your head, feigning innocent confusion.  “What do you mean?”

“Gonna have twats all over town stretchin’ you out fo’ me before I fuck you?”

“Why?  You offering to put the graft in yourself?”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, and when he stands up to face you, he’s got a cig hanging off the corner of his mouth.  “Y’got a light around here somewhere, can’t find mine.”

You roll your eyes, reaching over to the nightstand to grab one and throwing it at him.  He catches it deftly, and lights up his cigarette.  “What’s next for you then, Simon Riley?  Off to the pub to find the next victim for the evening?  Send me a recording of when you fuck her in the disgusting toilet?”

“Victim?  Shit baby, give me ten, we’ll go again,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.    

“You’re staying?”

He leans forward, smushes your face with his large hand.  “You got me inked on you.”  You squirm away from him and he lets you go.

“It’s just a skull, Simon.  Not my initials on your hand.”  When his eyes narrow, you gasp theatrically and your hand flies up to your chest.   “Or was I not meant to see that?”  You lean up to pluck the cigarette from his fingers and take a long drag.  “Obnoxious, by the way.”

He leans forward and kisses you, hard.  You inadvertently end up blowing smoke in his mouth, but he doesn’t move, kissing you until you melt.  “Love you, little dove.  You're a massive bitch, though.”

“Pot meet kettle,” you whisper against his mouth.

You know what they say about history repeating itself.  You’ve been through this cycle before, you and Simon.  And you know what he promised you when he fucked you—he may have asked you if you’d wanted to keep him, but you hear what Simon doesn’t say.  And what he doesn’t say is that you don’t have a choice in any of this.  Simon operates like a bully, thinks like a bully because he is one.  Like with most other things, Simon brute forces your relationship, moulds and bends and twists to his liking, does not care if anything breaks.  You have no doubt that in two or three weeks’ time he’ll be across the world from you, bouncing someone else on his cock but it hardly matters.  You’ll get your lick back.  It’s what he’s taught you, afterall.        

[multific]

Modern Warfare Men and No Nut November - Preferences

Simon Riley, Johnny MacTavish, John Price, Kyle Garrick, König, Maxim Bale, Alejandro Vargas x Reader

Warnings: smut

Summary: In which both of you participate in the challenge. 

A/N: Yes, I know November is over but this was a request so here it is! I hope you all enjoy it!

Simon Riley

You suggested the idea of having no sex or any kind of act for a month. You two have been at it pretty much every day, sometimes many times during the day, so it came as the perfect idea.

You told him that it would make him want you more and vice versa. 

What you forgot is that Simon could be very patient. 

So much so, that he even said "Only a month?" before he shrugged and moved on.

What none of you expected is that the sexual tension and frustration would be too much to bear.

On day 27, he would be without a shirt and you would physically shake.

On day 28, you would wear a pair of jeans that just makes your ass look amazing, making him take a cold shower immediately.

On day 30, both of you had enough and you couldn't take it anymore.

To say you two destroyed each other's clothes would be a nice thing to say.

He never pounded you as hard as he did on that day. He never came as hard or as much as he did on that day. 

Johnny MacTavish

It was actually his idea, he heard from Simon that he and his wife were doing this challenge and Johnny wanted to try it out. 

You agreed, you really thought both of you had enough self-restraint to survive.

And in the beginning, it was okay. It seemed like you were doing good.

Until you weren't.

By the end of the month, you really wanted to at least take care of the 'problem' yourself.

But you couldn't.

As for Johnny, he was surprisingly well. He distracted himself and did many things around the house.

He even finished the porch that he started months before. He cleaned the garden and even began to build a new area in the garden for your dogs.

The fact that you didn't have sex, resulted in a very clean house.

But you both made it, and once the month ended, you two were at it again. 

The garden for the dogs? Forgotten.

But at least you both very finally satisfied again.

Kyle Garrick

When you suggested the idea, he actually had something similar in mind. So, you both agreed to go along with it.

