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venusandsaturnsrings · 8 months ago

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despite his mostly metal form, most things remained the same about boothill. his love of whiskey, charming accent, and penchant for causing problems but, more importantly, his alignment.

as long as you’d known him, which was six months at most, boothill had been everything the textbooks said about alphas. strong-willed, a tad arrogant, outgoing, and very much a show off. the latter translated into him being an annoyance more than anything but, alas, he seemed glued to you.

it was the second time this week you’d woken to rocks tapping against your window, boothill grinning widely from the ground; he wanted you to come out. not keen on rousing any roommates, you threw on whatever was on top of your laundry hamper and shuffled outside scowling at him. suave as ever, he gave you a ‘nice outfit, sugar, that designer or what?,’ followed by cackling laughter interrupted when you flicked his forehead. one half-baked apology later, you’re being taken to a super special secret spot he just had to show you at three in the morning.

half an hour and many bottles shot off of ledges later, he’s lead you through a complex series of markers to the edge of a small grove. bathed in the trim of moonlight and beginnings of sunlight, you have to admit the sparkling waterfall and unique flora is probably the most charming place he’s dragged you to. with a faux annoyed huff, you turn to give him thanks through gritted teeth only to find the cyborg cowboy has perched himself on a boulder to look at you like a lovesick puppy; it throws you for a loop. despite all the inflated chattering and chest puffing he does, sometimes you forget he really has a thing for you until he’s silently gazing at you without a word, waiting to hear you. ‘fuck that,’ you decide and claw your way up the boulder to lean against his shoulder. you don’t miss the way boothills smile widens and he practically purrs at your touch, but he doesn’t say a word, too nervous to ruin what’s happening.

it’s another six months later when you find yourself back at the grove a second time, your relationship having finally blossomed into something more than tapping at the edges of hostility (you were the only annoyed one but he’ll let you have your fantasies). hands intertwined, one metal and one flesh, he carries the bag of treats and a blanket in his other; he proclaimed his partner should never have to lift a finger. something something cowboys honour.

it was three in the morning as it had been before and you were tangled limbs next to the pond. his lips made a path from your jaw to sternum, slightly chapped but fully loving; part-time soulmates, full-time vulgar. boothill let his fingers climb up your thighs and down your sides until you were fully bare before him, bathed in the trim of moonlight and the edges of sunlight, prettier than the stars. pheromones coating the surroundings, he let himself indulge in your flavour, pulling the strings of pleasure so you sing oh so sweet for him. in a haze of his signature scent, musky whiskey and spice, you let him have his way.

#cw: omegaverse #boothill x reader #boothill x you #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #srry alpha boothill word vom #i was gonna write more but then i Thought… i’ve got no problem working thru the complicated mechanics of robot weiner but robot knot??#gets a bit complicated #may flush out this concept in a fic if ppl care #i don’t think i’ve written abo before?? woah #why not?? idk i think abt it a lot and bnnuy bee has heard be ramble abt it a lot #what’s up w that

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gardenofnoah · 3 months ago

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darling i loved you, i long to become you -

part one - simon "ghost" riley x reader; 2.8k words. tags: stalking, obsessive behavior, breaking and entering, bodily fluids, masturbation, misuse of prescriptions and alcohol, it’s going to get a lot worse

There's something sick inside of him. That's the only conclusion he's arrived at, because nothing else comes to him at three in the morning but the blistering silence and that single observation—that there is something wholly necrotic crawling underneath his skin. It's beginning to scare him.

Simon draws a hand up over his pulse and he thinks he feels that something, too—dark and writhing and waiting, just like him. The longer he is awake, the more he begins to believe that the thing he fears is merely his own shadow. That there is no something else at all—only another side of himself shook looser with every passing minute. But sleep doesn't come—not in anything more than fits and spurts, and just long enough to drive him half insane every time he opens his eyes and finds the dark is not yet done with him.

Tonight is no different. The medication makes him sweat, makes him nauseous, makes him anything but what it should; all of his feeble attempts at sleep, and concentration, and peace—all out of reach and replaced with something filled with so much numbness. That is the darkness—the hole left behind and filled with a nothing that is so much heavier than he’d ever imagined it’d be.

