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fuckyeahgoodomens · 11 months ago

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Good Omens graphic novel update: June 2024

Welcome to the June update. A lot of behind the scenes work at the moment but we're grabbing the travel sweets, popping in the Bentley and hitting the road. More on that below.

Admin

Ongoing reminder that the project FAQ can be found here.

I pledged using my Apple ID, or no longer use the address my pledge is attached to, or I cannot work out what email address my pledge is connected to. What should I do? Please contact us via your Kickstarter account where the pledge is connected; we will be able to see on our system which address it is. If it's one you have access to, great! The FAQ has information on how to resend your invite link to access the PledgeManager. If it's one you are not able to access, then you can let us know which email is preferred and we can update this on the system, which will automatically send a new invite.

Events

We've had a lot of queries about when the Good Omens team will be attending events more formally, after some Aziraphale and Crowley spotting at conventions we'd been to previously. Well, we're excited to confirm the first: Good Omens HQ will be at ACME Comic Con in Glasgow, Scotland this September.

We'll be bringing the actual-real-life-home-to-Crowley-and-his-plants Bentley from Season 2 of Good Omens, the first time the car has been made available publicly for fans to come see and get photos with, ahead of its journey back to the set and the start of Season 3 filming.

We also see Quelin Sepulveda, aka Muriel, has been announced for the event for some additional ineffable joy.

You can get your tickets for ACME Comic Con here. We hope to see some of you there.

While we won't be rocking up with the Bentley to this next one, we want to let you know about Ineffable Con which, though sold out in person, is also taking place virtually in July. The fan-run event hosts great panels, auctions and more, with money raised going to Alzheimer’s Research UK, in memory of Sir Terry Pratchett.

Where next? We have - not an exaggeration - a list of about 200 events somewhere from when we asked fans this on Instagram and while we can't promise quite that amount of convention attendance, we're certainly looking to do some more things in future with Good Omens at large. Watch this space.

Good Omens items...

This month has largely seen prototypes and samples for the wider Good Omens merch store arriving, and while we can't share those yet, we are certainly excited to see more fan product suggestions coming to life. That does, however, leave our public item updates a little slim on the ground.

To make up for that, here's some new panels from Colleen:

Also known as, "What could possibly go wrong?" And:

Also known as, "Well why don't you ▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇ ▇▇!@#▇" or words to that effect, we'd imagine.

Update from Colleen

Following such a positive response to Colleen's piece last month, bringing you behind the scenes into making the Good Omens graphic novel, we are delighted to say that she has agreed to write something for our updates going forward! For June, she's going more in depth into the process of flatting and the technicalities of colouring on screen vs print. Over to you, Colleen.

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I mentioned the other month that I use a flatter to help me with technical work on GOOD OMENS, and here is a great example.

This is my original, hand drawn line art.

And this is the flatting file which was created using the MultiFill computer program.

It will put your eyes out.

The raw image above demonstrates how the color art lines up solidly under the line art. If it doesn't do that, you get a weird phenomenon in print called ghosting, a tiny little line of white around each segment of color. I had this issue on one major project and ended up redoing every single color file after I got a look at the first printing. Nearly two weeks of work.

The same image with the line art on top.

The layer order looks like this.

Background copy is the clean, line art layer.

I scan the art at 600 dpi, then make the blacks pure black, the whites pure white. Then I convert back to greyscale, then RGB, then duplicate the layer. Then I delete the white on the upper layer so the line art layer is transparent but the blacks on that layer are not.

If you have blacks on a layer that has been multiplied, you can see slight color through those blacks. You want pure black.

The lower layer is where I use the MultiFill program to create the digital flats. First you use MultiFill to drop in the random colors, then the companion plug-in Flatter Pro to make those colors seal under the black lines.

This probably sounds like a silly thing to worry about, but if the flat colors don’t line up perfectly under the black line art, you get the dreaded ghosting I mentioned. You can see it below in this image. It’s a tiny little white line that will appear around the black lines and color areas.

This drives me nuts and is an absolute nightmare to fix.

It’s a very common problem, especially for people who work for web and don’t anticipate the problems going from web to print.

What looks great on your computer can cause big problems in print.

From here, my flatter Jul Mae Kristoffer, who is way over in the Philippines, does flatting that is more in keeping with the areas of color I want to isolate. As you see on Layer 1.

But again, this is still pretty ugly, and not what I would use for final color. Flatting is a technical issue, not a creative one, though in some cases a flatter will make choices you may use. Most of the time they don't.

Here is my final color page.

Sometimes my MultiFill flats are so wonky I have a hard time getting my brain to snap out of what I see before me. If I get stuck, it's a good idea to just pick at it and come back to it later.

If it really, really bothers me, I’ll take the MultiFill flatter layer and desaturate the color so it doesn’t poke my eyes out.

Here’s an example. The digital flat file.

The desaturated flat file that doesn’t make me want to poke my eyes out.

And the final color.

Sometimes I just put in a solid white layer so I don’t see the flats at all. Flatting is there to allow you to easily pick spots to color in, and doesn’t usually appear in the final work.

Sometimes I want to create my colors using transparent color over a white ground, which is more delicate in the final.

Here’s an example from Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. I also selected all black line art here and converted it to sepia to give it a vintage look. Except for the fairies. They’re green.

A colorist must also consider color settings.

Different clients can have different requirements. I find these color settings, which I got from the Hi-Fi Studio, to be pretty solid. I use them as my default for all my projects unless otherwise requested. If your publisher has other settings, they’ll usually send you a csf file which you can upload to Photoshop. The program will save your files and you can just switch between them as you need them.

This tells the printer things about the paper and the spread of the ink you will use. That’s what dot gain means - it makes printed color look darker than intended, so you set up your files to account for it.

When you hover your pointer over each box, it will tell you what each setting is supposed to accomplish.

Another really important thing to consider when coloring comics is color range.

I’m coloring this book in RGB range, but for print you use CMYK.

I’m about to confuse the heck out of some people with this post, I’m afraid. But here we go.

Here is this shot in RGB color setting.

And here is the same page calibrated for print in CMYK.

The biggest shift is in the reds. Print cannot match those reds.

You may not see much difference here, but it’s the sort of thing that drives artists crazy.

A computer should be perfect for conveying exactly what you want, right? It's all just 0's and 1's, binary information, and that information should be the same from one computer to the next?

Nope. Not even close.

First off, computer monitors must be calibrated. You can use a computer program or a tool that measures the color on your computer screen and then adjusts the color to an industry standard.

Have you ever been in an electronics shop where a bunch of TV shows were on display, all of them playing the same show, and have you noticed how different the color was from one TV to the next?

It's like that.

I freely admit I don't pay a whole lot of attention to calibration, but if I were a professional photographer I would. I'd have a little spectrometer attached to my screen and software would adjust my monitor to the best possible standard range. As it is, I just use the default setting on my computer and hope for the best.

If your monitor is properly calibrated and your art is shown on another monitor that is properly calibrated, the art will look almost identical from one monitor to the next.

YAY!

But from one monitor to the next, that's about where the resemblance ends.

Colors are calibrated to something called RGB, or Red, Green, Blue.

All colors come from a mix of red green and blue. At their greatest intensity, all the colors in the spectrum together become pure white light.

This is why RGB is called ADDITIVE color, because you ADD colors from the spectrum to get ALL colors, and all colors create the entirety of the rainbow, and pure white light.

Your computer monitor, your phone, your television, all images are created via light using RGB, a gamut that covers all possible colors that can be created.

That's a lot.

And that's why some of the colors you see on your TV or phone are so deep and intense.

For the widest possible range of color and intensity, you use RGB.

Unfortunately, there is what you can create with light, and then there is what you can create with pigment or ink. And that is why printing what you see on your computer almost never looks exactly like what you see in a book.

For printing, you must use a color setting known as CMYK. This stands for Cyan, Magenta, Yellow and Key/Black.

In printing, the pure blue is actually Cyan and the pure red is actually Magenta.

CMYK color range is not created by addition, but by SUBTRACTION. In order to get the color you want, you reduce the percentage of one of the four colors for ink mixing. Mixing all colors, instead of giving you white, gives you black.

The gamut of CMYK is limited to what can be created with ink.

You've probably heard the term four color press? This is what that means. Four colors, with each color of ink run over the paper on rollers which, combined in varying layers of opacity, create all the printing colors you see.

But remember, what you see on your computer monitor and what CMYK gamut can handle are two different things.

Now, I’ve been really careful with the color settings on Good Omens, so there haven’t been any big surprises, but let me show you a snippet of a project I did for the French fashion house Balmain.

The RGB version:

And then this shot after it was converted to a CMYK file for print.

That's a pretty big difference.

Now, you see this shift mostly with vibrant colors, such as that pink there. But other colors hardly changed at all, right?

That's because this issue is about range of color. CMYK and RGB occupy a shared range which you can see demonstrated by this graphic I got from Wikipedia.

The graphic shows the RGB ranges supported by various digital formats. SWOP CMYK is the most common range my publishers use. Note that the bounding box line shared by the RGB and SWOP CMYK formats shares about half the range space. So whatever RGB colors you use that are outside that range will be digitally converted to the smaller SWOP CMYK range.

And you may not like what you end up with.

As you can see, some of the most ethereal and intense colors get lost outside of the SWOP CMYK boundary.

A look at the Dark Horse Comics color settings in Photoshop. Theoretically, this information should prevent your art from looking like mud on publication.

Now, after I just told you the dangers of coloring in RGB then converting to CMYK for print, I tell you I am coloring Good Omens in RGB anyway. There’s a couple of reasons for this.

Remember, RGB give you a greater range of color, so it can be to your advantage to preserve your original files using a format that gives you the greatest range.

Again, here is the unaltered file.

You can see what the CMYK result will be simply by clicking the Proof Colors button here. This will show you how the art will convert.

And the Gamut Warning will show you which colors are out of gamut range for print.

The intensity of that magenta and that purple in the top right are not going to print true.

This is how it will look in final.

So even if you do what you think is perfect color on screen, there is no way it can perfectly convert to print. Almost everything will involve a little bit of compromise.

Even though you have to consider the color shift issues, preserving your files in RGB gives you greater wiggle room, especially if you get lucky someday and get to work with a printer who can print in 6 colors. Or maybe some technology you don’t know about will pop up and make printing super glorious. Who knows.

Regardless, you should keep an eye on that gamut and color for CMYK print, while preserving your master files in RGB.

Until next time.

#good omens #graphic novel #good omens graphic novel #graphic novel kickstarter #colleen doran

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ficsilike-reblogged · 2 months ago

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Shelter - 3

Summary: You saved Soap's life. Your life continues to go off the rails.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No Y/N)

Warnings For This Chapter: Continued military inaccuracies, my attempt at writing accents, slow burn romance, canon typical violence and death, ...soft!Simon

A/N: Thank you to everyone who commented or liked the last chapter! Your continued support means the world to me.

Previous Chapter

“Quiet, Johnny.”

The Scot muffled his chuckle into his palm as he walked beside Simon, leading the charge up to the house. Gaz and Price were hauling the bags up from the car behind him. And Simon…Simon was carrying her.

The safehouse was up near the Scottish borders, quiet and secluded. And old. Well stocked, if Laswell’s promises meant anything (they almost always did) and Price said he’d used it before, calling it “basically a B&B.” The last stretch of the trek had been on a dirt road that hadn’t shown up on any sort of navigation system and they had to refer to a poorly drawn map. They’d hit more than a few rocks.

She was a heavy sleeper. Hadn’t moved when the entire SUV jostled over the uneven terrain or when it came to an abrupt stop outside. Simon had tried to poke her. Nudged her. Called her name. And nothing. Well, that didn’t leave him much choice. He wasn’t going to have her wake up alone in the car in an unfamiliar place. So, after removing the bag from over her face, he just scooped her up and tried not to jostle her too much.

But it was the way that she nuzzled her cheek into his chest, uncaring of the rough fabric of his tac vest catching her skin, that had his grip tightening a fraction. She wasn’t built like a model but she was weightless in his arms. Just because she…

Simon wasn’t sure what to do with that thought as he trudged up the house’s stairs and toward the small bedroom at the back of the hallway. The bed was small, made smaller still when he set her down. He expected her to roll away immediately, curl into the blankets, something. Instead, she let out what Simon could only describe as an angry meow and her arm flopped back toward him as he stepped back.

Again, something twisted in the dark confines of Simon’s chest. He couldn’t, wouldn’t name it.

He turned on his heel and left the room.

“Steamin’ Jesus, LT!” Johnny groused as Simon rounded the stairs. Her small bag was in his hand. “When did ye even get up here?”

“Been ‘ere the entire time, Johnny. Keep up.” He took the bag from the sergeant’s hands without asking and pivoted back to her room. He set the bag—that he definitely didn’t have to rifle through when they first retrieved it from the hotel—down in front of the small dresser near the door. She was curled around the pillow now, hugging it basically into her face as continued to sleep. And if Simon watched her chest rise and fall with the next few breaths, well, that could be his little secret.

The safehouse wasn’t awful. You’d actually describe it as charming if you weren’t abundantly aware that you were basically a government informant against your will. It was two levels with three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, the eat-in kitchen, living room, office, washroom, and primary suite below. The appliances and decor were dated but again…charming. You weren’t dumb enough to walk into the office that Price had claimed. They had started setting up a hub of sorts with a satellite laptop, an assortment of phones, and a large array of weapons stored along the back wall. Not that you were cataloging everything in the house that you could use to make an escape. You weren’t that stupid.

God. You really needed to work on being more positive.

The sun was still rising by the time you’d found your bearings in the house and you took a chance to slip out the back door, hinges groaning in protest, and found a small stone patio leading out to a long stretch of tall, wild grass abutting a thick forest. A pair of rusty lawn chairs were positioned around a cold fire pit and you settled into one, content, for now, to not be in the way of everything going on inside. This was better.

Positive. Think positive. You wouldn’t have shitty paychecks anymore or have to deal with Doctor Brookes breathing down your neck and making you uncomfortable whenever he ‘surprised’ you down in the archives. You could finally pick up pilates. Maybe.

The wind whistled through the trees and rustled the grass. It was quiet here. You often fell asleep to the quiet scream of the city back in Chicago and London had been little different for the few days you’d managed to have before shit hit the fan. You’d always gone from one city to the next. You were sure you would miss the buzz of it soon, but for now? For now, this was nice.

You shut your eyes as another gust of wind brushed your face and you pulled in a reedy breath, trying to remember the techniques your therapist had taught you. Years ago. You probably should call her again after all this. Maybe. (You probably wouldn’t but it was a nice thought.)

There was a noise on the other side of the door, it could have been an argument, but you didn’t open your eyes or turn back toward the house. Wasn’t your problem. The less you heard, the better. Hearing things you weren’t supposed to was how you got into this mess in the first place.

Your head fell back against the chair as the sun finally started to peek out from behind the ever present clouds and you tried to angle your face to let the warmth wash over you. The crick in your neck from the flat hospital pillow was gone. The pillow on the little bed upstairs was comfortable. And no, you were not thinking about how someone must’ve carried you up to that tiny bedroom. And no, you weren’t hoping it was Ghost. He had been quiet and warm beside you during the drive to wherever-the-fuck-you-are and he’d been…nice. Sort of. They all had been. A little cold. A little guarded. Not that you could blame them. You were probably the same or worse in their eyes. And that was another reason you were out here, out of their way.