And surprisingly, you both did amazingly well.

You two went out on many cute dates, never once making any sexual remarks.

It was easy, but it didn't mean you didn't miss it.

Kyle counted the last couple of days as if it was Christmas.

John Price

John would be up for the idea. But he would fail on the same day.

Seeing you preparing dinner, you happened to bend over to pick up something, and it was over. 

He had you bent over the table in a second.

Maxim Bale

It took you a solid 5 minutes to explain the entire thing. He didn't understand why you would want to do this, but when you explained that it could be exciting, he was down for it.

It was a long month for Maxim.

He was never a sex-crazed person but he did like his sex in the morning, so when you reminded him that you would rather not, he was a little offended. 

Just a little.

The month was a struggle more for you than him.

He could easily occupy himself by doing something with his car.

And there you were, watching him fix his car, covered in sweat, muscles on full display.

As soon as the month was over, you were all over him.

Alejandro Vargas

He would laugh when you tell him the idea. 

Him? Surviving a month without sex or anything?

Impossible.

He knew it, you knew it.

But if you insist, he will try his best.

2 days he would last.

Completely failing the entire challenge. 

But who could blame him?

He loved you and your body.

And just as he said: "How did you expect me to live without this perfect pussy tightening around me?"

König

In the beginning of your relationship, he never instigated sex.

It was always you making the first move.

But as he got more and more comfortable with you, he started to come out of his shell.

It got to a point where he had to stop himself.

So, a challenge like this would excite him. He wanted to see how long he would last.

But let's be fair, he would struggle.

Because once you find the person you love the most, the one you feel so good around you can finally be yourself. And then you put yourself through a challenge like this.... it is torture. 

Yet, somehow he would still pull through, although he is sure his balls would hurt more and more with each passing day.

Taglist: @fleursirvart @greenarrowhead @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster@capsiclesdoll @puknow @alwayshave-faith @alex12948 @lxdyred @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @praline357 @trshngyn @avengers-r-us @violet-19999 @top1bbgloak  @manduse  @jacalineiscomingforyou  @mandoloriancookie @noname2246

In case you want to help out a dreamer: patreon.com/multific  

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

DO NOT STEAL, REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS

[ladyriot]

I Have Done a Thing!

Before the Stains Set (4339 words) by LadyRiot Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Rizzoli & Isles Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Maura Isles/Jane Rizzoli Characters: Jane Rizzoli, Maura Isles Additional Tags: Episode: s03e08 Cuts Like a Knife, Established Relationship, Early Relationship, Conflict Resolution, Light BDSM, Jealousy Summary: Ever since Riley Cooper came around, Maura was instigating, trying to draw out Jane's aggression and have it turned on her. But Jane just wanted Maura to ask for what she wanted.

[realityjoey]

CRUSHING (RILEY ANDERSON MC x EVAN BUCKLEY)

Riley Anderson stood outside the 118 station, the early morning sun casting a warm glow over the building. Six months. It had been six months since she moved from the North of England to Los Angeles, and yet, the sensation of being in a foreign land hadn’t worn off. The city’s hustle and bustle was worlds away from the quiet countryside she’d known back home. But she loved it—the noise, the energy, the people. Most of all, she loved her job.

Working as a firefighter for the 118 had been a dream come true. Though it wasn’t without its challenges, especially when it came to standing out in more ways than one. Everywhere she went, she was noticed. Her natural beauty certainly played a part—tall, fit, with striking features—but it was her thick Northern English accent that had everyone doing double takes. People adored it. The constant, “Say that again?” and “I love your accent!” had gotten old fast, but it was something she’d learned to laugh off.

Inside the station, the familiar sound of laughter and clattering equipment greeted her. As Riley strolled into the locker room, Hen and Chimney were already gearing up for the day’s shift.

“Morning, Anderson!” Chim called out, flashing her a cheeky grin. “Did you bring your tea with you today? We wouldn’t want you to suffer without it.”

