#and whatever the fuck simon has goin on

[aliennachos]

"and these are my blorbos!"

I enthusiastically say while gesturing towards a group of guys that look like they've been crying for several days, and are actually just several untreated mental illnesses stacked into hoodies

[elysianightsss]

Something something becoming an accidental prostitute for Simon lol.

Hear me out though, you’re at a bar. You’re making out, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Not enough to be completely gone like you’re sure Simon is but enough to be making out with a stranger.

Then you’re back in his truck, he’s practically begging for you to let him fuck you and you say no. You ‘don’t do that type of shit, one night stands and all that’ you say. Simon’s next thing is to beg for a blowjob, you again say no. ‘Part of the boyfriend package’ blah blah blah.

Then Simon delivers his final offer. He is so desperate he offers to pay for a handjob, he cringes after the words come out of his mouth thinking you’d be offended. But to his surprise you say yes. You need the money, and want him to feel good so why the heck not.

And it’s the best damn handjob he’s had in his life.

He drives you home and soon enough after a few days he’s at your door offering more money for another handjob. You feel a little dirty but when his calloused hand slides up your thigh and his hot breath is fluttering on your neck, the feeling fizzles away into something else.

Seeing him come undone with just your touch drives you wild, it becomes increasingly difficult not to do more for him. So when Simon comes over again, this time you kneel in front of him watching as his dark eyes widen when your knees hit the ground.

And just like your handjobs, it’s the best damn blowjob he’s ever had in his life. All sloppy and filthy, not like he imagined but so much better.

You don’t ask for anything but after Simon has kissed you goodbye -(after he’s done begging to let him make you cum)- you turn to find a stack of cash on the coffee table, almost double the amount he’d given for the handjob.

It’s not long after that, that you give in and let him spend hours between your thighs. He even pays you for that, mumbles into your cunt that it’s just as good as your lips around his cock as he ruts his hips into the mattress. You don’t see it until later, long after he’s left, but there is a triple stack of cash on your nightstand.

A day later you receive a text from him saying he’ll be gone for a couple of weeks on work but he can’t wait to see you when he’s back. You feel a strange fluttering sensation in your tummy that makes you feel sick. You thought Simon was the type to hide his feelings and be more stoic and blunt so seeing that message from the hulking giant has your stomach in knots.

It stays that way, you can’t rid the feeling so much so that when he finally shows up at your door you tell him whatever it is between you had to end. It was certainly not the welcome Simon was expecting after dealing with a gruelling mission with nothing but men for weeks on end. He feels something snap in his mind and suddenly he’s throwing you on the bed, gripping your jaw, brown eyes glaring into yours as he speaks, “I’m not goin nowhere sweet’art.”

You ‘fight’ with him blah blah blah but let’s get real you let him finger fuck your pussy until you go cross eyed. You let him fuck you into the mattress until you can barely remember your own name. You let him kiss your neck until the sun starts to rise. And you let him pull your body into his as you both drift off to sleep together.

In the morning you hear the envelope, heavy with weight to it, placed down on your nightstand. Then Simon kisses your forehead and whispers he’ll be back later to take care of you.

Then, the money stops appearing but he’s still fucking you. Soon the rent is paid in cash by an anonymous ‘good samaritan’. And before you know it, you’re waking up with a glittering diamond on your wedding finger and a swollen belly that moves when Simon says I love you.

[sai-int]

How would rts!simon act when it comes to pregnant reader’s hormones? Like she gets super clingy randomly or will just start crying over a cute dog reel on instagram?

combining this with the ask about reader getting super horny from pregnancy hormones too!

—so, simon can handle horny. no problem.

you climb into his lap, needy and squirmy, whining that you “just want to feel full, si, please—” and he’s already palming your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world, lips against your temple, growling into your skin:

“y’can have it, sweet’art. whatever y’need. y’know i’ll fuck y’through anythin’”

the way you grind down on him, teary and frustrated because your body’s so sensitive—that makes him gentle in the filthiest way. slow, deep thrusts. endless praise. letting you cry it out on his cock if you have to, soothing you with soft “that’s it, atta girl, ride it out, i got ya.”

he’s obsessed with how your body changes. how much warmer you feel, your growing bump and the plush of your hips, how tight you still are. he has zero complaints—if anything, he’s addicted.

—he can also handle clingy; he actually loves when you need doting on or when you want more of his attention. he’s happy to oblige.

when you shuffle into the room in one of his shirts, lip wobbly, just wanting to be held—he drops everything. doesn’t care what he was doing. he’ll sit on the couch with you curled up on his chest for hours, rubbing your back, murmuring soft little nothings into your hair.

“you’re alright, girl. ’m not goin’ anywhere.”

likes that he can soothe you, that you trust him enough to let him be your anchor. and when you whine, apologizing for “being too much” or “annoying,” he just pulls you closer.

“y’nevertoo much, dafty. not for me.”

even if he wakes up to you sobbing at your phone screen at 3 am, he’s still there for you. he just hands you a tissue and kisses your forehead.

“y’ cryin’ over a pug wearin’ a sweater, sweet’art.”

*“i know, simon, it’s just so—“ hiccup “—small—”

he bites back a smile and holds you while you cry. rubs your belly. rubs your back. and then when you start laughing at yourself five minutes later, he kisses you again and calls you a “mental little thing.”

regardless he loves all of it. it overwhelms him sometimes, how much emotion you carry in comparison to him, how vulnerable you let yourself be with him. but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. not even the sobbing over tiktok edits of golden retrievers.

because it’s you. and every piece of you is his to protect, to love, to hold. even when you’re hormonal and feral and snotty-faced crying into his hoodie at in the dead of night.

especially then.

[the-californicationist]

i did send the same thing to another writer i enjoy bc i love different takes on things, but my little dumpster brain has had one thought in the last 24 hours - imagine confiding in your captain that you'd like to have a baby bc biological clock or whatever, and being in the field really puts a damper on your sex life, so that makes it difficult. but the 141 will do anything for one of their own, so if that means they're running trains and taking turns on you DAILY until it takes (and probably even after 👀), then so be it.

lol... you lit a fuckin' fire with this ask, my friend. hot!!

"The Window" (141/Reader)

You awoke to the soft tinkling noise of his belt and zipper, rattling at the edge of your bed. Your captain, John Price, was answering his call of duty, and within moments, you knew he would slip his fat, flaccid cock between your legs and allow your warmth to make him harden within you. He preferred it this way. First, he would rub you with it, heavy and smooth, smearing your wetness all over his skin. Then, with a singular talent, he would somehow stuff his soft, lolling head into your hole, feeding himself into you gently, letting your body take him in on its own as your pussy pulsed for him, and he would rub your clit absent-mindedly, comforting himself with your swollen lips, sighing raggedly as you covered him up. Once he was hard - and fuck, he was impossibly hard - he would fuck you through your blinding pleasure, his girth giving you burst after burst of hot, searing bliss.  

He wasn’t your boyfriend - none of them were - but the members of your task force, the 141, had all agreed to be the father of your child. It had started when Captain Price first saw your appointment on the team calendar. You’d meant to post it privately, but you had failed to do so. He came to you right away, his face full of worry,

“Wha’s goin’ on, Spar? Goin’ to the main base hospital… Wha’s all this about?”

So, you’d told him, a little bashfully, that you were trying to get pregnant. You’d be turning 28 this fall, and you wanted to be a mom, sooner rather than later. Every few weeks, you were shipped off to some too-cold or too-hot locale, getting shot at and flash-banged. There wasn’t really time to find a date, much less convince them that you would make a good mother. The last time you tried to use Tinder, one guy had called you ‘Rambo’ and blocked you, so it wasn’t going well. 

“I’ll go with you, little bird. Sounds important.”

“You don’t need to do that, Captain. I’m sure I can take out a loan for it…” You thought out loud, remembering the pamphlet and all of its cost breakdowns for IVF treatments.

“A loan? Last time I checked, love, it was free,” he chuckled. 

“Free when you have someone who’d be willing to give it to you, sir,” you challenged him with your confidence, trying not to be ashamed, even of your ‘Rambo’ nickname. 

“Sparrow,” he raised his voice and nearly shouted your callsign incredulously in the small mess hall where he’d found you, “There’s no bloody way you don’t have someone willing.” 

“Wha’s goin’ on, Cap?” Gaz poked his head in behind the door. 

“Nothing,” you tried to stop the literal landslide of embarrassment that was happening to you.

“She wants to have a baby,” Price told him, smiling a bit as your cheeks turned pink.

“A baby?” Gaz commented with no small amount of surprise.

“Who wants a baby?” Simon yelled out from the hallway before opening the door wider and scooting around Gaz to join into the conversation. 

“A bairn!?” Soap barged in, slamming the door all the way open and forcing Gaz to tumble into the kitchen. 

So, the whole team knew in a matter of moments, but Price kept his word. He drove you to the hospital for your appointment and asked more questions to the doctor than you did. Unfortunately, he heard all of the strictest rules and took them to heart. No cigarettes, no caffeine, plenty of rest and… plenty of exposure to male ejaculate. 

There had been a meeting, of which you were not a part, between Price and the other men in your task force, and they had come to a conclusion: they would put a baby in you. It was their singular mission. A bit of back and forth had occurred when you found out their plan.

“Is there… we dinnae want to pressure you, lass, but,” Soap looked around at Ghost, Gaz, and Price before settling back on you, “Are there any of us you wouldnae like to be the father? We willnae take offense.”

“No! I’d be happy to have any of you… I mean… But, I don’t want you to feel like you need to do this if you don’t want to,” you could feel the heat of your shame rising in your cheeks, and you knew you were as red as a lobster. You heard a bit of laughter at your comment and feared the worst. But then, Gaz explained,

“I’m afraid all of us very much want to, Sparrow.”