“-she?”

Your face scrunched as you caught the last bit of a question asked on the other side of the door. Were they talking about you? There was an answering rumble and then a, “fan out! Couldn’t’ve gone far.”

What on earth…? Whatever. Not your problem. You kept your face angled toward the sun and-

The door behind opened with a screech, banging against the stone wall and you hurried to your feet, turning with your heart in your throat to see Soap standing on the patio, chest heaving. His bright blue eyes trained on you. “What were ye doin’ out here, lass?”

“Sitting.” Out of habit, you pointed unhelpfully at the chair.

He glanced down at the chair, too, frowning, before turning and hollering into the house. “Found ‘er!” Soap waved you back inside and herded you into one of the chairs around the small dining room table and stood at your back as the others filtered in. Ghost was the last to come in, dark eyes unmoving from your face as he moved to lean against the far wall, a mass of black fabric against the cream colored plaster. Soap explained that you had gone outside. “Didnae look like she was running.” He even patted your uninjured shoulder like you were a kid. Wonderful.

“I told you I was sitting. I thought it would be better for everyone if I wasn’t, you know, bothering anyone.”

“How did you get outside?” Price asked.

“Door was open.”

Stupid.

The noise came from Ghost again and you still weren’t entirely sure if he was laughing. And perhaps the ridiculousness of the situation was making you bold, but you opened your mouth again. “Am I not supposed to go outside?”

“We just weren’t sure if you were pulling a runner,” Gaz supplied, helpfully.

They didn’t trust you. Still didn’t trust you. Great. And you really should’ve known that. You didn’t even know their names. Or what Ghost looked like under his masks. “I just…” The words were stiff on the back of your tongue. “I didn’t want to be in the way.” You’d also been kept in a tiny room for the last handful of days and the sun let you feel like a human again. But that felt like oversharing.

Price looked at you, his blue eyes a different shade than Soap’s but no less alarming. “You’re not in the way. You’re a target.” He paused and you tried to brace to be told to stay in your room or- “We’re here to help you. You help us, we help you, yeah? You kept my men alive and we’d like to return the favor.”

And to your abject horror, the simple statement had tears stinging your eyes. He sounded sincere and you were always so used to people saying stuff like that only to get what they wanted out of you. But this… “Right.” The single syllable warbled. God, this was embarrassing.

Ghost knew her routine.

It had been two weeks since they’d arrived at the safe house and she’d been a shadow for most of it. He wasn’t entirely sure why but she’d taken it upon herself to have coffee made first thing in the morning, waiting for them in the kitchen alongside a kettle ready to be warmed for tea. It was usually sitting beside a mountain of pancakes or waffles or some other sweet pastry. Today, she’d made fresh bread and set it beside the carafe with butter and jam.

She was never around to have breakfast with them. Or lunch. Or supper. She was a shadow when she was inside. She also seemed to be a reader, if the stack of books that had disappeared from the living room and reappeared on her bedside table was any indication (the phone and tablet they’d nicked from her bags back in London were also stuffed full of books). And he’d watched her take a book outside to read in the back garden whenever Price said it was allowed. She was also attempting a new workout regimen that Kyle said was supposed to be pilates but “it doesn’t look like she has the patience for it.” But Simon didn’t mind watching her stretch.

“Lass makes good breakfast,” Johnny said around a mouthful of buttery toast.

Simon grunted his agreement and grabbed another slice, smearing the raspberry jam across the top. On instinct, his eyes tracked to the stairwell, willing her to arrive. She never did. The only time she appeared was when Price called for her, wanting her to review what she’d overheard in the tunnels before one of Laswell’s other contacts went out to investigate and destroy anything they could. It chafed at all of their nerves, knowing they needed to stay put for now, laying low to throw Makarov off their own scent.

Simon hated that phrase, too. For now.

But Johnny was alive. Their team was safe. His teammates’ families were being looked after, just as a precaution. And they had at least some sort of intel on Makarov. He tried to focus on that.

And not on the curve of her lip or how he could smell her perfume on his clothes long after he had left her in that small bedroom upstairs. And not how he could hear her sigh through the night, thinking everyone else had gone to sleep.

Simon kept eating, devouring half the loaf she’d left before he noticed. Kyle gave him a tired glare over his own plate and took two more slices before Simon could stop him. And then Johnny did, too. And Price watched it all from over the edge of his tea before sighing and getting up. He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before returning with another loaf of bread. “I guess she knew you lot would be hungry.”

Simon ignored how something twisted in his chest. Again.

It was better to just take another bite and think of what Farah and Alex should be reporting to Laswell soon, if all went to plan.

Price had said they wanted to keep you alive, a thank you for saving Soap. And they were kind to you, now that the initial rigidity had somewhat subsided. Gaz always checked on you throughout the day, made sure you took your medications with his megawatt smile and a joke or two. Soap could talk your ear off about anything and everything and you could almost understand his accent all the time now as you slowly made your way through your physical therapy requirements alongside him. And Price was usually all business with you when you needed to verify this or that, but he always thanked you and never minded when you asked for more books to read or food to be delivered so you could make more breakfast (which was all you could do, really. They were keeping you safe and you didn’t really have any skills to reciprocate except your weird ability to make a good breakfast so you offered it to them every morning before they woke up and skittered out of the way like a feral cat). And then there was Ghost. Who watched. He just watched and seemed to disappear whenever you had to blink. But he was just there. With his mask, cloth that reached just beneath his dark eyes and painted with a skull’s jaw (at least it wasn’t the one that looked like he’d sewn a piece of an actual skull onto some fabric), and that noise he made that you still couldn’t figure out if it was a laugh or not. He had helped you with your stitches, which was a kindness he didn’t need to extend to you but he did anyway.

And you hated that you sometimes thought about the weight of his hand on your back whenever you couldn’t sleep at night. The closest thing to an actual conversation you’d had with Ghost was when he’d snuck up on you (intentionally or not) when you were reading out in the infrequent sunshine and your embarrassment about being caught off guard manifested, as it often did, with you sticking your foot straight into your mouth. “So, do you have to special order all your skeleton stuff or do you hit up a hobby shop whenever you need it?” Ghost didn’t dignify that with a response other than that damn sound again.

And it didn’t really matter because you still needed to get back to Kirby. Her due date was barreling toward you and you were slowly trying to work up the courage to just ask if you could go see her. You had a speech planned out and you hoped that the breakfasts had at least softened them to you. The four men seemed to be at ease in the house, like things had been going their way in regards to the Makarov situation.

And Soap had said that he would talk to someone about you wanting to leave. You had to trust him in that regard. He didn’t seem the type to lie about that.

As you gnawed on the side of your thumb, making your way through another book, you heard the heavy steps of one of the men downstairs. They weren’t usually loud but men of that size didn’t move without a sound…most of the time.

Except for Ghost.

He was unnervingly quiet. Or would be, if it were anyone else. You found yourself wondering why you didn’t seem to mind when he appeared out of seemingly nowhere, like a wraith or…well, a ghost. Stupid. But the name did seem to fit.

You turned another page just as something thumped downstairs. And you knew you shouldn’t pry. It wasn’t your place and overhearing things was the reason you didn’t have a job, weren’t back in the States with your sister, and currently holed up in a safe house with men whose names you didn’t know. But when a second thump came and it was quickly followed by a grunt, you set your book aside and walked to your door, chanting that you knew this was stupid under your breath.

“Are they safe?” came Soap’s voice. Biting. Barely restrained. You’d never heard him like that before.

“They’re safe.” Laswell’s voice crackled over a speaker—probably the laptop Price was always glued to.

Peeking around the corner when you reached the ground floor, you saw Soap nod before turning quickly, dragging stiff fingers through his mohawk. It looked like someone had swiped one of the shelves clear of its contents, spilling books and baubles across the floor. That was probably what you had heard.

“They’re all safe, boys. I made sure of it myself.” She was using that same tone she used with you when you woke up on base. Placating. Cool confidence. It scratched at something in the recesses of your brain, pinging warning bells that something was very, very wrong. More than a mission. More than a brother-in-arms out in the field.

“What about-”

“All of them. I personally saw to it.”

There was another stretched silence and you took the chance to inch closer to the office. Well. You tried to inch closer before a hand clamped over your arm and you were tugged back into the stairwell. Ghost stared down at you, unblinking.

“I heard something,” you whispered, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you could think of a better—less suspicious—explanation as to why you’d been creeping in the shadows.

Ghost didn’t say anything.

“Is…” You licked your lips as your heart gave an uncomfortable lurch behind your ribs. “Is everything okay?”

“Listenin’ like that ain’t a good look.”

Something hot and angry slithered down your spine. Did he really expect you to just stay upstairs and only come down when called like a dog? You’d had enough of that. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I heard a noise.”

“And ‘id in the shadows.”

You could feel the sneer starting to curl your mouth. “I’m sorry, did I take your hiding spot?”

And then he made that fucking noise again. That sharp breath. “Heh.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

And then he did it again. “‘course I am.”

Really, you should have been absolutely pissed. And you were. But that snarl started to twist and push and you found yourself fighting a smile because his laugh was ridiculous. A man that large should not be allowed to laugh like that. “Whatever.”

His grip on your arm tightened a fraction, thumb pressing into the delicate crease of your elbow, before he tugged you back toward the office. You halfheartedly tried to ignore how his fingers trailed against your arm when he dropped his hold. And it didn’t seem like he did it on purpose because he was busy talking to Soap about something—you heard the word sitrep and you weren’t about to ask what that meant.

Not when you realized you were staring at the remnants of a destroyed home. Pictures upon pictures filled the small screen of the laptop and your stomach sank the more you looked. That was someone’s home. A couch was gutted and overturned. A stereo was broken into pieces. And frames were smashed. It was one of the last pictures that had your veins turning to ice. It was a picture of Soap, surrounded by women who could only be his family, bright, shining smiles behind shattered glass.

That was Soap’s family home.

And you were sure Gaz, Price and Ghost all had families, too. There were pieces of their lives scattered on that small screen. They had been targeted. Or at least their houses had been.

Gaz was the first one to catch your eye and he gave you a tight smile. “Didn’t think you would want to see this, love.”

“I…” The words you could have said dried on your tongue. What could you say to someone who just learned that their family was in danger? “Is there anything I can do?”

Simon watched her retreat back up the stairs. It had been kind, he supposed, for her to offer her help. She couldn’t do anything. Nothing that she hadn’t already done. But he saw the flash of concern in her eyes before it disappeared again as she nodded, quietly leaving the office when told to do so.

“Has there been any movement against her sister?” Kyle asked but Simon saw his eyes dart to the picture of his dad’s overturned office.

“We have her monitored, but I don’t think Makarov knows of her either. She isn’t on any sort of official documentation we can find.”

“Shouldn’t there be birth certificates? Where’s their mum?” Price asked.

Things weren’t adding up. There were holes in all of this. Simon crossed his arms as he let the others talk.

“Her mother’s dead. Dead for decades. And before you ask, Kirby has a different mother. Only Kirby has a father listed.”

“Same father, then?”

“A possibility. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead, too.” Laswell sighed, crackling the line.

Simon’s eyes dragged across the destruction Makarov had brought across his teammates’ families’ homes. His stomach churned, just for a moment, remembering a different home, a different family, with no one there to shuttle them off to a safer haven.

Just as quickly as the thought came, it left. Just as it always did. And the scent of her perfume lingered and how she looked more sad than scared when she saw the pictures.

You hadn’t really known what you could do when you asked if there was anything you could do so it only stung a little when you were dismissed. After sneaking a bit of dinner from the kitchen, trying to not listen to anything still coming from the office, you readied for bed and managed to fall into a dreamless sleep after finishing your book.

Brief, bright light had your eyes snapping open. You waited for a moment, your frown growing deeper, wanting to know if it would happen again. And it did, bursting through the small window for a split second.

Someone was outside.

Scraaaaape.

You frowned at the ceiling and tried to filter through the possibilities. Animals. Wind. But the scraping sound came again and it twisted at something in your gut. You were supposed to be alone out here. Isolated.

Safe.

But something was screaming at the back of your mind that this wasn’t right.

The noise came again and you slid off the bed as your heart inched its way up your throat. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. On quiet feet, you moved toward the window, trying to keep your back pressed to the wall, hidden in shadows. And then you heard the scrape again. And then a rhythmic thudding across the dead grass.

Something glinted, catching the moonlight. And your heart nearly stopped before beating a painful staccato against your ribs. Guns. Men with guns. Men with guns were surrounding the house, sliding out of the trees behind the house and slinking closer. One of them held a flashlight—that had been the light.

“Fuck.” You turned and tried to find something, anything that could be used as a weapon. The only thing that you thought could work was the lamp, heavy enough to cause some damage but only once. It was better than nothing. You slid back toward it and-

The room tilted as a tight grip dug into the back of your neck and hauled you backward. Before you could scream, another hand clamped over your throat. Your next breath wheezed out from between your teeth and you blindly tried to pry the thick fingers from around your windpipe but only served to have the grip on your neck tighten. “There you are, little brat.”

The accent was harsh and flashes of your time in the tunnels sped through your mind. They were back. Makarov’s men.

“Now, tell us what-”

“I know nothing,” was your wheezed reply. It was a knee jerk reaction and not a complete lie but that hardly mattered with your heart beating wildly behind your ribs.

But the grip on your throat tightened a fraction more. “You’ve been living with them for weeks. You know nothing? Useless American,” the man sneered, spittle splashing against your cheek.

Your therapist had once said you were impulsive. And she might have mentioned trauma and the need for continued meetings but that didn’t stop your tongue from lashing. “You call me useless?” Black dots were lining the edges of your vision. “I wouldn’t tell you a-anything even if I did know. Go fuck yourself!” The last word was garbled on your leaden tongue as the grip on your throat tightened and completely cut off your airway.

“What did you tell them, then, hm?” More spit landed your face. He grumbled something in Russian your addled brain couldn’t comprehend and the black edging in on your vision grew darker, lungs burning with each empty pull you tried to take. Your nails dug into the man’s hands around your throat but his grip didn’t falter. Even as your vision tunneled, you knew you had to do something.

Anything.

Kirby was waiting for you. Blindly, you thrust a hand out and the tips of your fingers slipped across the lamp’s shade. You thrashed against the man’s grip and you might have heard him laugh but you still tried again until your hand closed around the flimsy shade and you yanked it up and backward with a croaked shout. It cracked in your grasp but it made contact, raining shards of porcelain against the side of your face.

Your next breath burned as the vice of his hands opened. You didn’t waste a moment and yanked yourself away from him, only managing to collapse onto the bed on your belly as your knees knocked together. A slew of curses punched out of his mouth and you turned to see blood pouring from a large cut above his eye.

Good.

He wiped at his face, smearing blood across his cheeks, before lunging for you.

You threw yourself off the other side of the bed, legs slamming against the floor but he did not follow. You stood and turned, ready to-

-a hand pressed over your mouth and stifled the scream you felt blooming behind your teeth. “Quiet,” Ghost whispered.

It was then you noticed the man, unmoving on the floor. A knife embedded in his left eye.

You nodded, the fabric of Ghost’s gloves scratching your lips. He was here. He was with you. It snapped and fizzled at something in your belly but was quickly snuffed out by the quick pop-pop-pop of gunfire downstairs. Ghost didn’t flinch at all—not that you expected him to. Instead, he dropped his hold on you and grabbed one of your hands, moving to thread your fingers through the belt loop on his side, a silent command you followed readily. He pulled a gun from its holster and turned, quietly tugging you along as he moved out into the hallway.