Riley smirked, rolling her eyes. “I’ll have you know, Chim, not every Brit is glued to a cup of tea.”

“Is that so?” Hen chimed in with a grin. “Because I seem to remember you getting quite defensive when we ran out of Earl Grey last week.”

“That’s because American tea is abysmal,” Riley shot back, her accent thickening as she played into their jokes.

She wasn’t even surprised when Buck wandered in at that moment, catching the tail end of the conversation. Evan Buckley—or Buck, as everyone called him—was the biggest instigator when it came to her “Britishness.” Every chance he got, he’d throw in a quip about her accent, or her country, or even her phrasing. It was like his go-to method of flirting. And flirt he did, constantly, though in the oddest ways.

Buck leaned against a locker, a smug grin playing on his lips. “What’s this I hear about tea, Anderson? Got your biscuits ready too?”

“Keep talking, Buckley, and I’ll dunk you in the nearest river,” Riley shot back, slamming her locker shut with a grin.

“Ooh, feisty today,” Buck teased, though his eyes lingered on her a little too long. There it was—that brief moment where his usual banter gave way to something deeper. A touch that lingered a bit longer, a look that said more than his words. Riley was no fool; she’d noticed the way Buck’s teasing had shifted in recent weeks. It wasn’t just lighthearted mocking anymore—there was something more behind it.

But he had a funny way of showing it. Instead of just coming out and saying what he felt, Buck hid behind his jokes, especially the ones that edged on dirty. Only, Riley knew better than to think they were just jokes.

Before she could respond, the familiar shrill of the alarm cut through the room. A call. They sprang into action, heading out to the trucks in a well-practiced routine. Riley pulled her gear on, focused on the task ahead, but she couldn’t help but feel Buck’s eyes on her as they geared up. He was always watching, always hovering just a little too close.

The call wasn’t anything too serious—a small kitchen fire in a nearby apartment complex. By the time they arrived, the fire was under control, but there was still work to be done. Riley and Buck worked together, their usual rhythm in sync as they moved through the building, clearing out smoke and ensuring the fire was fully out.

“Hey, Anderson,” Buck’s voice came from behind her as they worked side by side. “You know, in the States, we call these ‘pants,’ not ‘trousers.’ Just thought I’d educate you.”

Riley, already kneeling down to check a section of scorched cabinets, shot him a deadpan look. “Is that so? And what do you call ‘annoying coworkers’ in the States? Is it still ‘Buckley’?”

Buck chuckled, stepping closer as he crouched beside her, his arm brushing hers as he “helped” examine the cabinet she was already inspecting. “Ouch, that one hurt. You’re getting better at this.”

“Thought I’d throw you a bone.” She looked up, catching his eye, and for a split second, something shifted between them. It wasn’t just playful banter anymore. Buck’s usual teasing smirk softened as he held her gaze, and Riley felt a flicker of something she wasn’t quite ready to confront. She quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the work at hand, but Buck’s presence remained heavy beside her.

“You know,” Buck said after a moment, his voice dropping to something lower, more serious, “I think the team’s right. You do stand out here, Anderson.”

Riley raised an eyebrow, still not looking at him. “Is this another ‘British’ thing?”

“Nah,” Buck said, his voice soft, “this is a you thing.”

Riley swallowed, the playful energy between them shifting. Before she could respond, Chimney’s voice called from the next room, breaking the tension.

“Hey, lovebirds, you done in there?”

Buck was on his feet in an instant, his usual grin back in place. “Coming!” he called out before giving Riley a wink. “We’ll finish this conversation later, yeah?”

She shook her head, trying to suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “In your dreams, Buckley.”

But as they finished the call and headed back to the station, Riley couldn’t shake the feeling that Buck wasn’t entirely joking this time. Something between them had changed, and whether she was ready to admit it or not, the way he looked at her made her pulse quicken just a little faster.