He had even palmed his growing cock for emphasis. 

But, it had to be fair, you decided. There should be a schedule; no favorites. And for the first month, there was. Soap was your Monday, Ghost was Tuesday, Gaz was Thursday, and Price was Friday. But then Price had a meeting and so Soap was Friday, and Price was Saturday. That meant Ghost was Monday. You were in training on Tuesday, so Gaz was Wednesday, but Soap couldn’t do Thursday or Friday because he had to go in for his annual review. So, he joined Gaz on Wednesday, stepping in right after him as if you were a pretty little mailbox and the boys had come to drop off their packages. 

When the weekly schedule fell apart, you hung a big calendar in your quarters, and they’d pencil themselves in. That was fine until you had been shipped out to Aqtabi. You’d tried to keep it up while you were in the field, remembering what day was which, but the truth was that sometimes you had no idea if it was morning or night. Was that the sun or a flare? 

And sometimes it didn’t matter. Something would happen on a mission, and Price would crawl beneath your scratchy woolen sheet, searching for the comfort of your arms, not saying a word, not even asking you if it was alright, but just taking you there in the cold night of the desert, filling you up and keeping his cock sheathed in you, safe and sound. 

And sometimes you needed them, too. Waiting on exfil, huddled together in the pouring rain beneath a sad tarp, you’d crawled into Gaz’s lap, looping your arms around his neck and letting him hold you in a cradle, using his big chest as your pillow. You’d dozed, exhausted, and he’d rubbed himself against you through your clothes, coaxing you to pull down your pants so he could empty himself into your womb, quick and filthy. You remembered how it felt when his come had soaked through your panties as you sat next to him in the helicopter, letting him hold your hand. 

You felt a little guilty that you weren’t exactly hoping for a child during those first few months. You were enjoying their affections, no matter how platonic they may have felt. 

It didn’t stay that way, though. Soap was the worst offender. When he fucked you, he wanted to spend most of his time eating you out, sucking on your clit with his mouth like a hungry dog, soaking himself in your scent and your flavor before finally mounting you, crawling over your body like the hound that he was, dipping his cock into you and beating your core like a drum. He’d stare into your eyes when he could manage it, and he’d slipped up one day and told you he loved you. That you were his girl, his wee bonnie lass, and that he’d raise the bairn with you, even if it was Black like Gaz, tall like Ghost, or had Price’s big nose. It’d be his and yours. He’d be the daddy you wanted him to be, he promised. 

Then, you’d had to deal with Gaz. He’d made dinner reservations at a restaurant near base while he had your legs held up to your chest, helping you wait the twenty suggested minutes for his “lads” to “soak in”. Told you he was just hungry, but he had also happened to buy you a nice dress, and he’d driven you in his sporty little Beamer, bright red and clean as a whistle. He’d fucked you after dinner, sneaking in a double feature, which was expressly against the rules. Told you he couldn’t help himself, and he said he’d been thinking about you all weekend, cock in hand. 

Ghost was like his namesake, haunting you all over the place. He found you in the locker room, and decided to fuck you standing up, sweaty from your sparring match. He’d washed you off in the shower, and he’d taken you in there, too, after coaxing you to make him hard again by sucking him off. Ghost would slink by you in the reference room, stalking you through the bookshelves, and dragging you to the storage closet to fuck you on all fours on the floor, maps and looseleaf pamphlets about Russian spy camps under your rosy red knees. He got vocal that night, cramped with his huge body in that tiny closet, telling you what a good girl you were for him, how you fit his fuckin’ cock so perfect, how he’d never want anyone else, how it felt so good to fill your body up with his load. 

Then, there was your captain. At first, you weren’t sure he was truly a willing participant. He seemed to avoid you unless he was on the schedule. He didn’t cut in line, and if you were on the couch or in the kitchen with one of the boys, he’d leave you be, smiling at you a bit before grabbing his tea and escaping back to his office. But, then you realized the truth: John Price wanted to put a baby inside of you more than anyone else, and he would go to the ends of the earth to make sure it happened. 

“Hey, little bird,” John’s finger pet the side of your cheek as you woke, feeling him pull down your pink silk panties so he could start to warm you up, “I’m your Sunday.”

“Mm,” you rubbed the sleep out of your eye and opened up your legs for him, giving him full access to your body on instinct at this point, “John, we gave up on the schedule. You can come whenever you want. Or, you can stop.”

“Can’t stop,” he kissed your mouth as he leaned over you, and you tasted peppermint and tobacco mixing together with something heady and lustful, “We’re in the window.”

Ah. The Window. All of the boys talked about The Window and when it was coming up next. They’d all downloaded trackers on their phones, watching you like birds of prey for when you ordered a box of tampons, checking with you to see when you were off the rag. And then, you’d be “in the window” of ovulation. Their best chance at succeeding at this mission. 

They would fuck you at any time of the month, and Soap and Price would even fuck you through your period, having read in some magazine that there was a small chance of success. But, being in The Window was like covering yourself in honey in the middle of a cave in spring and waking up all the bears inside it. Fertile ground, ripe for the taking. 

“Mm, fuck,” you keened. John had two fingers in you now, pressing on your soft spots and stretching your hole. You wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him in for another kiss, which he moaned into. 

“Feel good, Spar? You want to make me hard, pretty bird?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, looking up at him with desperate eyes, “Yeah, I do. Please, John…”

 He slipped himself in, half-hard already, and you felt the body of it slide into your core. It was soft, and you liked to squeeze it with your muscles, feeling him writhe inside of you when you did, reveling in his pleasure. He sat back on his heels to let you play with him fully, watching you grind your hips on him as he massaged your clit to its full, swollen height. He was in no rush, and he spoke to you casually. 

“Has Kyle been in this weekend?”

“No, it was Soap,” you tried to remember, “And then Ghost, and then Soap again.”

Price chuckled warmly,

“That boy wants a baby so badly.”

You smiled with him, agreeing, 

“He does. He interrupted Gaz on Thursday and asked him when he’d be done!” 

Price laughed with you then, his eyes gleaming and crinkling at the edges,

“Oh, Christ. He’d be a good one. They’d all be good.”

You watched his mood shift. There was something solemn about it, and you wanted to chase it away. You rubbed your hand along his furry belly, locking your ankles around his hips and shamelessly rocking your hips to fit more of him into you. You confessed, 

“You’d be good.”

His eyes found yours again and he stilled, wondering out loud,

“D’you think so, Sparrow?”

“I know so.”

“Can I tell you a secret, little bird?” He whispered, lowering himself into position and stuffing his hard length even deeper inside of you, making you worry just a bit if he could hurt you with that thing. 

You nodded, kissing his huge Adam’s apple in his throat and nuzzling through his beard. He told you the whole truth as he pounded himself into you without mercy, 

“Sometimes, I wish he would be mine. I wish…” He almost stopped, but he kept going, like a raft in the stream, too caught in the current to go back to the shore, “I wish you could be mine, and then I could rub lotion on your belly when you got big. And I could cook for you when you got tired, and I could read to you, even when he was still inside of you, and I know he could hear my voice. I wish, sometimes, that when it happens, that I’d be the first to know. That you’d tell me first, because you knew it was mine, because you’d want him to be mine.”

You were stunned, and you were coming, and the two were very separate events. As your pussy pulsed and tried to milk him of his come, making you dizzy and almost sick with pleasure, you were shocked by his admission. You grabbed his face and made him look you in your eyes,

“John…” You panted, coming down from your first high of many with Price, “I had no idea you felt that way.”

“I didn’t either,” he smiled, but the corners didn’t reach his eyes. 

When he fucked you this morning, you had no idea how good it could feel, but he showed you. He rutted into you, desperately, like some sort of beast, unable to stop himself. It was as if he would fuck himself bloody in you if he had to, and you wanted to take him as best you could. You felt him finally start to come, and he plugged you up with his thickness, shoving himself as deep as he would go, sealing you off and keeping you warm and elevated. 

He kept his cock in you, gasping for breath and petting the hair out of your face. He kissed you, cheeks and chin and neck, all the way down to your breasts where he suckled from your nipples, almost dreamlike in the way he was touching you, fully covered in you the entire time. 

“Sleep, birdie,” he nuzzled your neck and continued to lave his tongue over your breasts, “I’ll wake you when I’m hard again.”

Part 2

[manicrouge]

It's difficult to trust someone, and he knows that well. In fact, Simon Riley would say he is most definitely the loneliest man in the world simply because he doesn't trust a single soul. As he'd remarked to Johnny, the people closest to you tend to always be the ones who hurt you the most.

Until he meets you.

It's steady and he's cautious, not even telling you the truth of his order when the pair of you go out together to a coffee shop. The strangest part is, he doesn't know why he lied to you and ordered a coffee because really he hates the taste of it, in fact, he's convinced that he'd have a better time drinking muddy water.

You don't notice his lie, of course you don't; it's a stupid fucking thing to lie about and he knows that.

Only, the more time he spends with you, the more he finds your carelessness (which he was originally stunned by) is something he desires to have. Holding you in his hands, holding your waist, your face, your hands is the closest he has ever gotten to honesty and, when you propose going for breakfast this morning, his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

'I was thinkin' about goin' for coffee and getting one of those bagels from that little cafe at the end of the street,' you say, grinning ear to ear as you fix the cuff of your sweater. 'What do you think? You get your cup of ash, and I get a nice brew.'

'I'm getting a tea, not coffee.' It escapes his mouth before he can stop himself.

You pause, furrowing you brow, 'but I thought you loved coffee; you always drink it.'

'I lied, I hate it.'

You stare, blatantly gobsmacked by his peculiar lie and still, he finds a gentle understanding in your eyes,. 'Oh well then, we'll both get cups of teas then,' you say with a smile, continuing to get ready.