The sound of more gunfire battered your ears as Ghost led you down the short hallway and down the stairs. You didn’t say anything as you stepped over one, two, three bodies on your way down. Ghost was a solid mass in front of you, unwavering and his gun ready. Before you could blink, he moved, shoving you to the side and you tightened your grip on his belt loop as he fired off two rounds right where you were about to step.

The next body hit the floor without any fanfare and he continued to tug you along. The house wasn’t big—you knew this—but it felt massive as he continued to lead you toward the front door. As you stepped out into the living room, both Gaz and Soap emerged from the shadows, guns drawn and tac vests thrown over their shirts. They flanked you as Ghost continued to lead you out onto the front yard where the SUV rumbled, Price behind the wheel.

A quick flash of light caught your eye and you saw the left side of the house catch fire–quickly. And then the world tilted on its axis, sliding beneath your feet—oh wait, no. Ghost had just grabbed your shirt and wrapped an arm around your waist and threw you into the car. No one screamed at Price to “move move move” like they did in the movies but Ghost hauled himself in behind you and immediately grabbed the back of your neck and shoved you down toward the floorboards. “Keep down,” he said, voice just a touch above his usual drawl. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, the grip on your neck smarting. You’d probably be bruised before the sun came up. You did chance a look up as the car rocked side to side, racing through the field and over the hidden bumps and rocks. Gaz and Soap had guns trained on the back window as Ghost kept his hand anchored on the back of your neck. But you shivered when his thumb brushed against your hammering pulse.

He must have felt it because he did it again.

What a way to end the night.

Next Chapter

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think! I'm not going to lie, getting less than 1/3 of part one's notes on part two bummed me out. I'm considering only posting this on ao3 as I seem to get at least a little more engagement there. Let me know what you think! Because, yes, while I write for me, it is shared with you guys and I'd like to know if you're enjoying it.

#simon riley x reader #Simon Ghost Riley x reader #Simon Riley x you #Ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #female reader

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muwapsturniolo · 1 year ago

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✯Stress Relief✯

(This was a request from an anon but I couldn't find the request even though I replied to it 😭 sorry that it took so long anon but here you go!)

Summary: Matt needs to relieve stress and his best friend is there to help.

Warning: titty sucking, that is literally it.

technically this is part one but you don't HAVE to read it (but i would love if yall did🌸)

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

Y/n was relaxing in her room when she heard her front door open and close. She gets confused but doesn’t bother to get up. If it was a killer, she just hoped it’s ghost face, preferably Stu.

“Y/n?” She perks up hearing her best friend, Matt, ascending up the stairs. He walks into her room, looking drained. He had multiple meetings today, and then he tried going grocery shopping but got swarmed by fans.

He had a long day and needed comfort.

“You look like shit.” Y/n mumbles as she watches Matt take off his shoes and throw his keys down on her nightstand. “I feel like shit, no need to yap at about it.” She narrows her eyes at his irritated tone. “Watch your mouth when speaking to me Matthew.” They stare at each other, y/n’s eyes harsh. since the day they had sex and she found out he likes being dominated, their relationship has changed. she was able to be more stern with Matt, even tease him a little.

Her eyes soften when she sees his getting glossy. she eases up and becomes concerned.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Talk to me pretty boy.” She pulls him down onto the bed and holds him as he begins to sniffle softly. “I don’t know! I’m just so stressed! I h-had so many meetings and it seemed like they were yelling at me! Then at the store fans kept coming up to me! I just-“ he feels like he can’t breathe.

Y/n rocks him back and forth, trying to comfort him. “What do you need? Tell me what you need.” She mutters softly. Although her exterior is hard and mean, she has a soft spot for people she cares about. Matt being the main one.

He was her best friend.

“I need you.” He claws at her, attempting to pull her closer. “Matt, I’m not com-not like that! Just need to be close.” He begins digging his face into her chest, the need to be close to her overwhelming.

She lays them down, her being the big spoon while Matt remains the small one, his face smushed into her breasts. She allows her long nails to scratch his scalp, mumbling soft praises to calm him down. “It’s ok pretty boy. No one is yelling at you, you're ok.” He clenches his eyes shut and takes shaky breaths, trying to calm himself down.

He eventually stops crying, occasionally sniffling.

He’s calm, but there’s still this sense of doom looming over him. He opens his eyes and sees her boobs right there.

He gets an idea and slowly paws at her tanktop, asking without speaking.

She looks down and instantly figures out what he wants. After all, he did the same thing at the end of their first session. She nods and continues to scratch his scalp.

“Go ahead pretty boy.”

He eagerly yanks her top down, her boobs spilling out. Quickly, he takes her right nipple in his mouth and holds her left one, squeezing the flesh softly.

He begins to suck, allowing his tongue to lap over the sensitive bud.

Y/n clenches her legs and lets out a soft sigh. As much as this is turning her on, it’s not the time. She pushes her sexual needs aside and plants a kiss on the top of his head. “There you go pretty boy, it’s ok.”

Matt instantly feels relaxed, all of his worries and stress leaving his body. He closes his eyes and continues sucking and massaging her breasts, his leg intertwined with hers.

The two fall asleep, content in each other's arms.

Y/n is the first to awake. She looks down and sees Matt still fast asleep, his mouth slightly open as his hand still rests on her breast. “Matt baby, wake up.” She whispers softly. She strokes his face, allowing her thumb to brush over his jaw, his scruff scratching her thumb.

He slowly awakes, a bit confused as to where he is. Y/n says nothing, allowing him to come to his senses and process everything.

“I-I’m sorry.” Is the first thing he says once he notices the position they are in. She frowns and starts scratching his scalp again, “Why are you saying sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I came over and was being dramatic then I…” his face gets red, not wanting to talk about him sucking on her nipples like a breastfeeding child.

“Fell asleep with my boob in your mouth?” He nods and looks away from her. She sits up and fixes her shirt. As she does so, she speaks softly but sternly. “Matt, you didn’t do anything wrong so don’t apologize. You weren’t being dramatic, you had a long and stressful day, and needed comfort. I wasn’t going to tell you no.”

“But you’re my best friend! I don’t want you to think I’m using you as a mock therapist or for your body!”

“Matt-“ she sits on her knees and forces him to look at her, “I’m telling you now, I don’t care about any of that ok? I’m not mad or upset with you. I’m telling you it’s ok. Get out of your head pretty boy.”

He looks at her trying to see if she’s lying.

She’s not.

He nods and Y/N smiles, kissing his nose. “Now, did you want to continue, or did you want to go?”

“C-can I sleep over…and we continue?” His voice is timid, not wanting to cross a boundary. “Go change into pajamas,” she demands softly. He nods and leaves the room to change.

When he comes back, he sees her lying down under the blankets with the tv on. He joins her and goes to pull her shirt down, but she stops him. He watches as she sits up and takes her top off.

He wastes no time in pulling her close and wrapping his mouth around her breasts once again.

The two lay in a comfortable silence, the only sound being from her TV.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

im backkkkkk, lmao. sorry for not writing!!! I've been stressed this month with adult shit and my bday is very very soon so im stressed over that too!😅 but anyway, i have a few days off from work so im going to try and get some stuff out for you guys!!

TAGLIST🍑

@bernardsgf @bernardsleftbootycheek @blahbel668 @mattfrfr @gdsvhtwa @sturniolo-aali @lily-loves-struniolos @kynda-avery @causeidontlikeagoldrush

@st7rnioioss @carolinalikesthings @mattslolita @suyqa @xxloveralways14 @pepsiimaxx @judespoision

@ivonchetooo1239 @imaslut4kehlani @that-general-simp @m4stermindd @itzdarling @gigisworldsstuff @adoreindie @braindead4l @pettydollie

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maladaptivewritings · 3 months ago

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Head-canons about Ghost

Including: Appearance, domestic life quirks, and more

Simon Riley is an elusive man, unknown appearance and private life. If he were to have a life outside of the military, so to combat this predicament, this is my list of HC's and some reasonings.

Appearance

His hair is a perpetually in the awkward growth phase, he gets a buzz right before deployment. He doesn't get it cut when he returns, just letting it be. The only routine self-maintenance is shaving his face, he hates the feeling of facial hair against his mask.

Speaking of hair, his hair is a mousey blond. Growing up it was closer to bright blond until he was around fifteen; when he was assumed dead he dyed it a chestnut brown. The first time it was dyed it stained his ears for over a week, he didn't know if he would laugh or cry.

Dark eyes, like devoid of light unless the sun hits it perfectly. You'll feel him watching you from a mile away. When the light does hit it, they are a stunning ochre.

His sleeve was done during a slightly manic moment, when he returned from one of his first long missions. He did it in two sittings, most of the flames were done in the second.

He's 6'3, barefoot and 6'5 with his gear on. He wasn't tall growing up, shooting up the summer he turned 17.

Scars, the majority clustered on his hands. Picking at scabs in the field, he fidgets on the little knicks and gashes if left alone on rounds. He doesn't really he does it. His oldest is a gash on his brow, no fun story just tripped as a child, got cut when his dad started throwing shit busted his face.

His Skin is a strange neutral tone, if he were to go out in the sun he'd tan easily. If he were to tan, it would reveal freckles across his nose bridge.

Thinking about his nose, it's crooked and bent from many uneven breaks healing over time. Scar from his lip just barely reaching it.

Domestically

He hates grocery shopping, but refuses to be a hermit. He know's that he could get them delivered, but he’s too stubborn and will show up to a small corner store wearing sunglasses at night with a mask and headphones. The clerk knows not to question it at this point.

Doesn't often drink beer or wine, whiskey of course is his vice. Though if dragged to the bar he will order tequila shots, and if he actually for once gets drunk he'll order a cocktail. (Soap has a photo of Simon drinking a fishbowl)

Smells like cigarettes no matter what, He will wear cologne when home from deployment and he's mastered how to pair it. No one knows this or cares, it's his little secret. The cologne he often wears is a sweet orange, with vanilla. Laswell got it for him, She saw his traumatized ass and decided to try and help.

Refuses to go to therapy, depending on how long he's home for he may meet with Price for 'coffee' every few weeks and chat. Simon thinks Price does this with the other guys. He doesn't.

Orders food atleast once a week, normally Thursdays. Theres a pub a block away he will pick it up from on his jog, same meal every time and same time every week.

Has the cilantro tastes like soap gene, Gaz does make fun of this.

Has no clue how to feed himself when he gets back from deployment, will either snack all day or not eat at all.

Weirdly into dinosaur movies, you'd think it was a bit but genuinely loves Jurassic park.

Specifically likes rock bands that most hate because they don't fit the mold. This is mainly being petty and liking what his father would hate.

Deployment Simon

The mask is soaked in hydrogen peroxide before he left, he cleans and mends it himself. He can sew, just not well. The skull is attached with fishing wire.

Hates coffee, would rather deal with the caffeinated gum. Soap once got him a Frap as an experiment one time when they're on base. He loves them.

Traumatized as fuck, he legit will dissociate when moving locations. Price only knows, neither says anytime about it.

Dry Humor to cope, most of the jokes came from his old history teacher in secondary school. He was a former soldier during the Falklands war, his time in the military was brief because his leg was severely injured. The only good role model Simon had.

Never personalizes gear, especially guns. Finds it dumb when he see's it being done.

In his mind will make jokes about whats going on. This had led to him accidentally saying "chat clip that" after he beat his personal record for kills before being noticed. Soap will not let him live this down.

His expectations of living to see tomorrow goes from 100 to 0 real quick, willing to take tasks no one else wants. If it weren't for Riley joining on certain missions, he'd definitely be in a pauper's feild.

Mentally,

Should be on so many mood stabilizers, claims it would just be a nuisance. Medicates with energy drinks and cigarettes.

High-functioning autism, undiagnosed.

C-ptsd, obviously

High-functioning depression and anxiety.

Talks to Price, sometimes Laswell about everything going on. He doesn't realize that he's venting.

No one lets him drive, too many suicide jokes.

Very petty, Cat-of-a-man. Will force himself to like things that his father would hate, as well as to prove a point to others.

Only has like a handful of colorful things in his office and home. Most its gifts from the rest of the guys or cards from the lady across the street who he may shovel the snow for.

One-Sided beef with southern U.S. Only due to Graves anymore, but he does appreciate Sweet-Tea.

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msbigredmachine · 4 months ago

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The Boy Next Door: Chapter Seven

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake’s masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine’s masterlist

Word Count: 8k

💥TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains DARK THEMES. Please proceed with caution💥

Three Years Ago

The Connecticut air is crisp and tinged with the faint scent of freshly trimmed hedges and distant flowers. This place, with its wide driveways and pristine sidewalks, radiates stability, security, and the promise of a new beginning.

Ivy steps out of the moving truck, stretching her arms above her head as her eyes sweep over the house before her. The stately two-story colonial, with its pale gray siding, crisp white shutters and perfectly manicured lawn, exudes the quiet elegance of suburban wealth. Nestled in a neighborhood of tree-lined streets and sprawling properties, her new home looks like something out of a postcard—a far cry from the cramped apartments and relentless hustle of Newark, New Jersey.

For the first time in a long while, she feels like she’s standing on the threshold of something good. It’s exactly why she chose this place. She needed a fresh start. A quiet space to raise her daughter away from the ghosts that haunted her in the city.

As Ivy leans against the truck, her gaze drifts to Zaia, who is bounding up the porch steps with the boundless energy only a three-year-old could have. Ivy smiles faintly, but the weight in her chest doesn’t quite lift. This move is supposed to be about letting go, but some memories cling too tightly.

Her mother’s funeral flashes through her mind. She can still feel the damp chill of the cemetery, the weight of the rain-soaked soil she helped shovel onto the casket and bury her last remaining parent figure. It was one of the hardest days of her life, standing there alone, clutching Zaia to her chest as the little girl asked if Grandma was in Heaven now. Ivy could barely reply, overwhelmed by tears and an aching sense of loss. Her mother was her anchor, her rock, even when life felt impossible. Now, with her gone, Ivy had no safety net, no one to turn to.

But that loss wasn’t the only thing pushing her to leave. Every corner of Newark reminded her of the betrayal she suffered. Of Angelo—the man she once thought she’d spend forever with. The man who cheated on her. His infidelity was a punch to the gut, and each time she saw his face, it was a reminder of how broken she felt. Zaia’s father, the man who was supposed to love her, shattered the trust she built, and Ivy couldn’t stand the thought of raising her daughter in the same city that held such painful memories.

Without her mother and without Angelo, Newark felt hollow, suffocating. It was as if the city itself had turned against her, and she couldn’t breathe here anymore. So, she made the decision to move—to start fresh in a place where the past wouldn’t be able to reach her, where she can rebuild with Zaia by her side. Hartford offered her that chance to build something new. A new job, a newer, better life for her baby and for herself.

Ivy straightens, pushing the memories down as best she can. She wipes her hands on her jeans and moves to grab the first box.

“Mama! Can I pick my room?” Zaia’s bright voice pulls her from her thoughts, and Ivy manages a real smile this time.

“Of course, baby. But let’s make sure the rooms are big enough for all your toys,” she says, teasing.