[lundenloves]

genuinely so curious to hear about what you think simon was like as a teenager? like how he dressed, what he was into, his personality, all that. idk much about his backstory so maybe there’s real answers to this but stilll i love asking ppl this

i have a few one shots written on this

it’s something i’ve thought about a lot a lot, since his upbringing can be traced back to a lot of his current traits.

my best guess?

a skinny, lanky, aggressive but quiet kid who listened to strictly metal and glared at everyone 💀 he never was

he never really had any girlfriends either apart from one. ooonneeee girl who he felt comfortable enough with but that was all (not that they were really a thing either, bro was too shy idgaf) never really much friends either i have like this excerpt based around age 16-17 maybe:

Simon walked through the corridors without a single care. Dragging his finger along the wall and kicking doors open in front of him, eyes to the floor whenever anyone walked past.

He had just been in a fight. One that he hadn’t instigated yet got the blame for, now traipsing around the school in circles to calm himself down. The school counselor followed a short distance behind him, noting his recent outbursts of anger and the way he swung doors shut with a slam.

“Simon.” A gruff voice came from the end of the corridor, one he ignored, continuing his silent rampage. “Simon Riley.” The man spoke again, his bright neon jacket suddenly visible in Simon’s peripheral. Police.

He stopped walking, eyes fixed to the wall opposite him. The red marks under his eyes were now maroon, eyes bloodshot in telltale stress of him rubbing at them so frequently. “Just a few questions for you, son.” The officer’s tone was empathetic at best, taking a short step toward the boy who shut his eyes.

His bit on his nail, “If it’s about my dad, I don’t care, yeah?.” It was always about his dad. Always. The counselor stepped between them, turning her back to Simon and asking a few questions he couldn’t hear.

i have more 🫵🏼 him n that girl too

[storyofmychoices]

Shadows and Deception: Parts I & II

[Series Masterlist] [My Choices Masterlists]

Books: The Royal Romance (post-TRF), Crimes of Passion I, Desire & Decorum, Blades of Light and Shadow I

Characters: Trystan Thorne (M, no race mentioned), Marguerite Thorne, Olivia Nevrakis, Queen Amalas, Maxwell Beaumont, Daniel, King Liam (no race mentioned), Tyril Starfury, Nia Ellarious, Prince Hamid

Pairings: Olivia Nevrakis x Queen Amalas ; M!Trystan Thorne x (no gender given) MC (mentioned) ; King Liam x Riley (mentioned)

Rating/Warnings: Teen, mentions of blood, stab wound, knives/daggers (no graphic descriptions)

Word Count: Part I: ~500; Part II: ~600 : total ~1,100

Summary: In the heart of Cordonia's grand ballroom, the joyous celebration is broken by a piercing scream, a dead body, and a room full of royal suspects.

I. Every man at the bottom of his heart believes that he is a born detective. (John Buchan)

The grand ballroom of the royal palace in Cordonia thrived with laughter and music, an elegant sight to behold. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ornate ceiling, casting a warm golden glow over the festivities below. The walls, painted in a regal combination of light blue and gold, added to the grandeur of it all. The air was filled with the soft strains of classical music accompanied by the merriment of the guests and the occasional sound of clinking champagne flutes.

Trystan Thorne, the exiled prince of Drakovia, stood amidst the revelry, basking in the indulgent event. It had been far too long since he had attended a proper ball, and yet he missed the thrill and danger of New York.

Trystan sipped his champagne, the bubbles dancing on his tongue. He twirled a small silver key between his fingers, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He watched as the unusual trinket glinted in the lights, thinking back to how it had made its way to him earlier that evening. A party guest had bumped into him, planting the key in his jacket pocket. When he turned to confront them, they were simply gone. He tucked the key safely back in his pocket—a mystery he was certain to solve before the night was out.

Olivia Nevrakis, the Duchess of Lythikos, glided through the throngs, her graceful movements offering no sign of the ornate daggers concealed beneath her elegant attire. Her keen gaze swept the ballroom, analyzing each guest with a shrewd eye, ready for any trouble they might find, and perhaps, even instigating a bit of her own.