It's his turn to be the gobsmacked one as he saw no madness in you, rather just a quiet understanding, something that speaks we'll talk about whatever this is when you're ready to. The heat that grows in his chest is unmatched with anything and he settles in the warmth of your love, knowing that he doesn't have to hide anymore.

Maybe the truth doesn't always have to be such a bad thing.

[tojisun]

it's a blip in nature, a freak event, but somehow simon's found himself face-to-face with someone wearing his face.

the man says that simon riley is his name too, but simon feels the ever so consistent cramping from the inside of his palm down to his wrist and uses it as means of finding balance in this startling... dream. the fake, ghost, says he isn't lying, grumbling with the same voice simon knows is sitting on the base of his throat.

simon would shoot to eliminate the threat because this, whatever this is, cannot be, but—

ghost is holding a babe, the little head snug in the cupped palm of the man. she is snoozing, tiny hiccups and little wiggles the only sign of life from such a quiet child, and simon can't even think about pulling his gun from its holster, not like this. not with her.

you're standing on the far side, angled behind ghost's bulk, and simon remembers how ghost had tugged you directly from his line of sight, shielding you from simon like he was the threat and not the fucker who has a civilian hostage pressed so close to his chest.

simon wants to rip the child away from ghost because she isn't safe there with him. you aren't safe with that man so please, love, come close to him and simon swears he'll find a way to protect the little girl too.

but you grip ghost's jacket, the fabric bunching up inside your fist, your body tensed with fear.

simon wants to cry. please, he wants you safe—

"riley," ghost barks out, and simon shifts his eyes back to him. "call your men off and we'll explain everything."

there's a shift in the shadows, but simon doesn't need to look at them to know that it's the squad, flanking the fake and his hostages. simon growls, fury bloating.

"you let go of the child and my—" wife "the civilian, and we won't put a hole in that head of yours."

there is a whimper, and it resounds in the small space where they've managed to corner the impostor. the sound of bodies whipping, along with the click of guns, echo in reply, cocking at the sudden explosion of uncharted noise, a new threat, only for everyone to freeze when they saw that it was—

it was you.

simon doesn't even remember how long it was since the two of you saw each other. the divorce had been difficult and tumultuous, ripping the two of you into the barest of fury, until all the love the two of you shared dried up. but in that moment, amidst all the arsenal pointed your way, the confusion ebbs into fear.

he sees the moment you see yourself.

"simon," you gasp out. "what's- what's goin' on—"

.

fuckin' multiverse travel. something about dimension hopping.

really, simon called bullshit but—

"this is sophie," ghost murmured, showing them all the bundled newborn. she is still tuckered out, unknowing of what's happening.

there were a few shuffling movements as the rest of the squad closed in on the dimension hopper to see the child, all of their breaths stuck in their lungs in fear it'd wake her up.

in the silence, ghost added, "our daughter"

he remembers jolting up in surprise, wild eyes frantic as they tore through the room until they finally landed on you. you were just as surprised, palm atop your mouth, and simon understood because why.

why was there a universe where things worked out?

ghost's face fell, like he could see the unspoken disbelief. you, the other you, had also been just as hurt, tears springing from your eyes like the crybaby you always are.

"fuck," simon whispers as he shuts his eyes close and let the memories flow.

he remembers how you looked—would look?—if things had just been better; how you took baby sophie from ghost's arms and tucked her close to your chest, quiet lullabies spilling from your quirked up lips. he remembers how ghost turned until you and sophie were bracketed by his arms—he was so obviously clingy.

but can simon judge him for that? he knows he would be just as insufferable if it had been you and him in their place.

then, he remembers when the other you had asked him, simon, if he wanted to hold sophie. there were no worlds, or universes apparently, where he would have said no.

sophie was a marvel. she was so small, worryingly so, but she was perfect. simon wished she was awake just so he could get a glimpse of her eyes because are they like his? a part of him hoped they were more like yours—such windows to your soul.

he remembers looking up and seeing the visceral pain in your eyes. the longing. and he wonders if...

if you would give him one more chance?

[shotmrmiller]

fwb! ghost brainrot ive officially decided its gotta turn into ghoap x reader or im gonna eat my flextape. hopefully i can connect this one to the first one. team fix your plotholes or else, perra.

Fwb! Simon who just turned exclusive doesn’t want anyone to know about the two of you. Can’t say it doesn’t sting but as he said, you asked for a fuck, not a boyfriend. You understand because you aren’t sure Johnny would take too kindly to his best friend being disrespected in bed by someone he knows is a bonafide manwhore. 

So when Johnny pulls a pretty woman at the bar y'all are in, he also brings her friend for Simon, and that makes you prickle with jealousy. With a huff, you turn to face the crowd— away from the bitch putting her manicured hands on Simon. You’d like to believe that he is reciprocating her attention because if he doesn’t, Johnny would find it suspicious. But the way he wraps his arm around her waist, flirting back so effortlessly, reminds you of his ways. Of how he is.

Simon isn’t stupid. He wasn’t a part of the elite force Johnny’s in only because of his brawn. He was also brain. And that infuriates you. Talking to Simon is like dealing with a fucking genie.  Better be specific to the minute detail or anything that’s left to assumption is free game. 

Grabbing Johnny’s forearm to get his attention, he doesn’t look at you— too busy sweet-talking his next conquest, so you dig your nails into his skin. You see him wince and pull away roughly to sneer at the offender, but then his features smooth out instantly, once he realizes it’s you. Ice-blue eyes slightly unfocused from the alcohol in his system, yet it feels like all he can see is you. His reaction makes your heart skip a beat, how quickly he ignores everything around him— puts everything on the backburner if you need something from him. You can't help the pleased smile that curls your lips at the realization.

“Hey, Johnny boy. I’ma go pay the tab,” and then you flick your eyes to the woman, “ do not leave without me.” 

“Dinnae worry, hen, as if I’d ever leave ye anywhere.” Your smile turns gloriously smug when you see the woman look at you in undisguised contempt. Blessed be Johnny, always in your corner. With another squeeze to his forearm, you chuckle when you hear a “Claws in, kitten!” and move to get up when you notice Simon no longer flirting with miss thing, but intently looking at Johnny’s forearm, which still has the half-moon marks of your nails on it. His gaze then snaps to yours, with an almost knowing glint behind them.

You roll your eyes and briskly walk to the bartender, flagging him down. When the bartender gives you the receipt to sign, a voice asks if he can buy you a drink. Sighing, you turn around to tell whoever that you aren’t interested.

“Incredibly generous, but—” and freeze. “Long time no see, eh?” 

It’s your ex. You ended things amicably enough— surprising, for him having been your first boyfriend, first everything, really.  Y’all just outgrew each other emotionally. Hugging him, you exclaim, “Jesus Christ, how’ve you been! It’s been far too long. What’re you doin’ here?” 

He responds, “I was just in town and figured I could get a drink, maybe some company,” you don’t miss the implication of that, but choose to ignore it. 

“How’s that goin’ for ya?”, and then he reaches out to grab your wrist and runs his thumb over your knuckles. “I’ve got you now, don’t I? You look fantastic.” You’re about to let him down lightly when your hand is snatched out of his, and you’re forcibly pulled against someone, strong arm over your shoulders. 

“Whatever ye wan’ with her, the answer is naw. ” Johnny. You smother the slight pang of disappointment in your chest, how silly of you to think it could’ve been Simon. 

“Forever the guard dog, eh, John?” and Johnny’s arm tightens almost painfully and snarls.

“Still around, are ye? Just like a roach, boy.” Johnny and your ex never got along— always a pissing contest.  You have an inkling that it’s because of how close you two were and still are.

Your ex scoffs loudly at him, then looks at you. “It’s your choice, unless you’ve got a boyfriend?” and you shake your head. Johnny pulls you to stand in front of him, both arms holding you close.

“She doesnae. No one’s good enough fer her. Including ye.” 

Sucking your teeth, you sink your nails into Johnny’s forearm, again. “I think that’s for me to decide, no?” and pull at his arms to release you. “You’ve got some nerve, Johnny, bringing me here just to watch you and Ghost—” when you’re roughly pulled to the side,  held down by a much larger body. Simon. Your heart hammers in your chest. How long has he been standing here?

He lowers his mouth to your ear and sternly says, “Behave, pet. The sergeant said no. End of story.” 

When he uses that voice, all you can do is obey. 

“And who’re you?” You can feel Simon stand to his full height, broad shoulders straightening, posturing. Even slouched, he towered over your ex but standing like this, exuding strength and authority, it’s almost comical how large of a difference there is between them two— especially with you in his arms.

“I’m guard dog number two,” and your ex pales slightly. “I’d fuck off,” and Simon points towards the exit with his head, “Now.” He stiffens for a second, eyes bouncing between Johnny and Simon, and bolted—like prey after detecting predators. Not even a goodbye. You don't know if to applaud his sense of self-preservation or curse his cowardice. 

Johnny grabs your hand and leads you out the door, slinging his arm over you as y’all walk towards his home.

“Yer not mad, are ye?” and you keep quiet, he has always hated the silent treatment. “Bonnie—” and Simon cuts him off. 

“Who was that?” and Johnny looks back to answer. “Her ex-boyfriend. Very first one, wasn’t he, hen?” You dig your elbow into his ribcage and hiss out, “Johnny, you dolt! There is no need for you to be sharing that!” 

He laughs and brings your head in to kiss your temple. “I’m jus’ sayin’! Hen, no one out here is worth yer time. Ye cannae be mad at me for speakin’ the truth.” Exhaling, you curl your arm around his waist, going under his shirt to squeeze his waist. 

“Yeah, yeah. Guess I’ll just have to fill the void with you,” and Johnny swiftly continues your sentence. “And Ghost.” 

Absentmindedly, you nod. “And Ghost.” 