Zaia giggles, already racing into the house, her curls bouncing with each step. Ivy watches her go, and for a moment, the ache in her chest eases.

The first night is a whirlwind of unpacking boxes and chasing after Zaia, who insists on exploring every corner of their new home. The next morning, Ivy decides a grocery run is in order—her fridge is completely bare and living on only takeout meals won’t cut it.

By the time they reach the checkout line at the local store, Zaia is fully in hyperactive mode. She keeps trying to grab candy from the nearby display, giggling mischievously when Ivy places each item back.

“Zaia, put that down,” she scolds gently, glancing at the growing pile in the cart. She feels frazzled, her nerves frayed from the stress of moving and the unrelenting energy of her daughter.

“Looks like someone’s got their hands full,” a warm, lilting voice says behind her.

Ivy turns to see a curvy woman with deep golden skin and a radiant smile. She’s effortlessly stylish, wearing a flowing sundress and gold hoop earrings that sway as she tilts her head. The woman grins down at Zaia, who immediately abandons her rambunctiousness and retreats shyly behind Ivy’s legs.

“Hi there,” the woman coos at Zaia, crouching slightly. “You’ve got good taste in candy, I see.”

Ivy laughs, the tension in her shoulders easing a little. “She got too much taste, trust me. Sorry, we kinda a mess today.”

“Oh, don’t apologize. I’ve been there.” The woman extends her hand to Ivy, her smile widening. “I’m Gemini. Welcome to the neighborhood.” Her smile is bright, her tone warm and welcoming, one Ivy reciprocates.

“I’m Ivy. And this lil’ snuggle bug of mine is Zaia.” She pauses, slightly taken aback. “How do you know we’re new?”

Gemini giggles playfully, resting a hand on her hip. “Oh, I’ve got my ways. For one, I’m on the neighborhood watch, so I make it my business to know who’s coming and going. And, fun fact—one of the lawyers at my firm handled the paperwork for your house. When I saw the listing close, I figured I’d run into the new face eventually. Congratulations, by the way!”

Ivy’s lips part in surprise before curving into a tentative smile. “Thanks. And wow, you’re…thorough.”

Gemini laughs softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s the attorney in me. But it’s not as creepy as it sounds, I swear. We’re just a close-knit community, and I like to make sure newcomers feel welcome. Besides,” she adds with a light shrug, “your place is just a ten-minute drive from mine. So if you ever need anything—or even just someone to share a bottle of wine—I’m your girl.”

Reaching into the candy display, Gemini picks out a lollipop and hands it to Zaia. The little girl tugs at her mother’s hand, her big brown eyes fixed on the piece of candy. “Can I, Mama? Pwease?”

“Sure, baby. What do you say to the nice lady?” Ivy prompts.

“Thank you!” Zaia chirps, grabbing the treat.

Gemini chuckles. “She’s adorable. And you’re gonna love it here, Ivy. I can tell we’re gonna be friends.”

Ivy smiles, feeling a warmth she hadn’t expected. She’d been worried about starting over in a new place, but Gemini’s easy kindness makes her feel like she’s already found an anchor.

“Yeah,” Ivy says softly, glancing at Zaia, who is now happily unwrapping her lollipop. “I think we will.”

The cold concrete floor bit into Ivy’s skin as she shifted uncomfortably, her body stiffening from being tied up for so many hours. Every muscle ached, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish clawing at her chest. Her thoughts were consumed by Zaia. The thought of her sweet baby girl returning home from her friend’s house to find her own house empty, scared and alone, with no one to tell her where her mother was, brought tears to her eyes.

Those tears quickly spilled down her cheeks, hot and relentless, soaking into the coarse cloth gag Roman had forced over her mouth. She wanted to scream, to wail, to beg for someone—anyone—to help her, but the basement walls swallowed every sound. Roman had thought of everything. The thick, soundproof barriers cocooned her in suffocating silence, cutting her off from the world above.

She strained her ears, desperate for even the faintest noise—Roman’s footsteps, the creak of the basement door—but all she heard was an oppressive, deafening quiet. The stillness made her despair heavier, pressing down on her chest until she felt she might suffocate from it alone. She was utterly and completely alone.

But even the crushing silence wasn’t enough to drown out the image burned into her mind. Gemini’s lifeless body, her face barely recognizable, beaten so savagely that Ivy had to look twice to confirm it was her. It was a sight that would haunt her forever.

It wasn’t the first dead body Ivy had seen. Of course not. In her line of work, she’d dealt with death more times than she cared to remember. But this… This was Gemini. Her best friend. The one person who had always made her feel safe. And now, because of her, she was gone.

Gemini was probably coming to warn her. With all those documents and printouts, to show her proof. Gemini was the best lawyer this side of Hartford. Now all that promise and potential, snuffed out because of Ivy.

Because she hadn’t listened.

She was the reason Gemini was dead.

Ivy thought she was smart. She was a nurse. Years and years of studying medicine. She was a boss in her place of work, respected and admired. She’d always believed she could read people, that her instincts were sharp. So how she had let Roman bamboozle her for as long as he did, was beyond her. It didn’t sit right with her. It was as if he’d cast a spell, weaving his charm around her so tightly she hadn’t noticed the suffocating noose until it was too late. Now, every smile, every touch, every sweet word felt like a lie dipped in poison. She’d let her guard down, and it was about to cost her everything.

Angelo. Gemini. Maybe Zaia.

All of a sudden, the door flew open, and Ivy flinched. Roman descended the stairs, carrying a tray with food and water. He moved with an unnerving calm, as if he were tending to a guest rather than his prisoner. He crouched in front of her, his handsome face softened with what almost seemed like concern.

“You have to eat,” he murmured, setting the tray down.

Ivy glared at him, her defiance blazing through the tears in her eyes. Roman’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes narrowing at her reaction, but he held his temper in check. Slowly, he reached for the cloth gag, his movements deliberate and calculated.

“This basement may be soundproof,” he said, his tone cold and edged with menace, “but if you so much as think about screaming, you won’t like the outcome.” His tone was quiet, almost calm, but the hand that brushed the hilt of the knife strapped to his side spoke volumes. It was a silent, chilling warning—a promise of what he was capable of.

“Do you understand me?” he asked, his eyes locking onto hers, daring her to test him.

Ivy’s eyes widened at his threat, and she nodded quickly, her fear eclipsing her defiance. Roman studied her for a moment longer, then reached down and untied the cloth gag from her mouth. The cool air hit her damp, chapped lips, and she inhaled deeply, grateful for the freedom, however temporary it was.

Without a word, he moved behind her, loosening the bonds on her wrists. Her hands trembled as the blood flow returned, sharp tingles shooting up her arms. Roman grabbed the tray of food and pushed it towards her with deliberate care.

“Your favorite,” he said, his voice soft but unsettling, as if he was doing her a favor. “Garlic butter steak bites and mashed potatoes. I remember you saying it was your comfort meal.”

Her stomach growled in protest, but her appetite was dulled by fear and the knot of despair tightening in her chest. Reluctantly, she picked at the food, the familiar, mouthwatering smells of the southern dishes only deepening her sense of loss.

She hesitated, her voice small as she broke the heavy silence. “What...about Duchess?” she asked, daring to look up at him. Her insides churned with dread. "Is she..."

Roman’s face darkened slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “She’s fine,” he confirmed after a moment, his tone sharp with finality. “I took care of her injuries. She’s upstairs in a cage, sedated and muzzled.”

Ivy’s chest tightened, and she fought the tears that welled up again. Duchess was more than a dog; she was her family. “Please…don’t hurt her again,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Roman’s dark gaze bore into her, unblinking. “That depends on you, Ivy.”

Her mind raced, the next words leaving her throat before she could stop them. “Roman, please,” she begged, her voice cracking, “You have to let me go. Zaia—my baby needs me. She needs me and Duchess. She’s just a little girl! She doesn’t have anyone now—her daddy is gone, Gemini’s gone. She needs her mommy!”

Roman tilted his head, watching her intently. His lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I can bring her down here,” he offered, as though he were suggesting a reasonable solution. “I can go get her—”

“No!” Ivy screamed, her voice raw, pained. “Don’t you dare go near her! I swear, Roman, if you touch her—” She broke down again, and her chest heaved with the effort to hold back a full-blown breakdown. “I would rather die than let you near her!”

Roman’s expression darkened, and for a moment, Ivy thought she’d gone too far. His jaw clenched, and his gaze burned into her with an intensity that made her feel like prey. He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. “You’d rather die?” he echoed, his voice dangerously soft. “You think that’s what Zaia wants? To lose her mother too? Or would she rather have you safe here, with me?”

Ivy shook her head violently, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Safe?! This isn’t safe,” she choked out. “This is hell. You’re a monster!”

Roman sighed, shaking his head as though disappointed. “You still don’t understand,” he said, almost tenderly. “But you will.”

“You’re sick, Roman. You need help.”

Roman gazed at her, his expression sincere. “I only need you, baby girl. You make me want to be better, Ivy. Better than I ever was in my last life. I’ll never hurt you or Zaia. I love you.”

The mere sound of her baby’s name on his tongue made her physically ill. “You’re insane,” she spat, her tears streaming.

“No, I’m in love,” he corrected, his voice firm yet tender. “And I know you love me too.”

Ivy forced herself to stay still, stay calm, but inside, panic clawed at her chest. She didn’t see love in his eyes. She saw obsession. And she knew she had to find a way out before it was too late.

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “You think killing people proves you love me?”

Roman tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing. “I told you. I didn’t do it for them, Ivy. I did it for us. Everything I’ve done is so we can be together, so no one can come between us.”

Ivy’s chest tightened as she stared at the man looming over her, his shadow stretching across the dim basement walls like a predator poised to strike. Her hands, bound and trembling, fidgeted against the ropes as she tried to keep her voice steady.

She drew in a shaky breath, her mind scrambling for any way to stall him, to appeal to whatever humanity he had left. “If you love me,” she began softly, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation, “you’ll let me go back to Zaia. Please, Roman. I’m all she has left. She needs me.”

For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his dark eyes—hesitation, maybe even a trace of guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a look so cold it sent a shiver down her spine.

Roman leaned in closer, his face unreadable, his words sharp and deliberate. “But I need you more.”

Ivy froze, her breath caught in her throat. His voice was calm, almost tender, but his expression was anything but. The chilling conviction in his gaze told her everything she needed to know; there would be no reasoning with him.

“You might be all she has left,” he continued, his lips twisting into a sinister smile, “but you’re mine, Ivy. You belong to me now, just like you promised.”

His words hung over her like a death sentence, a noose, strangling any hope she’d clung to. Her heart pounded in her chest, her pulse roaring in her ears. Roman didn’t just see her as someone to love—he saw her as something to own.

Instinctively, she backed up, her heel scraping against the edge of the trapdoor. Her stomach lurched at the thought of falling into the pit where Gemini’s broken, lifeless body had lain before Roman had dragged it out and literally folded her into that barrel.

Roman caught her tensed movement and frowned. “Don’t be scared, baby. I’ll protect you from everything. From everyone.”

“Even from you?” she shot back, her voice rising despite her fear.

His jaw tightened, and again, she was sure she’d crossed the line. But then he exhaled, stepping away as he ran a hand through his long, raven-black hair.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I thought you’d understand. You’re different, baby girl. You see the real me.”

Her stomach dropped as she realized he wasn’t just delusional—he was utterly convinced of his twisted logic.

“Do I?” she questioned, “I thought I did, thought I saw the real you. But I don’t. I don’t, Roman, because you weren’t honest with me. I won’t understand you if you don’t tell me the truth,” she said, her voice trembling. “Everyone has a story. So…so talk to me, Roman. Tell me yours. How did you get here? How did it start?”

He blinked, caught off guard by the question. For a moment, the tension in the room shifted.

“You really want to know?” he asked cautiously.

His dark eyes pinned her in place, a predator watching his prey. She nodded, swallowing her revulsion. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” she asked softly, keeping her voice even. It was a dangerous game, but she needed to buy time, to unravel something—anything—that might help her. “The real you.”

Roman paused. His lips quirked upward in a bitter smile. “The real me?” he echoed, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“That name...Mateo Hobbs? Is that your real name?”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

Ivy nodded cautiously, her heart hammering. “Okay. How did you end up here? Like this?”

He leaned back on his heels, dragging a hand through his long hair. His voice dropped, a low rumble that made the basement feel even smaller. “I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to be like this. Life made me this way.”

She treaded lightly, sensing his tension. “What happened?”

Roman let out a bitter laugh, the sound dry and hollow, filled with the weight of memories he could never escape. His jaw clenched as he spoke, each word dripping with cold disdain. “My father? He wasn’t a man who loved. He was a man who demanded. Loyalty, obedience, power—those were the gods he worshipped. Oh, and money too. And he had billions of it in at least ten different currencies. He didn’t care about my mother though, at least not in the way husbands are supposed to. She was just another piece of his empire, another symbol of control. And when she slipped out of that control, when she took lovers behind his back, he made sure everyone paid the price.”

He paused, his eyes distant, as if he were staring at a scene only he could see. “There were two of them—her lovers. He found them both. He always found what he was looking for. And when he did, he had them dragged into the basement of our house. I was fifteen. He didn’t hide it from me; he wanted me to learn. He wanted me to understand what happens to people who betray the family.”

Roman’s voice turned colder, his words sharper, as if cutting through the air. “He oversaw everything. No detail was too small, no punishment too extreme. They screamed, begged, pleaded for mercy, but my father didn’t flinch. He just watched, stone-faced, as they were torn apart in front of him, piece by piece. And my mother?” He let out another hollow laugh. “She didn’t flinch either. She sat there in her chair, perfectly still, watching her fuck toys die like it was some kind of TV show. She didn't give a fuck about either of them.”

How Ivy kept the bile down her system should have been commended.

Roman scoffed as he continued his spiel, his face twisted in disgust. “Her reaction taught me what women are capable of. Manipulation. Lies. Disrespect.” His tone darkened, the bitterness palpable. “She taught me that love isn't real. It’s nothing but a game, and everyone cheats in the end.”

Ivy shifted, her breath coming in shallow gasps as her mind raced. “And…your wife?” Her voice faltered, but she pushed on. “Was anything you told me about her true? Did she even exist?” The images flashed before her eyes—the photographs Roman had shown her months ago, displayed proudly in the foyer upstairs. He’d spoken of her with such reverence, his words painting a picture of love and devotion. But now, as she replayed those moments in her mind, something shifted. The woman in those photos—she looked strikingly similar to Ivy herself. A slow, creeping realization coiled in her chest, her body tensing with the unshakable feeling that she had been manipulated, trapped in a lie that had been spun so intricately she hadn’t even seen it until now.

Roman’s eyes darkened as he shifted his weight, leaning against the wall. His posture was deceptively calm, but the tension in his clenched fists and sharp jaw betrayed the storm brewing beneath the surface.

“She existed, yes,” he began, his voice low and measured, as though he were recounting a story from another lifetime. “But not in the way I told you. Elesha…she was the one who made me think it could all be different. That I didn’t have to see the world through the lens of betrayal and lies anymore.”

Ivy didn’t dare interrupt. She could see his jaw twitching, his mind running through memories too heavy to contain.

“When she came into my life, I'd become a cleaner,” he asked, though he didn’t wait for her response. “My father’s empire…his messes didn’t handle themselves. That was my contribution to the family. Did it for years and years and I was damn good at it. Made me millions and millions. Elesha made me think I could leave all that behind. That I could live a normal life. Have a family. That I could love and be loved, no matter what I’d done in the past.”