Amalas, the enigmatic Queen of Monterisso, watched the festivities with a calculating gaze, much like that of her girlfriend. Known as the spy queen, she understood that knowledge was power, and her charming smile masked her relentless pursuit of secrets. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd, seemingly aware of every whisper and hidden conversation. Hushed warnings of her deep influences and secret alliances found their way to her. A smirk pulled on her lips; if only people truly knew what they thought barely scratched the surface of her reach.

Tyril Starfury, the Elven Lord of House Starfury, stood tall and vigilant against the ballroom wall. He questioned his invitation to the royal ball, and even further his own agreement to attend. He had no interest in celebrations of such kind, which was to say, any forced large gathering of people. Tyril's noble demeanor masked his magical prowess, while his sword reminded guests of his commitment to protect the realm from any and all threats: magical or human. He continued his watch—a silent guardian. 

Prince Hamid, the Imperial Prince of the Ottoman Empire, exuded elegance and charisma. His noted wealth and good fortune were the talk of the ball. His formal demeanor hid his tender heart, but his infectious smile and penchant for gentlemanly flirtation drew admirers from all over the kingdoms to his table. 

The festivities continued in abundance, celebrating the birth of Princess Ariana of Cordonia—King Liam and Queen Riley's third child. Despite the laughter, enchantment, and cheers filling the halls of the Cordonian Palace, a dark cloud loomed over the proceedings, ready to send a thunderous shockwave through the kingdom, changing what should have been a joyous event into a deadly affair.

II. Have patience and endure; this unhappiness will one day be beneficial. (Ellery Queen)

The sharp, unnerving scream of the priestess, Nia Ellarious, pierced through the grand ballroom, instantly shattering the joyous atmosphere. The music ceased, and the air grew heavy with uncertainty and tension as guests turned their attention toward the commotion.

Nia stumbled back, her eyes wide with horror, as others rushed to her side. Their gasps of horror filled the room as their gaze fell upon the lifeless body sprawled in the shadows. A pool of crimson seeped from beneath him, a fresh knife wound evident, but no blade was found at the scene.

“What do we have here?” Maxwell Beaumont, the charismatic Lord of House Beaumont, known for his love of dancing and squids, swiftly made his way to the scene, hoping to be of assistance. His normally jovial expression turned grave as he approached the lifeless body. His eyes widened in shock and disbelief as he recognized the face before him. "No—" He barely uttered, words failing him for the first time in his life. 

"Who is he?" A guardsman asked. 

"He looks familiar," another replied.

"Daniel." Maxwell's voice was faint, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. "He is a waiter—was—he was a waiter... and my friend." He knelt beside Daniel, taking care not to step in the blood. "I can't believe it. Why Daniel?" His eyes closed, the weight of the situation sinking in. Maxwell's mind raced, and his thoughts swirled with concern and determination.

 "Are you certain, Lord Beaumont?" Finding no reply, the guard repeated his question. 

"Yes." He nodded, inhaling deeply before standing and taking a step back.

"I hate to question you, but it's my duty," the guard began. "When was the last time you saw Daniel?"

"This morning." He shook his head. "No, it was just before the party." 

"What was the nature of your conversation?"

“If I knew this—I wouldn’t have—” He began uneasily. “You're going to find out anyway—" 

"Out of my way." She brushed through the crowds. "You've got to be kidding me—" Olivia Nevrakis approached Maxwell with a sardonic smile, her tone laced with subtle superiority as she cut off the rest of his answer to the guard. "What do you think you're doing? Trying to solve murders now? Leave that to those with proper experience. I trust your talents are better suited for organizing grand parties—” she gestured around to the lavish decorations. “—and indulging in extravagant games of whimsy."

Maxwell nodded thoughtfully and recomposed himself. "How right you are.” A hint of his playful tone returning. Without another word, he stepped away. The corner of his lips turned up as he left her with the body.