-

Had you been paying attention, you would’ve seen the way he and Ghost shared a calculated look before Johnny pressed another kiss a little closer to your mouth.

[frudoo]

Mister Asylum (2)

Title: Claudeland

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Warnings: Gross imagery, self-deprecating thoughts, one mention of medical abuse of power.

“Lights out, Mr. Riley.”

The squawking voice of the bitter nurse, ironically named ‘Sunny’, makes Simon’s eye twitch, fists clenched by his sides as he treks his way into the scarcely decorated room. There are no windows, no lights aside from the fluorescent overhead that gets switched off the second he thunks down onto the rickety bed. A couple of motivational posters hang high on the walls, held up by sticky tack and pure spite, at this point. The cheery words mock him, contort into vicious reminders of how useless he is in this place, in this world.

There’s not even a clock on any of the four taunting walls surrounding him and his roommate. His roommate, who talks to himself more often than not, only getting out of bed to get his vitals checked or slurping down the scrambled eggs he sneaks into his pockets at breakfast. Simon actually misses the smell of gunpowder and blood—anything is better than the vile stench of rotten food and day-old feces. The sorry fucker can’t even be bothered to flush the toilet. He’s nicknamed the gremlin ‘Egghead’ since he’s unsure of his real name. Not that he’d care regardless.

It’s no use complaining, either, no matter how many times Simon tries. He’s always dismissed with an annoyed frown and a wave of whatever nurse’s hand he’s decided to bitch and moan to. If he persists, they just threaten to give him an ungodly dose of Benadryl to keep him doped-up and compliant. Fuck, prison would be paradise compared to this place.

Simon huffs and pulls his mask over his eyes rather than his nose and mouth, turning on his side to finally try his hand at sleeping. He hasn’t caught a wink in the past two days he’s been here, and whatever little teaser of a nap he manages to fall into gets destroyed by the nightmares he’s plagued by. He’s lost count of how many times nurses have been sent to his room to try and calm him down to no avail—he just has to ride the terrifying wave the way he always does. It’s his own personal form of torture.

He’s nearly halfway asleep in a record time of fifteen short minutes when he hears rustling beside him. Simon stirs but ultimately ignores it, sniffing and allowing his body to relax once again. He probably just imagined it. No threats in this place. He’s safe.

He’s on the brink of blissful slumber when he feels it again. This time, he knows it’s not a figment of his imagination—that much is proven by the weight that settles on his waist. The unmistakable odor behind him proves his suspicions as his roommate cuddles up behind him like it’s his birthright, a pleased sigh escaping his filthy mouth.

“I jus’ wanna know when ya plan ta kill me,” he rasps, and Simon nearly loses it.

Fucking hell. Enough is enough. Simon elbows the freaky little greaseball in the stomach and skyrockets out of the bed, storming into the hallway where the night shift nurses are making their rounds. He spots the one who forced him back into his room and strides over to her, furiously pulling the mask back over his mouth and nose.

“No’ stayin’ in there w’him,” Simon growls, staring down the much shorter woman whose glare is equally as sharp.

“And what do you expect me to do about it?” Sunny cocks an eyebrow, arms crossed and one hip popped to the side to show she’s not intimidated.

“Dunno, but I ain’t goin’ back,” he squints, large foot tapping against the linoleum floor impatiently, looking much more like an angsty teenager than a battle-ruined soldier. “Can I switch rooms?”

“This isn’t a hotel, Mr. Riley,” the older woman exhales heavily and pinches the bridge of her nose before her eyes meet his again. “But I’ll see what I can do. For now, you’re gonna go back in that room and sit on the bed. Understood?”

Simon groans in disapproval but nods, moping his way back into the torture chamber where Egghead has made himself at home on his bed, sprawled out like a damn prostitute. The freaky bastard’s not even sleeping, just staring up at the ceiling with a cavernous grin on his oily face, acknowledging Simon’s presence with a squeal. The lieutenant actually flinches, reaching behind him habitually as if to retrieve a knife, despite having nothing but his pajamas on his person.

“M’ready,” Egghead giggles, lifting his arms and plopping them down again childishly. “How ya gonna do it?”

Simon peeks down the hall, hoping to find Sunny making her way towards him with that wonderful news so he doesn’t have to respond to this madman. No such luck, to his dismay. When he turns his head back, Egghead is standing right in front of him, jaundiced eyes wide and bloodshot.

“Answer me!” He shrieks, his grubby hands grabbing onto Simon’s shirt and tugging him so close that the taller man can see the plaque on his teeth.

Utterly repulsed, Simon shoves the fun-sized ogre back, fully intent on beating him to a pulp for ever daring to touch him in the first place. Egghead hits the edge of the bed with a grunt, palms rested on the mattress behind him to brace himself. The soldier raises a clenched fist, wild brown eyes locked on his target, but he can’t bring himself to plummet his knuckles onto the smaller man’s face. There’s no fear in the poor bloke’s expression, something more akin to relief, and it makes Simon question everything about himself.

Had he been on the field, Simon wouldn’t have hesitated to dig a knife into the enemy’s neck. But here, in the quiet of the hospital where he can hear the whimpers coming from the pitiful throat before him, where there’s no pressure on him to keep his team alive, he finds himself incapable of the violence he’s always known to resort to. If it wasn’t for the rapid fluttering beneath his chest, he wouldn’t be sure he even still had a heart. The feeling is foreign and it scares the hell out of him.

“M’not gonna kill you,” Simon grumbles, smoothing his rough palms over the mess of overgrown hair on the top of his head. “Stand up, mate.”

Egghead whines dramatically before following orders, using the heel of his palms to push himself back onto his feet. He trails back over to his own bed where he starts reciting his usual bedtime story to himself, like nothing had happened. Simon settles for kicking the wall to release his frustrations, not even flinching at the shooting pain that resonates through his foot. The rubber slipper that the hospital provided snaps in half, rendered useless in his rage. Funny, he thinks, that he can relate to such an inferior object.

“Mr. Riley, if you’re finished damaging property, I’d like to speak to you,” Sunny’s unimpressed voice rings out from behind him, and he turns around hopefully.

“Sorry,” he mutters, nodding for her to continue.

“There’s a room on the floor above us that the director herself has offered up. No roommates. You will still be on our schedule, but the nurses will be different. And, Simon?”

“Hm?”

“Just because we’re making this one exception does not mean you will be treated specially. It is simply a different floor. You will proceed treatments like normal,” her voice is firm as ever but holds a depth of sympathy that wasn’t there previously.

“Understood, ma’am,” he fiddles with the hem of his cotton tee, avoiding her steely gaze. “Thank you.”

“Grab your belongings, I’ll escort you.”

𝝑𝝔

Taglist: @thesevi0lentdelights @rejectedbytheempty @whitetiger846

[ink-n-shadow]

[ GONE BAD ] 𝜗𝜚 the one where you meet mafia!ghost

𝜗𝜚 pairing: mafia!Simon "Ghost" Riley x police officer's daughter!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: alternative universe, mentions of police, tw! for creepy guy, allusion to dark!ghost (only if you squint) 𝜗𝜚 note: new au, new ideas (don't hesitate to send me requests :3)

⤷ ever since you were a little kid, your dad was a member of the police force in manchester. you were a daddy’s girl through and through. hell, you wanted to be just like him when you were little—catching bad guys and keeping people safe. 

⤷ but something shifted when you were a teenager—and suddenly, the daddy’s good little girl was gone. you were sneaking out, partying with friends, skipping school to go smoke cigarettes underneath the crumbling cobblestone bridge by your secondary school. 

⤷ it only got worse once you graduated and enrolled in university. this time, though, you weren’t under your father’s thumb anymore. you were in your flat, with your own roommates, doing whatever you wanted to do. that’s how you found yourself in some dingy new pub that opened up in the city. 

⤷ you had dipped outside of the pub for a quick cigarette, stepping into a dimly lit alleyway and leaning against the cobbled wall to puff away at the tobacco stick. it was almost peaceful—that was until a group of drunken men stumbled by and one of them took a liking to you. 

⤷ “aye, pretty thing. y’look lonely standing there all by yourself. mind if i join you? take a little puff of that cig?”

⤷ you tried to come up with some sort of excuse, eyes frantically searching for a way out—but the alleyway you were in was a dead end. the lit cigarette fell from your trembling hand, rolling across the wet asphalt. you thought you were goner until you heard an exit door from the pub behind you screech open, a hard voice rumbling like a thunder storm. 

⤷ “what the fuck’s goin’ on out here? you botherin’ this girl, eh? at my fuckin’ pub? get the fuck out of here before i bury you underneath the concrete you're standin' on.”

⤷ you caught your breath as the man harassing you scrambled off quickly, turning your head to see who the gravelly voice belonged to. he was a looming figure, dressed in a steam-pressed three piece suit and tie along with shiny leather oxfords. his fingers were covered in tattoos and rings, his neck adorning two thick silver chains. His face, however, was obscured by a black mask with a slick skull face attached to the front. he looked menacing. the gun holstered to his hip didn’t help. 

⤷ “you didn’t have to—”

⤷ “don’t sit there and tell me you would’ve handled it. that fucker would’ve torn you to bits if i hadn’t stepped in, lovie. too prideful to say thank you?”

⤷ having lived in manchester all your life, having listened to your father’s rants about the organized crime running rampant in the streets, you knew exactly who the man in front of you that night was: ghost, the faceless leader of the organized crime syndicate which ran manchester under an iron fist. you should’ve expected him to be here—this was his pub, after all. 

⤷ you couldn't speak, but that was alright. ghost didn't mind—he was used to people keeping queit about him. that's why he felt so comfortable leaning against the wall of the alleyway, balancing a cigarette between his lips and igniting the paper.