Ivy’s stomach churned. She could almost picture him, a younger, still handsome man with literal blood on his hands, trying to carve out something decent for himself. Something better.

It obviously didn't work.

“I walked away from everything for her,” Roman continued, his voice hardening. “The power, the connections—gone. Because I wanted to be enough for her. And for a while, I thought I was.”

He laughed bitterly, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. “I stopped killing. I fought those urges for her. But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. She cheated on me, Ivy. With my own blood. Tama wasn’t just my cousin—he was part of the life I left behind. The life I sacrificed for her.” His voice broke off, the rage simmering beneath his words enough to send a chill down Ivy’s spine.

Roman’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer, his voice rising with each word, raw and laced with venom. “And you know the worst fucking part?” He turned his piercing gaze on Ivy, his eyes burning with fury, pinning her in place as if daring her to look away. “That bitch got pregnant. Not by me—by him! She knew I always wanted a family, and she did that to me! She had the nerve to look me in the eye and tell me she was leaving me to be with him. That I was the problem. That I was too erratic, too unstable. Can you believe that shit? After everything I fucking sacrificed for her!”

Ivy’s chest tightened, her breathing shallow as she tried to process his words. It was clear now that his story about his wife dying of liver disease was just that. A story. Her voice came out barely above a whisper as she asked, “What...what did you do?”

Roman’s eyes darkened, a glint of something unrecognizable flickering in their depths. Slowly, a cruel smile played on his lips, cold and devoid of any trace of humanity. He leaned in slightly, the room seeming to close in around them.

“I took care of them,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word dripping with sinister finality.

Ivy’s breath hitched, the weight of his words hitting her like a blow. She wanted to ask more, to press for details, but the way he stared at her, daring her to dig deeper, silenced her. Whatever he had done, the truth hung heavy between them, too horrifying to speak aloud.

She was startled when he crouched down in front of her again, his voice softening, almost tender. “When I first saw you, I was afraid you'd be like her. But you’re nothing like her, Ivy. You’re different.”

Ivy tensed. “Different?”

His eyes flickered with something almost vulnerable. “I watched you for days before we met. Watched the way you care for Zaia. The way you dealt with everything life threw at you, even Angelo. That punk bitch didn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

Ivy’s heart raced as he continued, his voice dripping with conviction.

“I knew you and Zaia would be the perfect family. I could see it—how happy we’d be together. But Angelo? He was in the way. He was stressing you out, disrespecting you, holding you back. And I couldn’t let that happen anymore. I needed to protect you. Protect us.”

A sick realization dawned on her, her voice trembling as she forced herself to ask. “So…what? You followed him to that bar and took out his brakes? Is that what you did?”

Roman smiled, his expression serene yet chilling. “Mm-hmm. Genius, wasn't it? And now, baby, we’re one step closer to the life we’re supposed to have. Just the three of us—me, you, and Zaia. A real family.”

Terror coursed through her, a cold, unrelenting wave that threatened to drag her under, but she kept her expression neutral, her breaths shallow and measured. She prayed Roman couldn’t see the panic flashing behind her eyes like a beacon. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but there was nowhere to go—not yet. Roman’s obsession was far darker, far more consuming, than she had ever imagined. He wasn’t just dangerous. He was unstoppable.

Her voice trembled despite her efforts. “And G…Gemini?”

Roman’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a smirk that made her stomach churn. “Gemini wasn’t supposed to die,” he said, his tone almost apologetic, though his words were anything but. “But she kept poking around, asking too many damn questions about Angelo… about me. She thought she was smarter than me, Ivy.” He stepped closer, his shadow looming over her like a predator sizing up its prey. “I had to put surveillance on her so I could keep an eye on her. She was gonna go to the cops. I couldn’t let her ruin us.”

He tilted his head, studying her like she was a fragile, breakable thing. “She didn’t care about you, baby. Not the way I do.”

Ivy’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m glad she’s dead. It was fun stomping her face in. You should’ve seen it, Ivy. She didn’t stand a chance.” He grinned, his straight white teeth flashing in the dim light. “And you…” His hand reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek. “You’re free now. Free of her bitching and meddling.”

She flinched at his touch, her skin crawling as if his fingertips were laced with cyanide. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she forced herself to meet his gaze, masking the disgust that roiled inside her.

“You think you freed me,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear. “But all you’ve done is make me a prisoner.”

His hand fell, his handsome features darkening as a shadow passed over his face. “Baby, don’t say that,” he murmured, the words more a command than a plea.

“I’m not your baby!” she screamed, her voice trembling as fear and rage bled through. Her hands shook at her sides, but she refused to back down. “You’re sick, Roman! This isn’t love. It’s control. Obsession! You need help—real help!”

Roman’s expression twisted, his face a battlefield of emotions. The muscles in his jaw tensed, his lips curling into a snarl. But there was something else behind the rage—hurt, maybe, or disbelief. “You’re wrong,” he said, his voice low and sharp, slicing through the suffocating silence. “I love you, Ivy. I loved you the moment I saw you.”

Her heart raced, each beat pounding in her ears as she fought to keep her composure. She had to think fast, to say anything that might keep him from spiraling further. “If you really love me,” she said, her tone softening into a desperate plea, “then prove it. Let me go, Roman. Please.”

He froze for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing as if her words were some impossible riddle. Then he shot to his feet and began to pace, his hands clawing through his hair as incoherent mutters escaped his lips. His movements were erratic, unpredictable, and every step made Ivy’s pulse quicken. Her eyes darted toward the door. She didn't see him lock it. Could she make it? Could she outrun him?

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered at last, his voice trembling with something that might have been pain. He stopped pacing, turning to her, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something crack in his armor. His shoulders sagged, his expression almost human. Almost.

“You won't lose me,” she said, keeping her voice steady even as her legs threatened to give out beneath her. “Let me go, and we can figure this out together. I won’t tell anyone—about any of this. I swear, Roman. You said I make you want to be better. Let me help you.”

For a breathless second, Ivy thought she had reached him. His eyes softened, his posture slackening as if her words had begun to chip away at whatever dark force consumed him.

But then, just as quickly, his features hardened again, his face a cold mask of fury and distrust.

“You’re lying,” he said, his tone flat, devoid of any emotion.

Before she could react, he lunged at her. His hand closed around her arm with crushing force, yanking her toward him. She gasped, her eyes falling on the barely eaten plate of food where a steel spoon lay. It wasn’t a weapon, but it was something—anything.

She felt his grip falter for a split second as he reached for the ropes on the floor. Ivy seized the moment. Her hand shot out, grabbing the spoon, and with a feral cry, she jabbed it into his face. The dull edge scraped across his cheek, drawing blood.

Roman roared in pain, staggering back as his hands flew to his face. Ivy didn’t wait. Adrenaline surged through her veins as she bolted past him, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor. She dashed out the door and stumbled her way up to the top of the stairs, towards one more door that surely led to her freedom. Her breaths were panicked bursts, her fingers, slick with sweat and trembling with desperation, as they fumbled with the doorknob. Relief flooded her when the knob turned.

But before she could open it, an arm locked around her waist. Roman yanked her back with such force that the air was knocked from her lungs. He spun her around, his face inches from hers, twisted into a horrifying mask of blood and fury.

“You think you can leave me?” he snarled, his voice low and menacing. “You think you can run from me?”

His eyes burned with something primal, something unhinged. He carried her back down the stairs like a man possessed, her screams echoing uselessly off the walls. Ivy clawed at his arms, kicked at his legs, but it was like fighting against solid stone. It was then she understood what Gemini had suffered, the terror and pain she had endured in her final moments.

“Roman, please!” Ivy sobbed, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face. “I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t hurt me!”

He didn’t respond, his silence more terrifying than words. Reaching the center of the room, he dropped her roughly onto the cold floor. She landed awkwardly, her knees scraping against the concrete. He loomed over her, his chest heaving as his shadow swallowed her whole. The tension in the dimly lit basement had reached a breaking point, the walls seeming to close in around Ivy as she faced the man who had turned her life into a living nightmare.

“Why the fuck did you do that?!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the room. She flinched, curling into herself as she sobbed uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry!” she cried. “I’m sorry, Roman—I was scared! Please, I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

His expression darkened, anger melting into something far more sinister. His eyes softened, but there was no warmth in them—only the eerie calm of a predator circling its prey. Slowly, he crouched down, his looming presence suffocating. His hand reached out, brushing her tear-streaked cheek with a gentleness that felt all the more terrifying.

“But you did,” he said, his voice soft now, dripping with false tenderness. “I told you, Ivy, I would never hurt you…unless you make me.”

His fingers trailed down her face, lingering too long, brushing over her trembling shoulder before creeping lower. Ivy’s stomach plummeted, dread clawing at her throat as his hand closed over her breast. Her body went rigid, her mind screaming in complete horror.

“Roman, don’t—” she pleaded, on the verge of more tears, but he silenced her with a disarming smile, one that made her skin crawl.

“You asked me to prove my love to you,” he whispered, his tone intimate, almost conspiratorial. “I should’ve killed you the second you tried to run, but I didn’t. That’s how much I love you, Ivy.”

The words sent ice flooding through her veins. Panic surged, an overwhelming tide of terror that left her breathless as the full realization of what was about to happen slammed into her like a freight train.

“Please,” she tried again. “Roman, you don’t have to do this—please don’t do this.”

Her words were met with silence. Instead, he pressed his lips against hers. The blood on his face smeared against her cheek, a twisted mockery of intimacy. Her hands pushed at his chest, but it was like trying to move a mountain. It always was. His much larger body bore down on hers, smothering her attempts to fight back.

“No!” she cried, and again, she tried…to push him away, to twist out from under him, but he was too strong, his much bigger body crushing hers as he forced her down onto the cold, unforgiving floor.

“Roman, no! Please!” she pleaded, her voice breaking, but he didn’t stop. He pinned her arms above her head, his weight suffocating, immobilizing her completely.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice a guttural snarl. “You belong to me, Ivy. Forever. You promised me. You promised me!”

He managed to pull down her leggings, forcibly yanking them down her legs. Her panties followed next. By the time he pushed his pants low enough to set himself free, Ivy was in tears of hysteria.

“Roman, stop! Stop it!” she begged desperately. She thrashed beneath him, tears streaming down her face. “Roman, stop! Please stop!” she begged, her voice breaking from sheer terror.

But he cut her off with another brutal, tasteless kiss, his lips crushing hers with a force that made her feel more trapped than ever. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with a dangerous mix of rage and control, and he leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear.

“Baby, I need you to relax,” he commanded, his voice deadly calm, each word slicing into her like a blade. “I can’t be with you like this. Stop fighting me and relax. Now.”

Her body shook violently, every instinct screaming at her to keep fighting, to resist. But the cold realization hit her like a freight train—no matter how he tried to convince her, he would kill her if she didn’t obey, just like he killed Gemini and Angelo. The thought left her breathless, her terror paralyzing.

Slowly, painfully, she forced herself to go still. Her muscles ached from the tension, her hands trembling as she surrendered to the inevitable. A sob escaped her lips, and she clenched her teeth to keep the rest from spilling out.

“There we go,” Roman cooed, his tone unnervingly tender, as though this twisted moment was some sort of victory for him. “That’s my good girl.” He leaned down, his lips brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks, the press of his mouth disturbingly soft. He kissed her tears, one by one, as though offering some grotesque semblance of comfort. Ivy’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing, trapped in a nightmare she couldn’t escape.

The tears couldn't stop falling as he pushed himself inside her, his movements relentless and unyielding. Her anguished sobs pierced the oppressive silence of the basement, mingling with the horrifying sounds of his pleasure and her desecration.

Detective Cody Rhodes was hunched over his desk, the desk lamp casting harsh shadows over the files and photos scattered before him. The walls of his office were a collage of red strings and pinned notes, a chaotic shrine to the case that had consumed him for over a year.

Mateo Hobbs.

The name was etched into his thoughts with a branding iron, a relentless drumbeat that followed him everywhere. No leads, no sightings. Just a trail of devastation that had gone cold far too many times.

With his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, he perused the thick manila folder marked Mateo Hobbs—Fugitive. The case had grown cold since Hobbs escaped his custody and vanished into thin air, but Rhodes wasn’t letting it go. He couldn’t. Not after all the effort he had put so far into searching for him. Not after the atrocities the man had committed. Mateo Hobbs’s actions spoke louder than anything Rhodes could ignore.

Cody flipped the pages, his sharp blue eyes scanning the psychological evaluations and criminal reports as though doing so for the first time. The man was a ghost who left nothing behind but devastation—a trail of dead lovers, shattered families, and unanswered questions.

The first file was Elesha Hobbs. Mateo’s pregnant wife. Cody’s sharp jawline clenched as he reread the details of her death. Thirty stab wounds in total. Sixteen to the abdomen. Overkill. Her boyfriend got it worse—the other victim, Tama Tonga. Mateo’s own cousin and the alleged father of Elesha's unborn baby. Stabbed multiple times in his groin area. Castrated. A double murder as personal as it was brutal. The rage in the killings was palpable, a bloodthirsty man out for revenge.

There was another case, this time from fifteen years ago, in the heart of Atlanta—one that had long been buried under the weight of time and flawed conclusions. Antonia Arnold, a bright and ambitious student at Georgia Tech, had been Mateo’s college girlfriend. Her death was ruled a suicide back then, a tragic story of a young woman found hanging from the ceiling of her dorm room. But new evidence, unearthed after years of silence, told a far more sinister tale.

The bruising around her neck did not match the marks left by the rope that had supposedly ended her life. The pattern of those bruises revealed something far more violent—a struggle, a pair of hands that had pressed down hard enough to steal her final breath.

The case unraveled further when a close friend of Antonia’s came forward with damning testimony. Just days before her death, Antonia and Mateo had an argument loud enough for half the dormitory to hear. The source of their fight was scandalous: Mateo had found Antonia's profile on an escort service website, all while having an affair with their married psychology professor, Dr. Lashley.

To his chagrin, Dr. Lashley himself became a key witness in the reopened investigation. Pleading for anonymity he never got, he spoke of Mateo’s volatile nature, describing him as “unpredictable, like a bomb waiting to go off.” The professor admitted he feared Mateo’s temper but never imagined he would cross such a line.

Yet it was that very temper, that unrelenting fury, that betrayed him. In his rage, Mateo had left behind subtle, incriminating traces at the scene—fingerprints smudged on the underside of a chair used to stage the hanging, tiny fibers of his clothing clinging to Antonia’s body, and, most damning of all, scratches on his forearms that matched the pattern of her nails.

Antonia Arnold hadn’t taken her own life. She had fought like hell for it, in those final moments against the man she once trusted. And now, after years of silence, the truth was clawing its way into the light, casting a new, unforgiving shadow over Mateo’s past.

Of course, Mateo had not stuck around for more questioning, disappearing from campus without a trace as the authorities began to close in on him.

It wasn’t just the murders; it was the man’s past that fascinated—and terrified—Rhodes. Mateo Hobbs grew up in the weighty shadow of the Samoan Sons, a powerful, California-based crime family led by his father and uncle. From an early age, Mateo was groomed as an assassin, tasked with erasing the messes his father’s empire left behind. By all accounts, he was brutally efficient, ruthless, but eventually, his psychological issues forced him out of the family. He was the perfect predator until he became...too perfect, leaving more bodies in his wake in the most extreme and brutal of fashions.