"That was too easy," she mumbled, her gaze narrowing on him. Olivia took a few steps forward, following his pace before halting. Her head shook in amusement at her raised suspicions. She almost laughed at herself, 'Beaumont couldn't hurt a fly! How could he have had anything to do with this?'

As she readied to turn back to the more pressing issue, something caught her eye, a glimmer of silver on the floor near her feet. She knelt down and reached for it, her fingers closed around a used syringe. With a quick, discreet motion, she concealed the needle, determined to investigate if and how it fits into this unfolding puzzle. 

Her body straightened, and her tone became assertive as she quickly took control of the scene, aiding her skills to the ever-incompetent guard. She barely took note of the Thorne siblings lingering separately around the periphery, each taking mental notes of their own careful observations.

[Continue...]

Thanks for reading! I hope you are enjoying the set up for the mystery. Parts I & II introduce some of the characters that we'll see more in the story and give you the first look at the mystery at hand. Tomorrow I'll post the next two parts which will begin to look at rumors circulating the ballroom about possible motives and see who are being considered people of interest. Then things get really interesting on Sunday, when the murder weapon is found and an unlikely prime suspect emerges! The conclusion will be posted Monday! Happy sleuthing!

Giveaway Information: complete details here

3 winners will be chose for minimalist portraits with @bayleedrawsx

Any one who comments on or reblogs with a comment with their theories, thoughts, ideas, ect. on any and all sections of the story will be entered in the giveaway. (1 entry per section)

Prompts: For @choicesbookclub COP ; @choicesmonthlychallenge Private Investigator Event

Special thanks: to JenBeaumontJones (IG) for beta reading

[zannolin]

writing patterns game!

tagged by @lordgrimwing to post the first sentence of the last ten fics i posted and see what it says about how i start stories! oh i can already see where this is going.... (to clarify i'm going off fics by order of first chapter posted instead of last updated, since i have some from Quite a while ago that i finished recently)

Here are the things Amanda LaRusso knows about one Johnny Lawrence: he talks like a walking caricature of the eighties, he likes his scrambled eggs with enough ketchup to fake a murder, and he has the ability to push her husband’s buttons in ways she didn’t know was possible. (puzzle pieces)

The ear is in Jason’s pocket, and that’s how he finds out—how he knows the truth before anyone else in Lyrian. (love is too long)

Two days after Lucy Carlyle leaves his company but not his every waking thought—and probably some of the dreaming ones besides—the ad for her freelance services appears in the papers. (losing face)

When Ferrin pushes him into the well, Jason makes a grab for him on instinct more than anything else. (mutual distrust)

All things considered, Lucy doesn’t immediately connect her exhaustion post-Aldbury Castle and Rotwell showdown with her visit to the Other Side. (motion fatigue)

Patrick Gates has a nice house. (when life gives you lemons)

The first stumble comes when woman from the farmhouse—Naomi is her name—asks Rachel her age. (the swing of things)

Cassie’s never been the best at making friends if she’s honest. (paper faces)

After they slog their damp and shivering way out of Cíbola—or rather, Cíbola’s slightly less dramatic drainage tunnel—Riley shucks off his parka and sits down on a sun-warmed rock to wring out his shirt. (three's a crowd)

Jordan corners him in the bathroom, just as Jon is rinsing toothpaste out of the sink, and he knows there’ll be no escaping his brother this time. (collateral damage)

what's so funny to me is none of these ended up being my favorite story starting device aka what i'm starting my current wip with ("It starts, like everything in Daniel’s life seems to since he was seventeen years old and facing down some asshole on the beach his first night in California, with an argument instigated by one Johnny Lawrence.")—i love a good "it starts like this". it's the narrator in me. anyway i definitely tend to start in media res, though in more mundane moments or observations in the first sentence, followed up by more in-depth narration or spinning the initial thought in a different direction. Like declarative statement -> absolutely bonkers follow-up, if I can help it. it's very fun. idk what do you guys think, psychoanalyze my writing in the notes (jk) (mostly).