⤷ "next time you're at my pub, make sure you stay with a friend. pretty little things like you have a tendency to get snatched up right quick out here. can't guarantee i'll be here to save you next time, lovie."

⤷ but after that night, ghost seemed to always be there to save the day. your car breaks down on the side of the road during rush hour traffic? ghost's suv just so happens to pull up behind you. you get a little too drunk out at his pub one night? ghost has one of his men drive you and your friends home. you know deep down that it's way past just coincidences now—but that added to the thrill of it, to the taboo nature of it all.

⤷ other than that, ghost might as well have been a figment of your imagination. he never gave you a phone number, never told you an address, never really stuck around much after helping you out time after time. he was almost unreal until he came out from the shadows. it took almost an entire year before ghost finally asked you to get drinks with him.

⤷ "c'mon—you gotta say yes. y'know how rare it is for me to ask a girl for drinks? usually, the girls come crawlin' to me. not you, though. that's what i like about you, lovie."

[celestialprincesse]

🐎💕

Simon with an equestrian gf (me pls pls) vv self indulgent

I'm sorry but he's scared of horses I said what I said.

Like yes this man is 6'4 of muscle and armed to the teeth but he finds horses so off putting. He thinks their eyes are creepy and doesn't like that a 600kg animal gets frightened at a plastic bag.

He obviously sees her riding and is like "how the fuck you doin' that? The fuck are you kickin' 'im for?" and she's just like 🧍‍♀️

Is it weird that he's attracted to someone covered in mud and literal shit? is it? no its totally normal. Right?

Something about a woman in knee high boots walking around with a riding crop has him awkwardly hard, and inwardly freaking out because why the fuck is he hard. He's not into that stuff, right? (wrong. idiot.)

He gets so pissy when she gets out of bed in the morning to go check on the horses and he's laying there like 😧 "I just blew your fuckin' back out, had you screamin' and this is how you repay me? Goin' to see the damn horses?"

She's j like "Mhm! They're my babies. Gotta feed em. They're almost as clingy as yo-" "Yep. Yep. Whatever. Go shovel some shit."

She falls and he shits himself, goes running over to her only for her to look really upset up at him. "You weren't filming? I sat that really well!"

𝜗𝜚

Sorry for the self indulgent trash! my brain is such a mess today so I've literally got no decent ideas😛

Feel free to dump anything in my askbox if you fancy😚

[ask-the-curtis-gang]

idk if this has already been answered but who's everyone's favorite music artists?

OH OH WAIT I LOVE THIS. hold up. lemme go first. ok. my favorites have GOTTA be. well. Elvis of course but he's obvious so we'll skip him. The temptations (my girl was worn out in the first week) Herman's hermits (their stuff is ALWAYS a hoot) n hmm. the animals. (the house of the risin sun? take my word. that is GOIN all the way)

music? I ain't picky really. Elvis. of course. did soda already say that? yeah. for sure. the rollin stones. man. I can't get no satisfaction? goddamn. that is one tuff ass song. damn. the hollies too. long cool woman? goddamn. I guess anythin with a good base.

oh oh oh. wait. Elvis. yeah. like all his shit. you can't go wrong with Elvis man. but hmm. also For What it's Worth by Buffalo Springfield. or the turtles. (WAIT I FORGOT THEM I LOVE THEM. some boysss love to run aroundddd. but this boyyy-) (soda keep your concerts to YOUR part of the note) ( :( ) also. like. anythin by the association. or Simon n Garfunkel. man. those guys are poets. the kind you read about.

I mostly just listen to whatever the curtis' got on record (lots a Elvis. good amount of the beatles) but I like the association a whole bunch!! windy has gotta top the charts this year man. or ode to Billy Joe? tuff ass keys in that song man. I like the monkees too man. they got some good ass albums.

well. I guess I don't gotta say it (but I will anyway cause the king is ALWAYS worth repeatin HA) Elvis. all the way. the poor side of town by Johnny rivers is always worth the listen. man. that song gets me. Herman's hermits of COURSE. n the monkees. I know most of em don't like em but the beach boys have some real funky tunes man. I like em (if my opinion goes far HA)

the animals. the rollin stones. the hollies. the zombies. (damn Dallas ain't you just so chatty tonight.) (fuck off. my head hurts)

(Darrys asleep) (unfortunately:() (but he REALLY digs the beatles. for some god awful reason. don't look here)

[ohbo-ohno]

.. that purge playlist screenshot got me thinking..

the annual purge has started. Soap is confident in himself, staying alive tonight. Locked up in his home, which is out of the way and secured properly(he’s an explosives expert, what did you expect?), so, yeah! He’s making it through. He already does enough killing in his job, he doesn’t want to spend leave doing what he’s no doubt gonna do when he gets back.

all’s well, it’s late, and Soap’s getting ready to head off to bed in his basement. Simple, easy, super secure. He’d hear anyone trying to get in, and his weapons are right at his side! An easy night! .. right?

it’s late. Or early? It’s still dark out when he jolts awake to a crash. Did- did something just break? Where was it? He climbed out of his little makeshift bed, grabbing his gun, just in case.

goes upstairs, there’s nothing there.. musta been a ‘coon! Yeah.

except, it wasn’t. When Soap gets back down into the basement after doing a quick patrol of the house, someone’s down there. A big hulking someone who looks.. familiar.

before he can put his finger on it, that big someone lunges for him, pulling Soap’s back against his big chest as he wraps his hands wrap around his throat, cutting off his air.

that’s when it hits him. That smell. That’s Ghost’s cologne!

uhhh the brainworms stopped brainworming so blah blah Soap wakes up, groggy and chained to a bed. Not his own. Tries to look around, all he sees is the large bed he’s laying on in a dark room. maybe an hour or so later, someone comes down into the room. Ghost. Mmmmakes a comment about how Soap was out longer than he thought he would be, how he should have closed the door behind him going back down into his basement, uhhhhahhdsh yeah

(this is really fucking long I’m so sorry feel free to ignore I JUST HAD TO GET THIS OUT sorry if you don’t want long things like this sent into your inbox 😭😭)

-👑

that purge playlist is because im writing a ghoap x reader purge au (that i hope to have finished today) for the love of my life lumi

there's soooo much you can do with a purge au!!! you could have ghost use soap as basically a hunting dog, dragging victims to his master for him to kill. you could have reader as a bonkers insane murderer who ghoap become obsessed with after see her kill someone. you could have poor ol' johnny get taken and kidnapped :/

i loooooove your idea, and i'll add a tiny little layer to it if you don't mind:

maybe johnny's a barista and ghost is one of his regulars. he comes in at the same time everyday (not super weird at a coffee shop) and always waits in johnny's line, even if the other line is shorter. he's intense and creepy as hell, barely ever speaking - as soon as johnny figured out his regular order, he stopped speaking at all. he gives johnny heebie-jeebies, but he tips like $20 every day, so whatever

except the day of the purge, he finally speaks. says something super generic like "goin' out tonight?" and johnny gives back an easy answer (no, i'm no fool, smth like that), and ghost says "good. make sure you don't leave your place. never know who you might run into out there."

which like. creepy, but no creepier than ghost (which is the name he always gives, and there's no way it's his actual name yeah?) has ever been. johnny brushes it off, forgets it by lunch

and of course, simon is very glad to see his boy listened to him when he stops by his apartment that night and sees he's locked in. too bad he couldn't afford a better security system

[rowarn]

sorry i wasn't specific with my ask! if you could just give me some ideas on how you get your inspo and word usage, that's mostly what i'm looking for! anything is appreciated though, thank youu. :))

RIGHT ON! its okay, i would have given random tips but i wasnt sure if there was something specific you were looking for!

my inspo largely comes from other media. tv shows, movies, edits, fucking character ai bots, other fics; literally anything that i enjoy i typically wind up using in my fics. its not for me personally but plenty of people get inspired by music! songs and music videos

other fics are excellent inspo bc u can see how readers respond to tropes that they've done. age gap, dilf, aus, and stuff like that. its also rlly great to see characterization. as long as you're not plagiarizing then emulating and learning from other writers who are doing the same thing you do or want to do is excellent. i love reading fics hehe

ik that sounds like super basic and boring but having a repertoire of existing tropes and stuff is super great!

as for word usage, it's all super subjective bc my tastes and stuff will not match up for everyone. but if u like how i write and want to emulate it then there are a few things i can say! i focus mostly on smut and dialogue.

first, it's important to have a good vocabulary. knowing synonyms to words you want to say is important. u don't want to have a paragraph that uses the same word over and over again, you want to break it up and make it mentally appealing to read. it won't be interesting to readers if you don't expand your vocab!

i am primarily a smut writer so that's where most of my focus is on intentional word usage. all my narration and plot is pretty basic i'd say. nothing incredibly special except for my dialogue which i put a lot of thought into.

i don't use metaphors that much. so, say, for smut u won't catch me using "globes" in reference to tits. i much prefer to just come out and say breasts, tits, chest.

i also don't use like Correct anatomy language. so i don't use penis, testicles, vagina or clitoris. i use.......porn language bc that's what im writing; cock, pussy, cunt, clit. just to keep it......erotic bc i personally (again, subjective) find correct anatomy language to be more off-putting than erotic.

smut is where it becomes difficult to use broad language. there's only so many words you can use for a dick. so don't be afraid to bust out some wattpad words u know? length, member, etc. ik they can sometimes be cringey and u don't like them but use them at the right time and using it sparingly and most ppl won't rlly notice. it breaks up reading the word cock and dick over and over and over again for 2k words.

for some examples,

for dicks u can use; dick, cock, member, shaft, length

for the puth u can do; pussy, cunt, folds, core, sex isn't bad

clit i use clit, bud, and nub mostly...but ppl use pearl or button, i don't but it doesn't bother me when i see it

i also don't use flowery language. i know in creative writing or whatever it's common to use poetic word usage but i find it to be more confusing than anything. i can't read rlly flowery fics bc the meaning of what im reading just genuinely gets lost. it's all lost on me. i'd say im a much more direct writer with my words and scenes? i utilize a fair bit of narration and exposition in my writing.