The psychiatric evaluation Mateo underwent before being ousted from the mafia was another vital piece of information. Cody had read it a thousand times and the words didn’t get less chilling:

“Subject exhibits clear signs of borderline personality disorder. Emotional instability and an intense fear of betrayal dominate his psyche, often resulting in extreme acts of violence. He forms deeply dependent relationships but is prone to lashing out if he perceives disloyalty.”

There was more. Antisocial personality traits, an ability to compartmentalize guilt, and a narcissistic streak that allowed Mateo to justify his actions as necessary for his own survival or vengeance. The report was damning but also revealing. Cody could almost hear Mateo’s voice through the words in the document, justifying every brutal act as if he were a victim of circumstance, as if loyalty and love were owed to him at all costs.

Loyalty and love that were never afforded him growing up.

Cody flipped to the final assessment. Psychopathy. Mateo had learned how to mimic charm, how to love and manipulate in equal measure. But underneath it all, there was no remorse, no capacity for empathy—just a cold, calculating need to maintain control, no matter who he hurt.

The file on his exit from the mafia revealed a man who had become too unstable even for a criminal empire. Paranoia. Compulsive lies. Delusions of grandeur. Violent outbursts. Mateo’s father and uncle had tried to cover it all up, but the Samoan Sons couldn’t afford to keep a ticking time bomb in their ranks. Thus, Mateo was cast out, and that rejection seemed to be the final crack in his already fractured psyche.

Mateo Hobbs wasn’t just a killer. He was a product of his environment—a powder keg built by betrayal, violence, and psychological disorder.

It didn't get any more dangerous than that.

Cody leaned back in his chair, staring at the mugshot clipped to the folder. Mateo’s dark eyes stared back at him, calm and piercing, the kind of gaze that sent a chill down Cody’s spine. He wasn’t just hunting a murderer. He was hunting a man who had become a monster long before he ever took a life.

The door to his office burst open, and Lieutenant Jade Cargill strode in, her energy electric and urgent. Jade was the kind of leader who commanded attention the moment she stepped into a room—tall, muscled, physically and mentally, and always immaculately put together. She had been with Cody in the trenches on the Hobbs case from the beginning, though her involvement had slowed as she juggled overseeing the precinct and tackling other high-profile cases. Still, Cody knew she never stopped keeping tabs on it, even if she had to step back. Right now, it was clear she had something big.

“Rhodes,” Jade said, her voice sharp, her dark eyes gleaming with something Cody hadn’t seen in months: hope. “I think we’ve got something.”

Cody’s head snapped up, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He leaned back in his chair, gesturing for her to continue. “Don’t tease me, Cargill. What’chu got?”

She slammed a folder onto his desk, the faint scent of coffee and cigarettes trailing her as she pulled a chair over. “Remember my old academy buddy, Phil Brooks? He’s a P.I. now, residing in Fairfield, Connecticut. He called me last night about two cold cases from a couple of months ago—one body found in Fairfield, the other in a nearby county called Middlesex. Both women. Both murdered in ways that sound a hell of a lot like our guy. Stalked, isolated, methodical.”

Cody sat up straighter, his pulse quickening. “Details?”

Jade opened the folder, pulling out grainy crime scene photos. “Fairfield victim: strangled, dumped in an alley. Middlesex victim: same M.O., but this one was left in her own apartment. No sign of forced entry—he knew her well enough to get in clean. Sound familiar?”

“It always does,” Cody muttered, his jaw tightening.

“But wait, there’s more.”

Shit. “What else?”

Jade flipped to another page, her voice dropping to a more serious tone. “There’s this girl. Rhea. Found in some neighborhood in Hartford. Her throat slit and dumped in a ditch. She was pregnant.”

Cody’s eyes widened. “Fuck.”

Jade flipped another page and pointed at the picture of Bianca Belair. “This one’s been missing for two weeks. Same neighborhood. Brooks sent me a report of a neighbor who swears they saw Bianca arguing with a man matching Hobbs’ description the night she disappeared. Both Rhea and Bianca were escorts.”

Cody’s blood ran cold. “You think Hobbs is up there?”

“I know he’s up there,” Jade said, her voice filled with conviction. “Brooks also sent me this.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a crisp photo ID. It was a Connecticut driver’s license.

Cody froze as he saw the name: Roman Reigns. But the photo…it was unmistakable.

Holy shit.

“It’s him,” he whispered, his breath catching in his throat. “It’s Hobbs.”

Jade nodded, her excitement tempered by the gravity of what they’d just discovered. “We finally have a lead, Rhodes. A real, tangible lead. It’s the first time in over a year we’ve been this close. If we can get over there on time and find him, we might have a shot at finding this Bianca girl and stopping him.”

Cody’s mind raced, connecting dots and mapping out the next steps. He looked up at Cargill, his eyes filled with determination. “We gotta go now then. If he’s already killed this many, he’s not gonna stop. He’s in the middle of a fucking spree.”

Jade gave him a tight nod. “I’ll reach out to Brooks, see if he can get this case in the hands of Hartford PD,” she said. “Pack your bags, Detective. We’re heading to Connecticut.”

As he stood, Cody Rhodes felt the first spark of hope he’d had in over a year. They had a name. A new name, but a name regardless. They had a location. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, they had a chance to finally catch Mateo Hobbs before he disappeared again.

Whew.

Fun fact: Elesha is Marian (harmshake)’s middle name and Antonia is my middle name 🤣 We said, ain't no way we’re not putting ourselves in this somehow, we worked too hard on this story.

Your comments and reblogs are so much appreciated! Please keep your Asks coming, we’re loving all the theories!

Please remember that this is FICTION and nothing more. Thank you so much for understanding!

🏷️: @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @thewarlordsworld

@dreamsinfocus @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @jeyusos-girl @iguessilikewrestlingnow

@purplehairgawdess @mohawkmama @po3ticb3auty @alyyaanna @murrylove @tribalhoochie @wrestlingprincess80

@papireigns-05 @vintage-pvssy @bebesobrielo @urasunflower @unfriendly–blvck–hottie

@theninthwonder @tabletheofhead @venusesworld @ariieeesworld @sassginaswanmills

@theglamclosetsl @empressdede @woahdude9481 @browngalmal @crxssjae

@twocentuar @surdelcielo @althegreat33 @alichesmi @eclectic-tee

@joannasteez @whatdoeseverybodywant @puppetmastermya @caramelcleopatraa @femdisa

@megamindsecretlair @headoftheetable @brwnsugababe @heauxvibez @christinabae @potatosackk

@raya-hunter01 @lilucey @aisharmi @neverlookatthisblog @dayaimonee @nayys-world

@kianaleani @digidestned @marasdeathnote @msbluehaz3 @hunnidmilly

@worldwidehoodrat @ariiaeltheedonn @wanderingreigns @sisinever @jaza23

@wrestlingbaby @amandairene88 @romanreignsbae @li-da-savage @thickbihhwitdagapp

@cry1nwhileimcumm1n @2-muchsauce @usoholic @dontcomplicateit @rihanna0607

@jimingotthajams @happy-princes @nymphobabyyx @authenticallymisfitted @sageispunk

@bxrbie1 @octaviastargirl @skyesthebomb @mersers-moonypadfoot-prongs @blueki16

@slutouttanowhere @zabwlky1999 @ayeeitsali @shamaness1171 @mainlyy-danae @mzv11

@misslackey @sayyestoheav3nn @dyttomori @dyttomori02 @kat3457

@zillasvilla @smile1318 @prettyfilmz @trippinsorrows @romansthrone

@wwecrazed2010 @xbriexx @ashyknee @katrinnnn @thedondada05 @luvrsluxe

@shes2real @aldrigmer444 @rose-bliss @jxtina-86 @that-one-anxious-mango

@fearlesschimera @kuromiish @vampygomez @tshepisho @magnificentbouquetmusic @4milly

@disc0fairy @prettybitxhnica @mellybandzz @blveeeeeee @taytropicana @planetch1ld @mayasopinions @tribalchief2112

@sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @n-o-v-a-caine @sexyblacksimper @paigereeder @callmekayd @partypoison00 @originalgeezyy @muzaqueendom @naturally-nikkilynn

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns smut #roman reigns fanfic #the boy next door ask #the bloodline #wwe #roman reigns imagines #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x black oc

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milk5 · 5 days ago

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Tier list for Balatro decks on gold stake

Explanations below cut

S Tier

Blue deck

It's a 100% guaranteed bonus to both your strength and economy, which are the most important elements of the game. The others aren't even close. A little boring, but overwhelmingly strong.

A Tier

Abandoned deck

Despite breaking a few really good cards (canio, triboulet, and photograph come to mind), the smaller size enables a TON of opportunities that are not available on any other deck; modifications to cards (like suit swaps or enhancements) impact a significantly greater portion of the deck, normally nonviable hands (straight, three of a kind, etc) become viable, and some jokers get huge boosts, like ride the bus, hack, and the rare xmult-for-specific-hand-type jokers. It provides a boatload benefits for a drawback that isn't all that bad.

Yellow deck

Early game momentum is extremely valuable, and this one gives it to you for free. The benefits aren't as consistent as blue deck, and it doesn't really enable any new strategies like abandoned deck. Rock solid deck.

Red deck

An extra discard is good, but not nearly as good as an extra hand. It mostly provides some cushion from bad hand RNG, which feels pretty good. A few jokers, like castle and banner, feel a modest power boost from the extra discard. It's a nice and consistently good deck.

Zodiac deck

This one is a bit misleading. It seems like you'd be seeing fewer jokers than normal, but the opposite is true. There's a detailed explanation for this somewhere on reddit, but to keep it brief, you actually encounter more jokers per store on average. Even if the boost in jokers per-store isn't huge, I still find the extra options to be a really substantial benefit. Tarot merchant is also a very good voucher, in my opinion. I usually avoid planet merchant on other decks, but I don't mind it on this one.

B Tier

Plasma deck

This one was a lot of fun to grind out. The chip/mult balancing mechanic forced me to relearn a nice chunk of the game, and that change of pace was highly appreciated. As far as its ability to get through gold stake, it didn't feel like it was explicitly a help or hindrance -- it just felt different, and different is good.

Magic deck

Kind of gimmicky, but not bad. The extra consumable slot is a nice luxury, and the fool tarot cards provide a modest (albeit inconsistent) early game boost. If you're lucky with your start, it can work out to be like a better yellow deck. I don't fish for good early antes with restarts, so generally the impact this deck has on my run is not huge.

Ghost deck

This one is fantastic when it works out, but usually underwhelming. The problem with the initial hex card is that I usually start the game buying a random trash cards that just give me just enough +mult to breeze through the first few antes, not really cards that I want to hold on to for the entire game. The spectral cards in the store can be interesting, although it can be hard to find a useful one. Pretty inconsistent, but not bad.

Anaglyph deck

The urge to horde everything until you can pop them on a negative tag is overwhelming, but that's actually a pretty bad way to play this deck. Even if you pull this off, a most of the negatives probably won't be that useful (if not outright bad, due to rentals). I found much more success in popping the tags frequently for smaller benefits, although skipping blinds can quickly end up being quite harmful to your run on gold stake. The gimmick here is much more fun on lower difficulties.

Nebula deck

I was pretty disappointed with this one. Telescope is a fantastic voucher, but I felt really restrained by only having the single consumable slot. Clever consumable use is a very fun part of the game, and this deck really hinders doing so. Regardless, the benefit of having telescope 100% of the time is undeniable.

C Tier

Checkered deck

It's the flush deck, but it makes pure flush builds harder to win with. It makes ancient joker unusable without smeared joker, but the benefits of using this deck are invalidated by taking smeared joker. Plus, only half of the suit-specific jokers work with this build (sans smeared joker). When I was grinding it out, I found the most salient way to win was to gather ~15-20 flushes into mid game and then pivot to obelisk if possible. This deck absolutely makes the early game easier, but it was quite boring and can be burdensome in the late game.

Black deck

Unaware of how extremely punishing -1 hand is, this was the first deck that I completed. It's insanely difficult for exactly the inverse reason as to why the blue deck is the strongest. You will fail a lot more on ante 1 or 2, but after that I think the extra joker is actually a very fun bonus. I have a soft spot for this one, but it's hard to succeed with.

D Tier

Erratic deck

I found this deck to be very unpleasant. You can sometimes benefit from a disproportionately large amount of a singular suit or number, but most of the time you just get a very messy deck that's hard to build around. Not fun, but occasionally beneficial.

Green deck

Interest is a mechanic that contributes to player agency and decision making. This deck replaces interest with a marginally greater reward for stomping blinds, and an extremely punishing penalty for tight blinds. Not fun at all.

Painted deck

On high difficulties, a larger hand is a nice luxury. One less joker, on the other hand, is a debilitating drawback. Being able to find your main hand more easily is not at all worth the strength loss from fewer jokers. I found myself relying primarily on getting carried by high tier jokers, which isn't fun.

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broidobe · 3 months ago

Text

𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔲𝔡𝔢

requested by 🌚!

⁎⁺˳✧༚80s-90s rock masterlist

chris is the definition of a deep, soulful lover—he’s thoughtful, intense, and always makes sure you feel truly seen and understood.

he’s not one for over-the-top pda, but in private? super affectionate, constantly pulling you close, tracing patterns on your skin, and murmuring sweet words in that deep, raspy voice.

loves long, late-night conversations—he’d rather stay up talking about life, music, and philosophy with you than go to a crowded party.

he writes songs about you, but he won’t always tell you that outright.

you’ll just be listening to something new, and suddenly, the lyrics will hit a little too close to home.

sometimes he’ll strum his guitar absentmindedly while you sit in his lap, just enjoying the quiet together.

loves making you mixtapes, carefully curating the tracklist to reflect exactly how he feels about you.

not the jealous type, but he notices everything.

if someone is making you uncomfortable, he won’t start a fight—he’ll just make sure they know you’re with him.

big on emotional security—he wants you to feel safe and loved, always.

his love language is probably physical touch and words of affirmation. always whispering things like, i don’t know what i’d do without you in your ear.

runs his hands through your hair constantly. he loves the feeling of it between his fingers.

kisses your forehead a lot, especially when he knows you’re stressed or upset.

he hates being away from you for long periods, so if he’s on tour, expect long, heartfelt phone calls where he tells you how much he misses you.

probably gets you a band tee from every city he visits, so you have something that reminds you of him.

if you’re ever feeling insecure, he’s the first to shut that down—he’ll tell you exactly why you’re incredible in that soft yet firm voice of his.

chris is annoyingly good at everything—like, you casually mention wanting to learn guitar, and suddenly he’s effortlessly teaching you, making it look way too easy.