tagging: @beautyofsorrow @blusandbirds @adverbialstarlight if u wanna

[pvtchworks]

was  that  VANESSA STANFIELD  i  saw  heading  towards  the  water?  you  know  the  TWENTY FOUR  year  old  from  PACIFIC HEIGHTS?  can  you  believe  they've  only  lived  in  manoa  bay  for  20 YEARS,  it  seems  like  so  much  longer.  last  i  checked  they  were  known  around  town  as  the  NATURALIST  because  of  their  tendency  to be  HUMANITARIAN  and  UNYIELDING,  but  what  else  did  you  expect  from  an  AQUARIUS  who  reminds  you  of  THE LINGERING SMELL OF COCONUT - SCENTED SUNSCREEN , ENJOYING THE SILENCE OF A PENSIVE WALK DURING SUNRISE , A METICULOUSLY MAPPED OUT CALENDAR   …  since  hayden's  disappearance  they  have  been  happily  working  as  a  TOUR GUIDE  at  MOONLIT TOURS,  but  that's  all  about  to  change  because  the  eye  HAS  set  their  sights  on  exposing  all  of  their  lies,  as  well  as  [redacted] i  really  hope  they  don't  incriminate  themself. 

stats .

full name: vanessa grace stanfield . nickname(s): ness , nessa , v date of birth: january 23rd . place of birth: san diego , california . gender: cis woman . sexual orientation: bisexual . height: 5'7 . zodiac: aquarius sun, cancer moon, taurus rising .

about .

had a relatively normal upbringing outside of two workaholic parents who were somehow simultaneously hovering over her and rarely present . she grew accustomed to the 50/50 chance that only one of them ( or neither , as she got old enough to take care of herself ) would be there , learning to be independent and fend for herself at a relatively early age .

her mother is a biology professor who travels often to give seminars and her father is a marine biologist that studies conservation and sustainability so needless to say , the apple did not fall far from the tree when it came to adoring nature and wanting to appreciate the planet . her father's job is also the reason they moved to manoa bay when she was four .

incredibly emotional and isn't always the best at hiding it . . . especially when it comes to her beliefs / special interests . doesn't particularly enjoy conflict though unless it feels necessary or was instigated by the other party .

incredibly type a to the point of almost being annoying . . . think color - coded planners , a well filled - in calendar , journals in every tote bag , a color - sorted closet . doesn't allow much room for a margin of error in really anything and feels a lot of pressure to make sure things are " right " . it makes her come off as a bit rigid but her love language is definitely acts of service so . . . if you can potentially put up with her and lighten the load of stuff she feels like she has to do , you'll be in her life forever .

constantly torn between head and heart . logic will always be a prominent driver for a lot of her decisions but occasionally , her emotions will win out and take over . . . much to her chagrin .

more coming but i'm getting sleepy so i'm gonna switch to dms and come back tomorrow .

some funky little hcs .

obsessed with sea turtles . . . they're her favorite animal . . . she takes the hatching season super serious and will camp out all night to protect the nests if she has to .

hayden taught her how to surf when they were teenagers .

has a cocker spaniel named milo that loves the beach nearly as much as vanessa does .

a minimalist . . . everything is very neutral - toned , multi - use and simple .

has a pipe dream of buying a van and living in it for a year or two while traveling .

skips around jobs a lot . . . has likely never really kept one because she grows bored .

volunteers at the aquarium in her spare time !

connections .

riley — bad influence .

sunny — blind date turned [casual by chappell roan] but not sapphic .

maggie — childhood besties + coworkers .

the elitist — crush .

the fool — prev coworker .

more coming . . .