i find dialogue style to be quite important. if you read my stuff (like the fics, we dont look at my word vomit LMAOOO) you'll usually see i make the characters talk in specific ways.

simon cuts off his words "goin'" instead of "going", "somethin'" instead of "something", like that. i dont use a ton of language to depict his accent other than that, i leave the leg work mostly up to the readers bc they know what he sounds like. but some writers do like british slang, "wanker", "mate", "innit" LMAO i just don't and thats my choice. i choose to just cut his words off and call it a day. he has a more casual way of speaking in Taking What You Need as compared to konig in Experience.

konig, in Experience, has a specific way of talking as well that is opposite to simon. he doesn't use contractions. i did that intentionally bc i wanted him to have a more intimidating, professional, cold kind of way of talking. "do not do it" comes across different than "don't do it"!

i personally would say that a large part of my characterization comes across in dialogue and the style of dialogue i choose. i think that makes it more enjoyable for readers!

all in all, i basically just emulate what i personally like to see in writing. that's how i keep finding it enjoyable. i love giving fics for ppl to read but if i didn't write straight up what I wanted to see then the actual physical task of writing would be a lot worse.

idk how helpful this was since i basically just told u.....what i like to do LMAOOOO but i hope it gives u some kind of idea of what i focus on and how i get my writing to be the way it is?

EDIT: important that i also use inclusive language to the best of my abilities!

instead of saying like "your cheeks turned red" i use "you feel your cheeks heat up" or something along those lines since people with darker skin tones won't have their cheeks turn red when they blush!! but feeling your cheeks BURN is smthn we've all experienced.

i also try not to use any "running your hands through your hair" bc not everyone can do that! i can't even do that i have curly hair hehe. an alternative would be pushing a stray strand out of your face or tucking some behind your ear or something like that.

also, i don't mention nipple color or vagina color or anything !

[wastingstarlight]

💀🧼 drabble for the lovely @empresscirque and their prompt: "ghost playing guitar and soap liking it" 

pairing: john "soap" mactavish/simon "ghost" riley rating: T length: ~1k CWs: brief canon-typical violence A/N: ft! price/gaz mention for funsies, light angst, & a dash of hand kink bc of who i am as a person. thanks for the prompt and hope you enjoy! 💜

Soap is right fucking knackered.

The op had gone to shite as soon as the last two men guarding the garage pressed a silent alarm before Soap could dispatch them, summoning a small army of backup that had not been in the intel brief. 

It takes all his years of training, Ghost on his six, and sheer bloody luck to make it out in one piece. To top it off, since the place is now crawling with hostiles, exfil has been pushed back; they have to bunk in a safe house until things settle.

Soap barely fights the urge to groan as Laswell relays that charming detail to them. All he wants is a hot shower, a cold glass of water, and eight blissfully uninterrupted hours of shut-eye in a bed he knows he won’t get shot in. 

Well, as long as Price doesn’t figure out that Soap’s been the one deliberately shrinking his shirts, that is. What can Soap say; the man needs to get laid. He’s seen the way Gaz has been gawking at the captain, the way Price sneaks his own looks when he thinks no one’s watching, and Soap is more than happy to be their fairy fuckmother or whatever. He just wants someone to be getting some, is all. 

“Chin up, Sergeant,” Ghost—speak of the fuckin' devil—deadpans as he sets the course towards the coordinates Laswell had provided. “Least I’m not pullin’ a bullet outta your arm this time.”

“There’s still time,” Soap grumbles. “Think we’d get exfilled faster if ye were?”

Ghost snorts. “Not with the way our luck’s been goin’ tonight, Johnny. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

///

The safe house is standard; utterly ordinary, out-of-the-way, lightly stocked with food and gear. Working electric too, so Soap helps himself to a glass of cold water. That’s one thing off his checklist, anyway, and he’s already eyeing the washroom where a shower beckons. Maybe the night won’t be all bad.

“Go ahead,” Ghost says, like he’s reading Soap’s mind. “I’ll check the supplies, figure out something to eat.”

“Have I told ye how much I love ye lately, Lt?” Soap breathes, hardly thinking before the words are out and he’s brushing past Ghost and into the washroom. 

Soap stands under the blissfully hot water with his eyes closed and pretends he’s in a swanky spa in Glasgow instead of The-Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere, Russia. It works, almost, but his grumbling stomach reminds him he has other things to tend to.

He switches the shower off with a sigh and towels off before tugging his base-layers back on. He especially hates this part—having to return to dirty clothes—but at least they’re quick-dry

Soap opens the door to the washroom, halfway to feeling like a person again, and then he hears it.

He thinks it’s the radio at first, on some weird Russian instrumental channel, but as he draws closer, he picks out little pauses, little imperfect scratches of fingers on strings, and he realizes right before he sees it that it’s not the radio; it’s Ghost.

Soap is not ready for the sight or what it does to him.

A single lamp casts the scene in gold and banishes the shadows to the corners of the sitting room. Ghost is down to his balaclava, t-shirt, and tactical trousers, cross-legged on the ground, a worn acoustic guitar in his lap. He watches his fret hand as he plays, his movements a bit slow but smooth, careful, practiced. Soap doesn’t know the song but he doesn’t really care; his eyes are fixed on Ghost’s hands. 

Big, scarred, powerful hands that Soap has seen slit throats, crush windpipes, disassemble and reassemble sidearms in under thirty seconds. Hands that are just as much a part of Ghost’s kit as his throwing knives. And Soap can’t stop watching those hands as they dance nimbly across frets, strum a precise rhythm that leaves Soap breathless for a reason he’s not allowed to let himself think about.

It’s over too soon.

“Ah didnae ken ye played, sir,” Soap murmurs, scrambling to fill the sudden silence before his traitorous thoughts do.

Ghost shrugs and ducks his head. He plucks a few more notes in a half-melody. “Dad taught me. ‘S been…a while since I’ve practiced,” he replies, voice rough, and Soap knows better than to push. 

There’s something desperately close to vulnerability in the air as Soap kneels in front of Ghost. Ghost’s eyes, honey-gold in the low light, track him the entire time, and curse that fucking mask because Soap would kill a thousand men to see Ghost’s face right now, to touch—

Soap swallows the want with practiced ease and fixes a smile to his face. “Y’know any other songs, Lt.? Closest I’ve been to a proper concert in ages.”

Ghost rolls his eyes but plucks out a few more notes before starting a new song in earnest. 

And the moment passes, like all these moments pass, because Ghost is Ghost and Soap is an expert at dealing with wanting things he’ll never have.

Soap tugs his knees to his chest, leans back against the sofa, closes his eyes, and lets the raspy acoustics wash over him.

He doesn’t realize he’s dozed off until he’s being woken up by Ghost pressing a mug of steaming soup into his hands.

“Eat this and get to bed,” Ghost says. Any vulnerability is gone, replaced by the Lieutenant’s gruff commands. “Long day tomorrow and I need you sharp.”

Soap knows the drill.

“Yes, sir,” he replies, stifling a yawn, and accepting the soup gratefully.

Soap’s sleep is as fitful and light as it always is in the field. 

But he dreams of music.

[simon-x-billy]

Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: February

Chapter 2: The European plug situation

February prompt: Different

AN: Simon x Billy is a slow-burn m/m fic using the first-time-bi trope; turns NSFW (male/male, consensual) beginning tamely at Chapter 7 (July).

Meet my OTP: Simon Lewis, author of a best-selling paranormal book series, who keeps writing himself into his novels; and Billy Delaney, Irish handsome devil and nomadic man of mystery, who chefs internationally; and Italy. It’s sort of like a threesome. Simon x Billy is a slow-burn m/m fic using the first-time-bi trope. TW: References to the pain of being cheated on, bad language, bad humor, puns, Irish-isms, making fun of Americans, massive rewrites.

Read it all: All: on ao3 || Start: January Ch.1 || Next: March Ch.3

Chapter 2: The European plug situation

———/Simon/———

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. This is not going the way I planned. I hate it when that happens. I was prepared.

Except for the European plug situation.

First off, my bad. My responsibility, my fault, my dead phone. On day 1, in another country that speaks a language I don’t parlo. Except when I’m having an internal scolding session. Apparently, io parlo Italiano just fine when I least need it. Like when I’m conducting a conversation behind my face. Behind my fucking face. (Whose lip I can feel curling to express distaste and low key angst.)

Ugh. They have to have cell phone chargers at the gift shop. I sigh. Looking around, it’s pretty obvious that this was originally some kind of old, schmancy vacation villa. Something tells me there’s no gift shop. It’s not that kind of hotel. Under my breath I whimper, “Fuck.”

“All right?” It’s Billy. I jump because why is he standing behind me?

I pivot and fix him with my very best suspicious glare. I went to theatre school. Ok, fine, summer camp. Point is, I give good face when needed. This is one of those times, one of those faces. “Jesus! How long have you been standing there, creeper? Were you listening in on my conversation?”

“You mean, the word ‘fuck?’ That was a pretty quiet, short conversation.” He’s grinning at me now.

“Did you go to theatre school?” I clarify, “Like, ever?”

Billy snorts. “No, man. Where’d that come from?”

He’s all good humor and it’s so totally inappropriate, I try willing him to stop. His eyebrow — oh my god it’s humongous wtf — one arches while the other frowns. How does he do that? At least the top half of his face isn’t grinning anymore. That’s progress.

“What?” he demands. “Why’re yeh lookin at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’d like me to feck right off, leaving you alone to realize you’ve not got your room key.” He jangles it at me.