“i bet you can’t cook.”

chris: proceeds to whip up a five-star meal like it’s nothing.

he’ll make deep, poetic statements out of nowhere, and you’re just standing there like, bro, we are in a taco bell drive-thru.

accidentally makes everything sound like song lyrics. you call him out on it, and he’s just like, i can’t help that i’m profound.

he 1000% sings to you in the most ridiculous voices just to make you laugh.

you’re trying to be mad at him, and suddenly he’s serenading you in a high-pitched falsetto.

says he’s “just messing around” on the guitar, but whatever he plays sounds like it should win a grammy.

if you ever try to sing along to one of his songs, he just gives you this smug look like, oh? so you think you can hit that high note?

if you put on bad music as a joke, he will roast you mercilessly.

this is an insult to soundwaves.

you can’t get through a grocery store trip without him sneaking random things into the cart and trying to convince you that you need them.

chris, we do not need a 10-pound bag of gummy bears.

always steals your snacks. if you leave something in the fridge, you better put a label on it, or it’s gone.

if you fall asleep on the couch, he takes the worst pictures of you and pins them on a bulletin board with some sort of note.

your album cover just dropped.

claims he’s “bad at technology” but somehow hacks into the hotel tv so you can watch movies for free.

blames the dog for everything. left his guitar pick on the counter and now it’s gone?

must’ve been the dog.

if you ever lose something, he’ll pretend to be a detective about it.

interesting… you last saw it on the table, but now it’s gone… have you considered ghosts?

if you wear his clothes, he’s like,

wow, that looks better on you. guess i’ll never see that shirt again.

you accidentally trip over something.

i always knew grace wasn’t your strong suit.

will make fun of you for something dumb and then immediately do the same thing.

wow, you can’t even open a jar? proceeds to struggle with the same jar for five minutes.

chris cornell: poetic, soulful, but also a complete pain in the ass in the best way possible.

#broidobe #chris cornell #dating headcannons #90s grunge #soundgarden #audioslave #grunge #grunge music #chris cornell x reader #chris cornell headcannons

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evilminji · 11 months ago

Text

You know The Force™? Yes, from Star Wars.

What if It and Ectoplasm, as a vague, all encompassing Primordial Force That IS... were Exs?

Now, now, I here your scepticism. But hear me out! I am going somewhere with this! Possibly somewhere amusing! Might be candy! Who knows! ANYWAY~☆

The Primordial Forces That ARE.™

Imagine um like infinite, multidimensional, multidirectional, endlessly stacking, 2-D pancakes! That are ALIVE. Gods beyond godhood. Inherently Amoral. Not IMMORAL... Amoral.

As in removed from morality.

Outside it.

Just as they are with most things. Time, change, entropy and order. They are the textbook definition of "I EXSIST" in the eldrich sense. It's like trying to understand the thought process of rocks. A black hole.

The best thing everyone can do is move on and accept that our fleshy little meat brains are incapatible with the information we are trying to take in. They DO like us though! For the given quality of "like" as they are capable of understanding it.

It's neat. They are neat!

Why bring um up, though? Well~ >.> remember that "stacked" thing? Not EVERY universe has all of them. In fact, MOST universe don't have more then one! Why would you need TWO Infinte Powers watching you? You're not that special!

And if you ARE, that's not a GOOD thing!

So like? Star Wars? Has The Force. As does every variation and fic offshoot universe. The spin off series. Unknown, undiscovered, "and everything was peaceful, safe, and fine" universe's where nothing story worthy happened.

Danny? Gets Ectoplasm.

The Zone.

Which? Is where Ectoplasm stores their blorbos. The FUNNY ones. The INTERESTING ones. The "I just think they're neat" ones. And FRANKLY? It HAS TO STOP! It's getting out of hand! A hobby is ONE thing, but THIS? The last one tried to invade OTHER UNIVERSE. And now you want to put ANOTHER little crown on your favorite OC?

Stop TORMENTING the little thing! This is BENEATH YOU! No more "edgy" halfa creatures!

Give me that!

Aaaaaand Danny is in Space? W...Why is Danny in space? Danny doesn't WANT to be in SPACE. Danny was about to finally have a burger and a NAP! Guys? Guys, this isn't funny! Where the FUCK is he?? Why are all the ghosts blue?

Why can random space monks body him? But like... only conditionally? The swords are Tingly but the hand wave throw thing? Yeets like the football? And, hell yeah aliens? But boooo, most of them are jerks?

Also >:/ not so thrilled about how people talking about Clones. Or treating them.

And your "Chancellor" fruitloop is very... Vlad. Vibes be RANCID.

He wants to go home but might Have To Cause Problems On Purpose first.

Meanwhile? Skywalker n his secret wife are somewhere VERY green and the white not-wookies are very concerned about her health. But don't worry! They caught the problem early. And prenatal care in important. Also so is mental health. Here, talk to this soft pile of fur with a soft understanding voice! That's elder Councilfang!

Why? Because Ectoplasm is petty. Fuck YOU, Force. If you're gonna take THEIR favorite bloro, then Ectoplasm is gonna take YOUR current favorite TOO! See how YOU like your bloro missing!

@babbling-babull @the-witchhunter @hdgnj @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation @spidori @lolottes @legitimatesatanspawn

#dpxstar wars #dp x star wars #star wars x dp #oh hey i made a new tag!#the force is trying to be the mature one here #but it REALLY hard when SOMEBODY is acting like a CHILD #blorbo theft au #minji's writing

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angelstate · 1 year ago

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FWB!Ghost x InloveFemReader.

FWB!Ghost who hates commitment, he doesn’t care about being in a relationship or romantic shit in the slightest, so you don’t even try to come asking for anything else than meaningless sex because he won’t give it to you, he doesn’t have the stomach to do so, neither the heart capable of feeling that sort of things.

FWB!Ghost only knows how to fuck you rough and hard, to make you feel more pain than pleasure, and fill your skin with bite marks and bruises. he doesn’t know gentleness nor care to learn, aftercare is fucking nonexistent with him, if you feel shitty after fucking then you better dress quickly and figure it out in your own house because he is too tired to care.

FWB!Ghost pretends like nothing happens between the two of you when there are people around, he won’t fuck you in the bathroom of a random bar or a dark alleyway, he wants no part in being associated with you in a romantic way. sex is just sex with him, nothing else so don’t get ideas on your mind, he won’t entertain them.

FWB!Ghost is as loving as a rock, with no emotions other than sarcasm and anger coming from him. He doesn’t understand why to stick around but doesn’t care enough to ask, one day you’ll leave him, it is only a matter of time, so he keeps himself clueless on how you see him so as not to strain the “friendship” you have in any way. (he doesn’t consider you a friend)

FWB!Ghost tried to pay you after the first time you had sex because he didn’t want you to think he took advantage of you or that he loved you in any way, it was just an exchange, a way for him to take out his frustration and for you…he isn’t sure what you get but it must be good because you keep coming back to him.

FWB!Ghost who definitely fucks other women, you aren’t the first or the last on the long list of people he has put his dick inside of, but you are the only one that stuck around and the only one he allows to stick around, no matter how much he tries to deny it, he feels like he owes it to you, maybe because he tried to pay you the first time he fucked you, maybe because you were a friend of Soap first that got introduced to a disgusting man like himself or maybe he just feels a bit guilty of how he treats you constantly (he doesn’t change though, at least not for a very long time.)

FWB!Ghost isn’t all bad at times, if you’re telling him something he listens to you till you finish, he sometimes buys you things you want, all sex-related of course, and he isn’t going to pretend he cares about your interest (he does care) he has been more times at a sex store and victoria secret than at a grocery store in the last 3 months.

FWB!Ghost secretly does enjoy spending time with you, don’t get him wrong, he values solitude and having space for himself, but you are good company, you please him in more ways than you just in the bedroom, you cook his favorite foods, watch horror movies even though he knows you hate them, you listen to the little information he gives you about his missions like his words are manuscripts from the bible.

FWB!Ghost loves little things in life, and he would never open his heart for anything or anyone that can hurt him, he doesn’t allow it out of self-preservation, having learned from his past experiences, he loved his family and they were dead because of him, he doesn’t want more blood on his hands, not of the people he loves. (but he doesn’t love you, right?)

FWB!Ghost is comfortable in silence, but with you being oh-so-quiet when you often talk till you have nothing more to say is definitely a strange sight, one that takes his breath away and makes him want to throw up. because he knows silence from you means something is eating you alive so much so you can’t speak.

so he watches you with careful yet empty eyes, nothing is ever really quiet with you, you’re a stubborn woman and he knows that, he knows you like the back of his hand, so when you stare at him, doe eyes full of something he can read it brings a set of emotions he thought he had buried a long time ago. and when you open your mouth to speak but stay silent it becomes his breaking point. “spit it out, will you?” he speaks, his tone rude even though he doesn’t mean to sound that way.

he sees your eyes become wider for a second, bringing your knees to your chest and looking away from him. He hates when when you shut him out of the sight that is your face, always so expressive he doesn’t even have to hear you to know what you think. “I can't do this anymore, I don’t want to do this anymore” you finally speak and time freezes for a second.

Stranger!Ghost doesn’t regret a lot of things in life, nothing burdens his heart to the point of continuous regret, to undying guilt…except you. He knows he wasn’t a kind man, he didn’t know kindness then and doesn’t know it now, but looking back he knows he should’ve learned for you, he should’ve allowed himself to love and accept that letting someone into his life and heart wouldn’t be a death sentence for that person.

Stranger!Ghost isn’t an honest man at all, but when he’s alone and his feeling catch up to him he can’t help to accept he indeed loves you, that he cared about you more than himself, and that he wished to be your lover, to be your husband to…to have a fucking family and a dog and all that corny shit he swore he hated for years.

He had an unknown hope for you to not give up on him back then, to always stick around no matter what because that’s exactly what you did for a long time, you were there and wore the bruises he gave you with honor and love he never understood, he did now.

He saw something shift in you the night you told him you couldn’t keep him around anymore, he remembers your words, they are engraved in his mind so strongly that they keep him up at night sometimes, and when he is drunk he thinks of calling, to confirm you don’t want him anymore.

Stranger!Ghost who can’t help but get drunk and let a few tears fall when he finds out through Soap that you had gotten married to your first love and were now pregnant, waiting to welcome a little girl into the world, and that your husband had gifted you a puppy as to complete the family.

Stranger!Ghost heart aches at the fact he isn’t the man who made you a mother and that he isn’t the father of your child, but he knows not to come into your life again, you deserve peace and build a family without ever facing him again, he wasn’t going to be cruel to you again, he was going to stay away out of love for you, love you will never know about.

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whinysoobin · 5 months ago

Text

Too thick... c.yj

Choi Yeonjun x fem reader

Genre: smut (MDNI- minors do not interact )

Warnings: overstimulation (f! Receiving), gagging, cum swallowing (pls no). Nothing else ig..

Being fucked by your cousin during the visit to your ancestral house in bussan, isnt the greatest thing you did.... Sure the ghosts of your ancestors which roam around would be disgusted but more over yall were fucking in the room which belonged to your great great great great.... (Etc. Etc.) Grandmother. Or some grandmother of your mother's side.

But you didnt have time to think of all that.. The last thing you wanted to worry about is which ancestor's room this was while being fucked dumb on yeonjun's cock. Splitting you open as he thrusts in deeper and faster. Your hands claw his back and he lets out a deep moan.

Due to in the intense pace of yeonjun, you already found your self in your 3rd orgasm, and him not even done with his first release. Are men supposed to have this much stamina? Yeonjun takes your leg up to his shoulders to get you deeper.

"T-to mu-much! To-too much!" You whine overstimulated as fuck as you release your 3rd orgasm. Yeonjun lets out a frustrated moan. Something was wrong. So you decided to ask him.

"I-is something wrong j-jun? Im sor-"

"No, no, its just.... I cant feel you at all.." Yeonjun pulls out of you. He lays next to you,his cock still rock hard and throbbing as he takes off the condom. Then you realise it, making you slightly giggle. Yeonjun shoots you a confused look hearing you giggle.

"I think those condoms are extra thick. You should have read the label before buying it" yeonjun lets out a groan as he realises. But as he got up your hands find his wrists. You looks at you and tilts his head.

"You are still hard" you point out.

"I know, but its oka-"

"Are you serious iam not just gonna let you go when you fucked me soo good whereas you didnt even get to release once? You need to feel good too!" You get up and your knees hit the floor as yeonjun stares at you in slight shock. But smirks slightly when you wrap your hands around his big leaky cock.

"You dont have to if you dont like"

You didnt respond, instead you wrapped your lips around it, swirling your tongue making sure to lick up all the precum you could.

"F-fuck y/n"

Yeonjun hands find their way towards your hair as he slightly tugs them. As you suck his tip he let's out a loud moan. He sounded absolutely beautiful. Hearing loud pornstar moans slip out of the mouth and knowing that you made him do it, gave you little more confidence knowing he enjoyed it.

He pushed you down even further. the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat as you gagged on the rest of it.

"god…you're s-so perfect like this"

His praises were enough for you to push through, you moved your head back up and then immediately back down to take him in fully again. You could tell he was about to finish because his hips bucked into your mouth. And you repeat your motions pulling each and every sound out of him.

it wasn't much longer before you felt his hot cum inside of your mouth, leaking down your chin as you pulled him out. You wiped you face with the back of your hand as yeonjun collapses onto the bed. You chuckle as you lay next to him.

"fuck, i never knew you were this good..." Yeonjun says as his hands wrap around your body as he cuddles you in. You squish you face into his chest as he chuckles.

"I never knew i was this good. But now that i heard the sounds you make... I kinda feel like an expert even tho this like my second time giving someone a head"

"Who was first?"

"Why would you ask?" You raise your eyebrows at his direct question.

"Just asking" yeonjun shrugs.

Just minutes later you both hear the bell ring. That's when it snapped you both that your parents would have came back from the store. You and yeonjun immediately jump out of bed to get your cloths on.

....

"Where were you both?" Your mother asks and soon she spot you both coming out of the room.

"Just playing games aunty" yeonjun responds quickly with a fake smile on his face like he wasnt lying straight to her face.

"Dinner will be ready in a hour i think... I hope you both aren't hungry" yeonjun's mom says.

"And pack your things we will be leaving after lunch. I think we have cleaned up this place well enough." You mother says as she looks around.

....

"Dont worry. We will see each other again" yeonjun whispers to you as both your mothers say bye to each other. You weren't sure if it would happen any soon because the last time had seen him was when he was 14 and you were 12 and now you were 18.

"Yeonjun say bye to y/n" his mother says as she gets in the car.

Yeonjun hugs you as he whispers "i love you, take care"

.... Years later-

"Hey y/n!! I found this really cool group which makes amazing music! U should listen! And look at this guy! He is one of the group member " you didnt even advert your gaze from your book as your friend goes on and on about her kpop.

"Hey just look at how handsome he is!" Your friend slaps your shoulders to look at her phone. You frown a little as you finally look at the picture not recognising it at first but..

"Yeah yeah he look sooo good- wait.. Whats his name again?" You face suddenly changes as you take in the picture clearly.

"I know right! I knew u would have a crush on him the moment you look at this! His name is yeonjun-" so you were right this was him. "You should stan txt girl! I have been telling you to stan kpop but all you do is keep your nose stuffed inside that book" her words make you finally place a bookmark and close your book. As you kept it on the table your friend fake gasps teasing as you see a big grin spread across her face.

"You know what? Tell me more about this group.."

—★—

Note: this was actually supposed to be small smut(drabble? I forgot what it is called.) Much shorter than this. Only the first part planned in my head. But the more i write, more ideas i get. So idk if i should turn this into a fic.

(Should i? ) (Asking for your ideas and opinions)

The title is a bit weird yk.... I meant the condom not umm.. Maybe him too >_<!

Let me know if you enjoyed this. Feedbacks really appreciated.!! :D

If you have any requests or ideas. My Ask page and inbox is open!