[ceruleanmusings]

You have OCs for Degrassi TNG/Degrassi, BUT what OC (or OCs) wpuld you do for DJH/DH/DSO? 👀👀👀

-Riley

oooooh! good question!

i really liked lucy so i'd probably make another friend for her. i think it'd use molly ringwald as the fc. have them clash in their ideals sometimes but still be close friends. they have sleepovers a lot, in that lucy would come to her house because she knows lucy's parents aren't great but it's an unspoken part of reality they don't like to face.

she'd be fringe friends with erica and heather, not being too fond of their instigating ways and flighty attitudes but they all like lucy so they get along for her sake. i think she'd be friends with snake simply because they're both dealing with being tall and awkward in their bodies compared to their friends.

honestly, i think i'd make her asexual and try to kiss guys and be into the dating scene like all her friends are and feel like something's wrong with her but she can't figure out what it is and why isn't she fitting in with her guy-obsessed friends? so that makes her try too hard and she ends up in a situation she isn't prepared for and doesn't understand. (TW: i'm thinking maybe she ends up groomed by someone and dealing with the fallout from that.) maybe she was a gymnast or a ballerina until she got too tall or had too many surgeries and then ended up with a pill addiction she's trying to hide.

i'm trying to think of plots if feel degrassi didn't do or could do better but man have they done a lot!

no name for her yet, though. i might just keep my life super simple and name her molly after the fc.

thanks for reminding me though, i need to get back to my degrassi fics.

[jb-nonsense]

Meet my cats post

This is the Big Bubby Boy, Todd. He's just under 3 ft in length from the tip of his nose to tip of his tail but his legs missed the memo and are the average length for a cat, so when he sits down, he looks like a bowling ball. His favorite things are hair ties and cuddling in bed. He hates anything that sounds like thunder and will hide. He'll be 7 this year.

This is the Lil Booboo girl, Riley. She's small and will sit on my shoulder no problem. Hyperactive, she's the one running crazy and instigating play all the time. She loves to cuddle up on your lap but only if you have a blanket on it. She's shy at first but once she warms up to you after a few years, will greet you with trills and head bumps. She'll be 6 this year.

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

⛪🎧👀 for the cca?

⛪ - Are there religions? If so, how do they affect the culture?

it's basically the real world, so... yeah. and even though I may not actively write religion into it, I am a Christian writer with the worldview that comes from that, so I think that probably bleeds through.

🎧 - What are the first three songs on the playlist?

there's two answers to this bc I have the previously mentioned unhinged draft playlist AS WELL AS the "official" playlist, aka the one I cleaned up and am working on making make some sense. so

draft playlist: Could Have Been Me by Halsey, One Black Sheep by Mat Kearney, and Hallelujah by Paramore.

official playlist: I Know The End by Phoebe Bridgers, Keep On Hoping by Riley Clemmons, and The Archer by TaySwift

👀 - A piece of lore you’ve been waiting for an excuse to share

HMMMM ok so idk how much this counts as lore bc I'm still kinda unwilling to give away the final destination of the journey, but in the chronology of the story we're coming up on summer. and during summer, idk how far I'm actually going to take this because I have SEVERAL options already written down that I could either use like... ALL of them and go SUPER heavy/medically inaccurate on the whump and angst, or I could chill out for a second and just use the one main scene. but either way you look at it, Dany is going to have some preeeetttttyyyyy significant medical issues. I won't spoil it outright but it's going to be a major instigator in her and Robin's dynamic changing. 👀👀👀

[rebooted-handeemen-askblog]

So Jeremy how chaotic do things get with haveing to deal with the puppets?

"Preettttttyyy chaotic-"

"Rosco always gets into.. literally EVERYTHING-"

"Nick and Riley fight extremely often-"

"Not to mention, Nick's art projects end up everywhere-"

"Thankfully, Kelly and Daisy are the least chaotic!!-"

"Joey is an instigator to the madness, unfortunately-"

"Aaaand then Mortimer- He's mostly chill, but sometimes he loses his temper, aaaand all hell breaks loose-"

"Thankfully, they all help out to fix things when shit goes ary! And I really appreciate that."

-Jeremy