He'd sent you away. It had only made sense at the time—your need and his own like locked cervids, both of you too blind with blazon adrenaline to realize there could be a way to fit around each other—to come apart with both your lives and pride intact. He'd believed he'd known better—that his indifference to your tears and your rage could only have meant that there truly was no room inside himself for the home you'd tried to carve within him. It was him that caused the fracture, but he'd shown you it was you. He saw the final sever when his words landed—the parts of you he'd sloughed off, knowing immediately he'd taken too much. Regretting it, if only for a fleeting moment.

But either way—it was over. You were gone, and he, free to continue to pursue some vague and ever-distorting end goal that he'd put on a pedestal for himself. He'd been younger, once—chasing tail and money and some odd sort of notoriety for the things that were easy to him: brutality, efficiency. Rage as mechanical as it was innate to him. He'd never been too sure what that holy grail of his life would be, but he'd been certain that whatever finality awaited him would be truly worthy of something as wicked as he. What pride he'd felt at that—at the magnificent monster he'd painstakingly reared up from, and in spite of, some terrified child huddled in fear at the unfortunate end of a perpetually smoking gun. Never again in his life would he feel that way.

But while the progression into his 30s brought him a renewed sense of vitality, of urgency, of greed—it gave you claws to grab hold of him. While the itch to go became unbearable to him, your need—to love him, to have him, to keep him—pinned him to the floor. He got away the only way he knew how—with the swift cruelty he'd inherited and whittled to a fine point.

He'd taken from you to get out—but not without a cost. An unfathomable one, at that. He's no idea what switched—what took him from apathy to obsession overnight. He's not lost so much of the plot that he believes it's love; but no matter what it is, it pushes him forward, toward you. He can't stop—couldn't, even if he wanted to.

The air, hanging and oppressive enough to be sentient, keeps Simon affixed to the soaked-through sheets like they're a part of him. This is his new routine: dreamless sleep to waking nightmare. He feels, with some irony, that his current state has nothing to do with the years of blood on his hands, and everything to do with the heart or the sense you seemed to have gored from him on your way out. He knows this, because it is 3:30 in the morning, and after 32 minutes of staring at the silent, slow rotation of his ceiling fan, he'll swing both legs over the edge of his bed and summon some sort of reserved strength to drag himself up and over to the window. An island, no more than a wooden counter top on bricks, separates point A from point B—he'll approach it and give himself a choice: to grab a handful of pills that he's scattered across its surface, or to forgo this new odd game of roulette all together.

And from 4:02 until the sun rises, he will watch you sleep from that window.

It was easy enough to find where you ended up—you'd blocked him on your socials, but it took all of a moment to create a new version of himself, with a generic name and a different face. He'd almost been disappointed at how easy it was to follow you with the new him—at how easy it would be to shatter this illusion of safety you somehow still had, even after he'd shown you what he was.

He'd just been curious, at first—but he'd recognized the buildings outside of the window of your flat in your pictures, and suddenly he was signing a lease for a studio with a direct line of sight into that window. His stomach had turned delightfully when he'd realized that you'd forgone curtains for your bedroom. He was sure you'd believed you were far enough from the first floor not to need them. Poor dove. Stupid thing.

His intentions had been pure, even as he hauled the last of his belongings into his building under the cover of night. Someone had to keep an eye on you, he'd reasoned, if only because you clearly had no sense of how to do it yourself. But the months passed and he left his place less and he drank more. He became a little less regimented about the sleep aids, the psychotropics, the pain killers—dumped them out of their safety-locked bottles and mixed them around, needing to feel something like a thrill and knowing that no matter how lax he was about what he took, he would remain right here. At his window, in this body, only for a glimpse of you.

And here he is—chewing down what he thinks could be a chlorpromazine, chasing it with what's left of the handle of gin before he has the chance to gag. From his perch, there's no movement in your dark apartment, but he knows you're in there. The light of your TV flashes dimly to him like a flare—illuminating the back wall of your bedroom. If he squints, he can make out the frames nailed to the drywall, the houseplant that refuses to die despite your neglect next to your bed, and the wooden slats of your headboard. As if just for him, a particularly bright advert reveals your sleeping form to him—just the outline of you, under the mound of blankets you insist on sleeping with. How grateful he feels that you've given him a front row seat, down to the placement of your bedroom furniture.