“That would have been the topper to a very shitty day.” Having stopped rolling (not molly - the other kind of rolling), my eyes pop out of my head. Because he has handed me the keys. “Whoa,” I say reverently. “These are sooo cool.”

I have to keep myself from fondling them. “Skeleton keys,” I whisper.

“Glad they cheered you up, man. You were havin a mope there for a while.”

My mope returns. Sort of an exasperation + anxiety x annoyance, to the power of a lingering ache in my stomach that I know from recent experience is a bone deep sadness.

“And now it’s back,” he says. “Whatever’s goin through your head can be moped over later. Mate, you’re in Italy. Yeh haven’t seemed to notice that yet.”

“Is there a gift shop?”

“Sorry, what?” he asks. Is he laughing at me?

“A gift shop.”

“This isn’t that kind of hotel, mate, sorry. Is there something I can help yeh with?”

So many things. “I just remembered the plugs are different here. I have arrived in Italy with a dead phone and no compatible plugs. I feel so betrayed.”

He laughs and his eyes twinkle. They twinkle.

At least he can tell when I’m joking. That’s a thing.

“Don’t worry, Seemon. I’ll get it sorted.” He gives a small salute and disappears into the bowels of the hotel.

Oh shit. “Wait! Billy! Billy?”

A woman appears in his place from some dimly lit doorway. She reminds me of my mother. But with fewer anxiety and worry wrinkles criss-crossing her face.

Damn. Ma would be so wounded by that thought, so I put it out of my mind.

“Signore?”

“Oh, um, si, io non parlo Italiano. I like to start all my sentences that way,” I say with an attempt at charm. Billy doesn’t get to own charming.

She gives me a strange look, and responds with the old classic “Okaaaay,” in heavily accented English. “Why do you stand in the doorway? With the baggage around you like goats.”

Apparently neither one of us is very funny in English. I feel so lost in translation.

“Come. Let me make you checked in, and we will settle you. Come in from the doorstep,” she says as she turns away with her neck craning. “Leo? Leo!”

A young man (boy?) — A young man-boy hurries out of what appears to be an office. She’s peppering him with instructions that I can’t understand. My suitcases are being pulled right out of my hands. Rude! (But helpful. I guess.) Don’t try that in New York.

While she futzes with her computer, I finally take a moment to notice the amazing carved wood segment of wall behind her. I wish I could see it in detail. Figure out what story it’s trying to tell. It has something to do with nudity. I try squinting, but that’s all I can tell from here.

A bright, clashing array of intricately painted tiles are framed throughout the room. Chaotic, yes. Neutral, no. We’ll go with chaotic good. It’s also delightful, which I’m so not in the mood for at the moment.

She tells me about the amenities, breakfast times, the famous restaurant, blah blah blah as she leads me up three flights of stairs, and down a long, narrow hallway with many doors — none of which are mine. I’m starting to lose my bearings, but it’s only one more flight of stairs, atop which she pauses to unlock a door. “It is good, Signore Laywees? You have the face of a dog who is whining.”

“Wow,” I say, taken aback. Taken-aback has now officially been added to my repertoire of faces. Officially.

“Did I say something in a way that is wrong?” she asks, with a worried look.

“I don’t know. You might have actually wanted to call me a whining dog.” I start to chuckle.

“Yes. Exactly. A whining dog. I remember for next time.”

I blink.

She nods, “Si certo. Certo. And I tell you that what is here is the finest suite at Hotel di Limoni is here.” She ushers me on to the top floor. “You look around, you. See that there are no other doors here to this floor. You are here alone.”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” I nod, thank her, “Grazie,” and close the door behind her.

———/-/———

My mood disappears instantly.

Oh my god I’m in Italy.

The room before me has pale yellow walls the color of butter imported from Irish cows. That’s specific and descriptive, Lewis, nice one. (I try to encourage the writer within, whenever I can.)

Source Right: Hotel La Tonnarella. I stayed there, but not in that room. I wasn’t trying to get in that much debt.

Everything is in shades of sea and sky blues, bright lemon yellow, and pale Irish butter, with more of the chaotic good tiles here and there working their delightful magic. The bed cover is also in pale Irish butter. I will sleep in pale Irish butter tonight. Oh yes, I will.

The overall effect is an airy room, full of light, that recedes into the background against one hell of a view.

Large french doors lining the exterior wall lead out to a massive deck. One that I and I alone can access. The doors have been thrown open, with sheer curtains rippling into the room. The breeze off the Mediterranean Sea is fresh and cool.

Oh my god. That’s the Mediterranean Sea!

Or Tyrrhenian. Whatever.

I watch as boats speed across my entire view, appearing and disappearing between the open doors. They leave their long white slashes behind them, literally left in their wake. From inside the room, they look like dashes, stuttering white lines in each window darting through the perfection of the blue Medi/Tyrrhenian Sea.

Waking up to this is going to be amazing. She would have loved it.

“Fuck her. She can’t have it.” It’s mine, and mine alone.

———/-/———

I acknowledge that I need to stop. Stop with the moping. Fuck Billy for trying to be friendly and helpful, the bastard. That charming Irishman is right and I temporarily hate him for it. But only hyperbolically.

I walk out onto my balcony and into the bright sun. I immediately decide that this is worthy of a sunburn, and shuck off my shirt.

Oof. I’ve just realized that my eyes are watering because that distinctive odor is coming from me.

One would think a shower after a sunbath would be the rational, intelligent option. Nah. Intelligence has fewer hit points than stacking a 24 hour odyssey of jet lag, rumpled hair, eau de pit, and a bad attitude. I’m winning today.

“Chin up, Simon. Chin up.” That was Ma’s pearl of wisdom for this trip. The sum total of her empathy. She didn’t even like What’ser Name. So where’s the sympathy? The empathy? Apparently empathy dims in direct proportion to the glamorousness of one’s vacation destination.

Maybe I can wash the mope off. And the headache. And the me.

Grabbing my stuff, I head for the bathroom and stop dead.

“Dove il bano!” I cry. ‘Bathroom.’ Feh! What an absolutely disgraceful excuse of a word to describe something as magnificent as this. Look at it. So majestic, while also being mindfully calming. Everything everywhere is blue, and I can’t tell the inside from the outside.

Turning on a shower should not be this difficult. I am a grown man, goddammit. I should be able to figure out how to turn on a freakin shower. I mean, I figured out what the extra toilet was for. Correction: Not a toilet but a bidet. Though I admit to having called the front desk about it. What can I say, Italians like to have fresh butts.

“You will not defeat me, vile mechanism of demonkind, I will not be deterred, oh no! I will have my shower, and dammit, it will be good.”

———/-/———

I am happy to report to you, oh devoted fictitious audience in my head, that it was good. It was the best shower of my life. Or at least one of the top five, as I may have better showers even than this magnificent one at some point in the future. At least I doubt I will ever smell so good again. It’s the bath stuff made from a “beneficial” mineral spring somewhere around here. I want to smell like this every day for the rest of my life.

But first. The sun.

I feel unencumbered, unrestrained. So I skip the swim trunks and just wear my towel onto my massive deck. Deck. Not dick. Deck. I do want to let it all hang out there, but then, I also want to disappear into this experience, and the specter of horrified travelers covering the eyes of their crying children is enough to reinforce my modesty. I don’t want my dick ruining anyone’s vacation, so I keep the towel on.

———/-/———

I’m drooling as I wake up on my side with my ass half hanging out. It’s not a good look.

Turns out I couldn’t care less. Four uninterrupted hours of sun, in the peace and quiet of the apocalyptic visions usually filling my head these days. Whenever I think about the book I owe my editor — Noooo! Duck! Run! Hide! — See? I can’t. I won’t. You can’t make me.

And yet I have already double-crossed myself because I’m thinking about it anyway. Yesterday I was still slogging away at Book Four’s first chapter, and hating every single word I wrote. It was a whole pile of nothing. Less than nothing. It was tripe. So I gave up and rashly trashed it, deleting the offending text while I waited to board my flight.

All of it. It’s gone. And that’s a good thing, because every turn of phrase I had managed to wrest from my uninspired noggin just failed like a lead weight. Total fail. I’m used to having a tiny, yet enthusiastic filmmaker living inside my creativity. He’s really good at pulling forth the sweeping torrent of imagery I see like a movie in my head when I’m on a roll. (Again, not that kind of rolling.) But now? I can only manage six or so paragraphs at a time, and hatefully hate every one of them. “Whyyyyyyyy?” I ask the sky.

So here’s what I know: Half my characters will eventually be about to die unless Simon saves them. With the help of super-vamp Raphael and maybe a nymph or two. Looking up, I can see the islands they call the Syranusas, after the sirens who so callously call sailors to their deaths. So now I’m thinking maybe I’ll pull in some expendable mermaids, too. I dunno.

It all just sounds so played out. At least to my eyes. Like, I’m writing another war, with all the same characters, having the same powers, and using them all the same way, to rescue the same loved ones + world from evil the same way. Except I’ve stuck them all on the Mediterranean and added a bunch of mermaids. What’s next? Introduce zombies into the series as if they actually exist — for the first time in book four? Holy hell, writer’s block sucks. God.

This is supposed to be the book that finally focuses on Simon as the main character. The fans just will not shut up about wanting one. I groan. And not in a sexy way. I mean, I know I should be flattered that they like the whole twisty ‘he’s me’ thing, but how do I write a whole book about a character I based on me? Isn’t that kind of self-serving? Cringe?

I am such a dick. Only I would write myself into a book.

My eye-rolls are practically deafening at the mere thought of it. A whole book about me who is not me. And I have only me to blame. (Other me.)

———/-/———

Read More: All on ao3 || Start: January Ch.1 || Next: March Ch.3

[spxllcxstxr]

Bridge Over Troubled Water • R.L

(Gif not mine)

Requests: can you do a blurb with Remus where the reader is nervous and anxious, maybe has a tough week and he gives her a massage and helps her relax? — anon and Hi! can you write an imagine where the reader is dating Remus and is disappointed in her school grades / results and is overall doubting herself and is disappointed with herself? — @emmaev

Summary: Things are getting really tough. Remus is here for you.

Warnings: mention of food, not eating/skipping a meal, hunger, depression, anxiety, a bit of a panic attack, homework, school, self deprecating thoughts, kinda take how we’re feeling in this pandemic and that’s kinda what this fic is, Snape being an ass for like two sentences, crying

Word Count: 1.7k

A.N: I hope it’s alright that I combined your two requests. But, I decided to make it longer with a lot more comfort. I really hope it’s ok with you guys ❤️ Kinda a vent fic? So that’s why it’s lowkey all over the place and the ending is sorta..abrupt? I hope you like it, though. I wanna say that I’m always here for you guys. This whole thing has been kicking my ass and school has been extremely tough for me, so know that you’re not alone. Know that you’ve got this. I believe wholeheartedly in you. Love you all. ❤️

Title: Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water

****

You trudge up the stone steps to the boys dorms, your bag dragging heavily behind you. With your robes slipping from your shoulders and your tie dangling loosely around your neck, you almost consider letting your bag go. Watching the heavy sack of books tumble recklessly down the spiral staircase seems like a great idea to you. However, you make it to the sixth year dorms before you’re able to loosen your grip.

The oak door was closed but not locked. What use was a lock when the door was charmed to singe off the eyebrows of any unwelcome visitor? Thankfully, the boys granted you complete access to their room in third year, so the door couldn’t harm you.

Turning the brass doorknob and stepping through the threshold, you’re greeted by somewhat organized chaos.

Sirius and Peter’s side of the room was a complete disaster while James and Remus’ side was at least nicer to look at. Sure a few books were scattered on the floor and James’ red and yellow underwear was hanging from his bedpost visible to anyone who walked in, but that’s nothing compared to whatever the other two have going on. You don’t even want to look at it, knowing full well that just one tiny glance would make your already terrible day worse.

The room is empty and completely quiet, the boys, just like every other person in the castle, were down in the Great Hall for dinner. At the thought of dinner just downstairs, your stomach grumbles before quickly churning in agony.

Quickly, you dump your bag next to the door and go through Remus’ drawers, searching for that one specific jumper.

It’s the deep blue cable knit one that always smells like him. The jumper is soft and warm and the perfect piece of clothing to cuddle into when you needed a good cry. And Godric, you needed a good, long, ugly cry.

After finding it and throwing it on, you barely lift up your feet walking to your boyfriend’s bed to get swallowed up by his blankets.

The weight of the day hits you full force the moment your head collides with his pillow, and your lips wobbles, the day replaying in your mind.

Your morning started with a Transfiguration exam that definitely was not on what you studied all night for.

Then, your potion bubbled out of your cauldron and started disintegrating the stone flooring, making Slughorn shoot you very disappointed look that made you want to disappear into the Forbidden Forest forever.

Defense Against the Dark Arts turned into a complete disaster as well when Professor Bluebell handed back your essays on inferi, and yours ended up with a spikey red D scrawled angrily on the top. D, which stands for Dreadful, as Snape snidely reminded you from over your shoulder. He flashed you smug little smirk along with the delicate O that adorned his own essay.

And to top it all off, you had to meet up with Flitwick right after classes to go over the vinegar to wine charm that for some reason wouldn’t work for you no matter how hard you tried. And you still weren’t successful.

This was becoming a common occurrence.

You always knew that your N.E.W.T. year was going to be tough, but Merlin, you never expected it to be this awful.

Classes were longer and harder and your professors were relentless and unforgiving with the amount of homework and exams they started handing out.

Sure you had more free periods, but those were filled with research and essays and studying, you had no free time at all—it was all a lie.

You couldn’t escape it. Sleep was just more time to be plagued by anxiety to the point you barely even slept at all. Most of the time you stared blankly up at the ceiling thinking about all the assignments you could be doing instead.

It’s this torturous and vicious cycle that you just can’t get out of.

And your motivation was quickly disappearing.

It was getting tougher and tougher each time to even do your homework. Lifting up your quill and taking out a stack of parchment was just difficult. It took too much energy out of you.

Smothering your face in Remus’ pillow, you groan out your frustration, balling your fists around the frayed sleeves of the jumper.

You’re so wrapped up in your despair and panic that you don’t hear the door creak open and four sets of footfalls and laughter bounce around the room.

“Damn, what’s up with you?” Sirius chuckles. You hear him flop onto his own bed.

You bury your nose in the fabric of the jumper, inhaling the sweet and comforting scent of chocolate and old parchment that always accompanies Remus Lupin.

“Don’t be a git, Pads.” Remus scoffs, making his way towards you.

He crouches down by your head, placing a delicate thumb on your cheekbone.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” His tone turns soft, drenched with concern.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, tears trickling down the bridge of your nose and dripping down to the white sheets.

“Alright, darling, hold on.” Remus whispers, placing a dainty kiss on your forehead.

He straightens up, knees creaking the way no sixteen year old’s should.

“Alright, lads, clear out.” Remus declares to his friends.

“You can’t kick me out of my room, Moony. No way.” You hear James whine.

“Yes, I can, Prongs, c’mon. Go play chess with Peter or something.”

“But he always beats me.”

“C’mon, Prongsie, we can scam the first years by making them place bets on you winning.” Sirius suggests. His boots click against the floorboards, trailing towards the door.

Peter’s light footsteps follow after them.

“Fine.” James huffs dramatically. “But I’m not sleeping on the couch again, so no funny business.”

The door slams shut and once again you’re met with silence, though you do hear Remus changing out of his uniform and into more comfortable attire.

The bed dips underneath Remus’ weight and his hand gently starts to stroke through your hair.

“Tell me what’s wrong, my love.” Remus mumbles just loud enough for you to hear.

You try to swallow down the lump in the back of your throat.

“Just a very shitty day, Rem.” You manage to croak out, the words choppy and wavering.

Tears begin to flow freely, warm salty streaks making their way down your face in rapid succession.

“Oh darling.” Remus coos, practically pulling you into his arms and between his legs. You bury your face into his neck, tears dampening his scarred flesh. “It’s alright, let it out.” He continues to run your hair between his fingers. “Let it all out...”

“I-I’m just so stupid!” You sob, choking on spit. “Everything’s just getting too much and I can’t fucking take it anymore!”

He squeezes you closer to his chest, opting to stay silent so you can vent everything off of your chest. His cheek is pressed to the top of your head and you’re vaguely aware that you’re being rocked gently back and forth.

“It’s so hard!” You continue to wail, lungs constricting rapidly. It’s a struggle to keep breathing and your words barely come out fully, instead broken fragments are the only things spewing out.

“I’m a failure!” You spit out, face wet with tears.

“You’re not a failure, my love. I promise.” Remus tried to soothe, his voice adopting a small but noticeable waver. His hand rubs your back.

“I am! I’m a disappointment!” You sniff, taking in deep gulps of air.

“Shh...” Remus pulls you back a bit so he can see your entire face.

You already know you look disgusting. Eyes blotchy and red, tears streaming down your face. Snotty, spitty, wobbling, and watery features taking up his entire vision.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours, hm? Let me help.” He consoles you softly.

You gaze into his warm honey brown eyes, glistening with his own tears.

You sniff, rubbing the sleeves of Remus’ stolen jumper across your face in an attempt to dry yourself off.

“Everything’s slipping, Rem. My grades, my mental health, everything. And I’m so lost I don’t know what to do anymore.” You confess. “What am I supposed to do?” You bring your hands up to you hair, tugging at your scalp enough for you to feel sparks of pain.

Quickly, his own trembling hands take yours. He stops you from tugging, instead bringing them to rest on his jumper clad chest.

You swallow harshly.

“I’m going to help you, (Y/n)—“

“You can’t help me, Remus! I’m beyond help—“

“No, you’re not.” He retorts lightly. “I’ll help you with homework and help you ask for a few extensions...we can get you back on track.”

“Remus...” Your voice trembles at his kindness.

“I’m sorry.” He rasps out, a tear or two slipping from his waterline. “I’m so so sorry that I didn’t see you suffering like this. Merlin, (Y/n).”

Shaking his head at himself, he brings his forehead down to your own.

“I’ll be better. I’ll be better, I swear.” Remus keeps repeating in a pained mutter.

“It’s not your fault, Rem. I got good at acting like everything was fine.” Your voice cracks.

“Still! I should’ve realized!” He mutters angrily.

“I love you, Remus. I love you so much, please don’t beat yourself up over this.” You plead.

He bites his lip, deciding to drop it, instead focusing on you.

“Why don’t we try to relax, hm? Just take a nice night off?” Remus suggests, pulling away to brush strands of hair away from your sticky face.

“But what about homework—?”

“Tomorrow, love. I think we deserve a break, don’t you?”

You shlyly nod, and he presses his lips to your forehead.

“You’re beautiful, darling.” Remus whispers.

“I just bawled my eyes out, Rem, I’m sure I look like a swamp hag.” You snort.

He brings his hands to your shoulders, rubbing deep circles into your back muscles. The knots start to dissipate.

“Never seen a swamp hag as angelic as you.” Remus flirts. But his voice is so sincere and honest, you have no choice but to somewhat believe him.

“Thank you, Remus.” You smile. “It means so much to me.”

“Anything for the love of my life.” He confesses, trailing his pink lips down your neck. “Now let me hold you close.”

He lays down, resting his head on his pillow, your head resting on his chest.

Things are going to get better.

Probably not tomorrow.

Probably not this week.

But things will.

•

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20