He pushes the bottom pane of his window away, out into the night as he crouches to light a cigarette out of the opening. He watches the smoke curl away from his fingers and he wonders if you'd know him by the acrid smell of it alone, if he got close enough. He feels the absent tug of a scar as his lip curls at the memory of your disdain for it. It'd be easy enough for him to scale the side of your building, to get right up under your balcony—would you think him a haunting?

He flicks ash and watches your comforter move with your tossing and turning—knowing acutely that you've no idea the ways you haunt him.

He stands there, watching for flickers of you in the dark until the light begins to reveal his hiding place. At 7:16 he moves, if only out of the desire to drag this out—to see how long he can make himself wait until he inevitably needs more. Until that slithering thing inside him tells him to get a little closer.

Until then, indeed.

The weather gets colder as the year drags on—and you push him a little nearer to whatever edge he's approaching when you put up curtains in your bedroom.

To keep the cold out, surely—but not him. You couldn't have known about his early morning routine, but to Simon, it's personal. It's a challenge—a subtle provocation from you to try a little harder.

So he does.

"Evening, mate," he gruffs to the concierge of your building—making a big show of brushing the snow off of his coat. He didn't own a coat until tonight—there was no reason to, with how infrequently he'd left his place recently—but it was easy enough to snag it off the back off a stroller off the subway. "Bloody blizzard out there."

The doorman cocks an eyebrow at him, not bothering to hide the suspicion at the way he's come trudging through the lobby at two in the morning on a Wednesday. "Bit late for walk, no?"

Simon grins at him, entirely conscious of his face for what might be the first time in his life. Wonders what the man might think of the scar that pulls white with the flash of his teeth. Winks for good measure. "Ah, girlfriend lives on the 3rd floor—dropped her off by curfew, but seems'm a bit whipped—" He leans forward, squinting at the nametag. "—Percy. M'sure you know about that, yeah?"

You don't—live on the 3rd floor, that is. You live on the 6th. But he's no idiot, and he won't assist this squatty, red-faced bastard in drawing the conclusions he's clearly already trying to piece together.

"Say, Percy—" Simon jabs at him, ignoring the way the man not-so-subtly steps back from his best attempt at a friendly advance, "—'ve got a bone to pick with you, actually. She says you've been starin' at her somethin' horrid." He does his best to toe the line between a tease between co-conspirators and his usual threat, eyebrow cocked with mirth. "I know she's a catch, mate, but maybe take it easy on 'er."

He's pulling it out of his ass, but Simon knows he's won this standoff the second he sees the concierge's face turn a darker shade of red. It doesn't matter who he's talking about. He's certain this asshole ogles every woman that walks through the door.

"Apologies, sir," the doorman doesn't raise his eyes from the countertop when he hands Simon the little red plastic card he'd been waiting for, "this will get you up there."

Simon raises two fingers in a little mock salute and turns on his heel, seeking out the elevators like he's been here before. It feels like he has, with all of the time he's spent carding through virtual tours of all of the vacant flats in the building. He thinks he could find the main elevators—placed on the far back wall, around the corner from the utility closet—with his eyes closed. He feels himself slip into a headspace that's far more tactile than this requires, but he supposes he shouldn't be too careful. Two in the morning or not, he has the sense to know he shouldn't be here.

It excites him, though, to watch the button for the sixth floor light up under his fingertip. The car rises and so does his stomach, fuzzy and writhing with anticipation. He's not been this close to you in months. He’s nearly sick with it—the unbridled need slicking his palms and wetting the inside of his mouth.

It’s not that he wants you. It’s more that you’re his, and he’ll play the long game if it means he gets to keep you. Simon doesn't consider himself a bad guy—even now, as he keeps his footsteps light on the carpet leading him to what will inevitably be your door—it's just that he's been dealt so much shit that he feels he deserves something good. It's that he realized too late that you could be that something good—but he can still have it, have you, if he's careful about this.

He finds it easy enough—when he spots the one door decorated top to fucking bottom with winter festivities, he is certain that he's in front of your door. It almost makes him angry—how easy you've made this for him. What if it had been someone else? Someone who wasn't him, rooting around in what he's already claimed?

Before he knows it, he's shoved a pin into your lock and gotten the door open. With all of the stealth imparted on him by his career, it swings open without a sound, leading the way into your dark home.

You're not here. He knows you're not—blinds up or not, he's been observing you long enough to know your patterns. Now, thinking of where you would be at 2am on a week night has his heartbeat thundering in his ears, but right now that's not important.

He allows himself the luxury of a tour around your flat—smaller than his, it seems, but with all of the character you have a habit of inflicting on your living spaces. There are pieces of you everywhere—pictures stuck to the fridge, dirty laundry in the corner of your bedroom. He helps himself to the latter—rooting around until his fingers catch something lace. In the dark, he can make out the shade, not the color; the stain he feels piques his interest. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the gusset of your panties, presses into it—still a little tacky, like you'd worn them earlier in the day. He knows it's from you—Simon tells himself he's only confirming that you're being safe, and not letting some neanderthal spill his load inside you. He's only concern for you, he rationalizes—depositing your underwear into the band of his own. Your discharge sticks to his skin, and he suppresses a shiver. It flares to life inside him—the need to have every part of you again.

He forces himself to move on. He's not really sure why he's here, but feels he belongs there all the same—in your dark apartment, standing over your bed, where you ought to be sleeping.

He's drawn to the window—he pulls back the corner of your new linen curtain just to be sure, and feels a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. There's not a chance in hell you'd ever be able to see him looking down at you.

He allows his boot to scuff along the hardwood—some small part of him hoping the rubber sole leaves behind a mark. He's overwhelmed by the weight of it—of the feeling that he has to leave something behind, but knowing he can't—not yet.

So he makes a compromise with himself—he arrives by your bedside again and stays there this time, fingers reaching to the zipper of his jeans. He pulls himself out clumsily—soft, but swelling quickly at the idea of you beneath him, breathing softly and blissfully unaware.

He pictures you in his mind. Blankets tangled around your legs, hair tangled in a nest by your pillows—he wonders how long he'd be able to get away with brushing the crown of him against your open, drool-slicked bottom lip before you'd stir.

He feels a flush of pleasure lick up his spine at the thought of you, bleary-eyed and confused—how your eyes would widen when you finally registered him towering over you. Would you know it was him right away? Would you scream? Would you soil yourself?

The image of your fright forces a low groan from him, and he tugs at his cock brutally—dry and fast, but no less effective right now. With his free hand, he pulls your panties from his waistband and pushes them between his teeth—the fabric and the taste of you muffling his whining and making his eyes roll back in his head. He imagines you coming back to the sight of him—panties in his mouth and cock hanging out of his jeans. Maybe you'd understand, finally, what you've done to him.

His release is a short one, but it knocks the breath of him nonetheless—hot spend coating his knuckles and his jeans. The urge to mark you in some way seems to transfer to your belongings, because before he can even register that he's done it, his hand is inside your pillowcase—wiping the remnants of his pleasure across the underside of the bare pillow. You'll never find it, but he'll know—and for now, that's enough.

He looks down at his watch, and knows he's out of time. He shoves himself back into his jeans and retraces his steps, back out of your door—he doesn't bother locking it behind him. Let you feel a little fear, if only for a moment. Teach you a lesson in comfort—the fallacy of safety he's always known, and you've never felt.

He doesn't look back once the door shuts behind him—he finds a fire stairway and clears the six floors to the street in no time at all. He doesn't look back, not once—not until he's back in his place. He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his bedside drawer, and taps the carton against the wooden finish of it. He checks the time again.

3am. Only a half an hour until you get home.

#i made myself a little queasy w it. i can't wait to make it worse #y'all got me obsessed but in a weird way #so now it's your problem #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley #ghost fic #cod x reader #cod fic #simon riley fic

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