#yeonjun smut #choi yeonjun smut #yeonjun #choi yeonjun #txt smut #smut #txt hard thoughts #yeonjun drabble #yeonyy <3 #yeonjun x reader #<3

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lovingapparition · 9 months ago

Text

If Would Sure Do Me Good (to do you good)

Genre: Angst, Slow Burn, Smalltown American Aesthetics

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

A retired Simon moves to town. There are vibes.

Light warning for not very subtle sugar daddy implications that will ramp up later on.

AO3 Link

Modern civilization would be all but dead and gone, turned to dust, before this guy stopped talking. He's a regular at this dingy little convenience store, in at exactly 5:15pm Monday through Friday because it's, “just down the road from my job, and on my way home!” he reminds you, over and over as if you could possibly forget after being told for the second time that week. He insists you call him Pat but you never do, he's mostly just this fucking guy in your head. And boy, does this fucking guy love to yap your ears off.

You blink rapidly, not that he notices, focusing in on his hands. They're dirty, always are, with some weird mystery grime that makes you vaguely queasy when he hands you his warm dollar bills. You think he might be a mechanic, he must have told you at some point, but information like that doesn't really stick during the evening rushes because hello dude there's like ten people behind you-

Deep breaths. You are taking deep breaths, nodding, and smiling. The guy pauses for a breath, and you pounce. “So your total’s gonna be $13.47, the usual,” with a tight smile, your jaw a little clenched. Across the counter, he hums and digs his wallet out of his pocket. He's still describing something, gesticulating with his free hand before he pulls out a few bills. Through a couple of well-placed hums and nods you manage to focus on counting the proper change from the drawer. He pockets it without recounting his bills, too busy looking right at you as he tells you to, “Have a good night. Stay warm, honey.”

Ugh.

At least the next few transactions go quick, other people also getting off work but not as willing to talk your ear off. The weather was too cold for anyone else to feel like idly chatting. Your shift was just beginning, and already you felt worn out. Working evenings into the early hours of the morning wasn't ideal, but a job is a job. You value paying your rent more than seeing the sun or having time to hang out with your friends and family, at the moment. At least your cat was always happy to see you at one in the morning.

When the first rush eventually slows down, you're able to take what feels like your first real breath since clocking in. You let your mind wander as you wipe the counters down, fill out the daily logs, and stare at the grimy spot on the ceiling that seems to grow inch by inch each time it rains or snows. It's all become a familiar routine, as horrifically boring as it is. You'd listen to a podcast or something in one ear bud if you could, but your phone barely got service inside the old building. A perk of the cheapest phone plan you could find.

The night goes without too much fuss, and when you've tidied the shelves and double-checked that your boss hasn't left any cryptic notes for you to interpret, you find yourself leaning against the counter. There's early 2000’s rock playing softly over the old speakers, and you desperately wish that your boss would give you permission to change it to anything other than 98.8 FM The Rock.

Against your will you hum along to a Nickelback song as you watch the clock tick its way closer and closer to 9:30pm. Lunch. Also known as the only time you were allowed to lock the store. Your boss doesn't really vibe with the idea of paying two people at a time, so obviously you still had to help customers on your fifteen-minute breaks.

Halfway through the song you step out from behind the counter to go lock the front door. It's dark outside, and the street lamps cast everything in a warm, rusty yellow. The unshoveled and slushy snow looks like crushed gold, mixed with the oil and dirt from the parking lot. Inside, the lights inside Mo’s Mart buzz overhead. Their sickly green cast makes you feel a little ill if you think about it too hard. Looking outside just reminds you of it. You try to not feel disappointed as you trudge back to the counter to sit down for the first time in four and a half hours.

The stool beneath you is only a little rickety, and you sigh as you lower yourself into it. For lunch you pull a bag of potato chips out of your bag. You'd bought them from the store yesterday and saved half for tonight. At a certain point the frozen burritos and hot pockets stopped being appetizing. This isn't much better, though. The chips are already going a little stale, gumming up in your molars as you chew.

You're in the middle of digging at the crevices in your teeth with your tongue, zoned completely out as you stare at yesterday's crossword section from a newspaper your boss had left out. To be without. Six letters across and it ends in T. You're tapping your pen against the paper in thought, trying to ignore the urge to check the clock to see how much time you've got left on your break. You know you've got to have at least-

The locked front door clunking in the frame snatches your attention. You sigh. There are three loud knocks on the glass. You set your pen down. Without a doubt in your mind you know you taped the handwritten, “On break! Back at 10!” sign up at eye level. When you look up and make eye contact with the man out front, this only seems to incense him. You recognize him, a regular who's never really happy about anything. Why he keeps shopping at Mo’s you'll never understand. He shouts something that's muffled through the door, like you're the asshole right now. A quick glance tells you that you've got eight minutes until the inevitably awkward confrontation where you have to let him in. You would rather sink into the tiled floor and never come out. It almost makes the rest of the break not even worth taking.

Almost.

Trying to quell the unease his presence brings, you stay behind the counter. It's your break, and it's your right to take it without having to worry about some guy who wants his convenience store snacks in the middle of the night.

When you approach the door you try to avoid his eyes, you can practically feel him staring daggers already. As soon as the lock turns in your fingers he's pushing the door open, brushing past you as he haphazardly stomps the snow and salt off of his boots. You mentally add sweeping and mopping back onto your short mental to-do list.

You count your breath on the inhale, and again on the exhale, as you walk back to the counter. The small monitor on the cluttered counter shows the store’s security cameras on three separate little boxes. You’re vaguely aware of the man hovering by the liquor section, but you can’t bring yourself to head out into the center of the store to bother him in the hopes of deterring theft, your boss be damned. His abrupt entry brought in enough cold air to make you shiver and jam your hands into your pockets. Standing behind the counter gives you an odd sense of security as the guy wanders from aisle to aisle. You know exactly where the store's panic button is under the counter should anything go away. Some cynical part of you wonders if it even works, knowing how cheap Mo is.

The door chiming as someone else enters the store jolts you out of thought. You turn your head to greet the customer and you're met with probably the scariest individual you've ever seen. He's huge, wearing a heavy black work coat that doesn't hide the bulk of his body. The fact that he's wearing a skull print balaclava is what makes it worse. This guy could be totally normal and just wearing it because it's snowing out. He could also be about to ruin your night.

He's looking right at you as he beelines to the counter.

Anxiety bleeds into your hands, makes them feel like you've just stuck them in freezing water. Slowly, you take them out of your pockets and press them flat on the counter. You watch your own fingers spread out. From some job training or another, you recall that it's worse to look into the eyes of someone trying to rob you. “Hey there,” you try and fail to sound like you're not nervous. “What can I get you?” He's quiet for a long time. Too long. Risking a glance up at him, you find he's not even looking at you. The guy is carefully scanning the rows of cigarettes behind you.

You breathe a small sigh of relief. He doesn't say anything and you don't feel like pushing your luck tonight. You scoot over to the side and quietly thumb over your abandoned crossword. With a quick glance up you can see the man running a gloved hand over his jaw. There's a faint sound of his stubble rubbing against the balaclava. His eyes are dark, half lidded. Without moving his head, his gaze flicks to meet yours, and you look away without even thinking. Bright blue. Jesus Christ this is awkward. You tap your pen against the newsprint, wishing whatever was happening right now would just end. This guy isn't a regular, and he's certainly no one you've ever seen around town. Fingers crossed he's just passing through, never to be seen again.

“Hey dickhead, anytime now!” Your head jerks up. The masked man slowly looks over his shoulder. The guy who came in earlier is cradling a bottle of cheap rum and a liter of coke, clearly pissed about the long wait. Your stomach feels like it's about to fall out of your ass. A stranger you've never seen and a pissy regular, what could possibly go wrong? Chewing at your lip, you take a step back from the counter.

“Hey Marvin, I can get you over here. Relax,” you say over the stranger's shoulder, just barely managing to remember his name. You've carded him everyone else in this town enough to remember a few faces. The giant man in front of you steps over wordlessly as if Marvin hadn't just insulted him. Wanting to get him out as quickly as possible to avoid anymore confrontation, you check Marvin out. He's still grumbling to himself, working the toothpick in his cheek with his teeth. “Have a good night. Drive safe,” you tell him as you hand him his brown paper-bagged liquor. Marvin scoffs at you and yanks his items from your hands. You try not to react as he lets the door slam on his way out.

The fluorescent lights buzz above you. Coldplay is on the radio, crackling softly. The man approaches your register, already reaching into his coat for his wallet. “I'll have your cheapest menthols,” he rumbles in an accent you've definitely never heard in town. What the hell was this guy doing in Mo’s this late at night? The vibes were sketching you the fuck out. You school your face into as neutral of an expression as you can manage and turn to reach for a pack of Marlboro Black Menthol 100’s from the shelf of tobacco products behind you. The man is looking down at your crossword, still unfinished, when you turn back to him. You were half tempted to ask where he was from. You don’t.

When you ask him for ID he hands you a card from his wallet. Upon inspection, you find that it’s a British Military ID and heavily censored. It only tells you his first and last name initials. S. R. The photo is censored as well. As far as you can tell, it looks real to you. If it’s not, then he’s gone through an awful lot of effort for the worst cigarettes Mo’s has to offer. You weren’t in the business of prying. Most everyone else who lives in town you stopped carding years ago. Over time you just know through the grapevine who has what birthdays and when. Hard not too. Regardless, you nod uneasily at the man and carefully slide his ID back to his side of the counter.

You tell the man his total and he slides you a crisp twenty, avoids touching you directly. With a quick hand, you count his change back to him. It's all very normal until he neatly drops the cash into the dusty tip jar by the register. What the fuck? The cigarettes were barely five dollars, and you're pretty sure in your entire tenure at Mo's you've never been tipped anything other than the loose coins people don't want to keep. You're in the middle of trying to figure out how to thank him when he nods to you once, and turns to leave.

Stunned, you have no idea how to react. Genuinely what the fuck was any of that? You eye the tip jar suspiciously as if the man had filled it with Monopoly money instead of enough cash to buy yourself a couple of hot meals. You entertain the idea of going to the local burger place you used to love as a kid. Hot, fresh fries and a large coke would probably fix you at least a little bit, you think. When you return to the comfort of your crossword you see in very neat, small handwriting, that the last word has been penned in.

Bereft.

The rest of the night goes without much else of note happening. You sweep the floors and mop the salt and grey sludge from the entrance. The coolers are stocked and the cash drawer is counted when your replacement arrives at two in the morning. Mo liked to keep the place open 24 hours since it was close enough to a busy highway that folks came through at all hours of the day. Your coworker, Olivier, arrives a little early so you can check them out at the register. Each morning they like to buy an energy drink in a tall pink can and whatever gummies they wanted to snack on that day. You enjoyed the little moments you got to have together. Olivier was one of the few people in this town who you could relate to. Their hair seemed to change color and style by the week, and they always had the best fashion sense. It seemed they were an expert at thrifting in a way you could only dream of. Layering different fabrics and patterns, they seemed to somehow never repeat an exact outfit.

“How was everything? Good night?” they ask, already rooting through their bag of gummies for the blue ones. You shrug, making a high-pitched noise somewhere in your throat. Olivier, bless them, immediately understands. “Did that weird masked guy come in again? He pulled in with a giant moving truck the other night.”

This immediately perks you up. “No shit?” That guy was moving here? “What's wrong with him?” you half-joke as you punch out on the register. Olivier chuckles with you, and the shared judgment over a new face in town reminds you how glad you are to have them. These small moments in the quiet hours of the morning made the town feel like it wasn't so small and empty.

As you pull your heavy coat on you look out the windows into the parking lot. The lot had been heavily salted, but it was dusting snow. You could see the suspended motes in the yellow street lights outside. Part of you was a little jealous of Olivier. This time of the morning always seemed so peaceful and quiet. You knew you’d never want to work their hours though. Waking up at midnight to get ready for work? No thanks. You wish Olivier a good shift as you pull your gloves on, before pushing out into the parking lot. The air shocks a chill into your chest as you breathe it in. Your breath puffs in a heavy cloud as you exhale. Already you could feel your fingers burning as the cold licked it’s way through your heavy layers. Awkwardly, to avoid slipping, you shuffle your way across the lot to your truck. It’s a little blue beat-up thing. How you’ve managed to keep it running all these years, you have no idea. Apparently, luck and hoping for the best are good enough for the ancient beater. It takes a couple tries to get the engine to turn over, and you sigh in relief when it finally roars to life. After idling in the cabin for a few minutes, you shift into drive and begin the slow crawl home. The roads aren’t plowed, but it’s not slick enough to worry you. The sound of snow crunching beneath the tires, barely audible over the low hum of the radio, accompanies you home.

When you pull into the driveway you can feel your shift finally weighing down on you. You turn the key and slouch down in the seat, eyes shut. Your feet are cold. Your shoulders sag under your heavy coat, but you're somehow not warm enough. The cold always finds a way in. After a few moments, you manage to drag yourself out of the truck and you make the short walk to your front door. The only benefit of small-town living was the fact that you could afford the rent on this little house. Never mind the fact that you were pretty sure your landlord lived about an hour and forty-five minutes up the highway and owned most of the houses in your street.

Your nightly routine goes without much fuss. Tabitha, your cat, is pleased that you've come home on time to refill her dish with wet food. You undress, shower, and bundle back up in your warmest sleeping clothes. The house is cold, no matter how well you insulate the windows and the cracks in the baseboards. In the dark, you sit in bed with microwaved pasta in its plastic packaging with the instructions on the side. It's not good but it warms your belly and fills you up. As you eat you scroll on your phone, lazily browsing your social media and clicking through posts. Your mind wanders to the man you saw today. He was odd, and him moving here was even stranger. In all your life you can't really remember anyone moving into the town. Mostly your friends from high school have slowly trickled out, save for Olivier. You weren't sure why you'd never left for the bigger city, you'd just never felt the pull to get out and see more.

When you sleep that night it's restless as ever. You wake up often, teeth chattering. Your cat is nestled somewhere beneath the blankets with you, and you're careful not to roll onto her. You vow to do a once over, just to see if you can stuff any more of your hand-me-down towels into the draftier baseboards. It feels like it's been winter forever now, but with Christmas barely around the corner, you knew it had just begun.

—

You start seeing that guy around town. You pass by him in the grocery store. He's got a cart full of stuff, and you figure he's just stocking his kitchen. You grab your scant groceries, milk, and some canned goods that will last. While you're in the checkout line he pushes his cart behind you, leaving a respectful amount of space. You're not really the type to engage in the painfully long-winded Midwestern custom of talking about everything you possibly can, so you don't acknowledge him. You set your items down on the belt when it's your turn, and you offer a polite smile to the cashier.

“Hey, find everything okay?” he asks, nice as you please.

“I did, thanks Carter.” He was a few grades above you back in school. He also stuck around after his class had graduated. You vaguely wonder each time about his dreams of joining the military, and whatever happened to them. Maybe it was just life that happened. You know he's got a little boy to take care of with his high school sweetheart and another on the way. Maybe that was all it came down to, at the end of the day.

Carter tells you your total and you mentally curse. You'd counted your cash twice before you'd come in the store, and you were certain you'd been doing the right math as you grabbed your items. Carter gently angles the register's screen to you so you can see the line items. God damn. You'd just plain miscalculated, probably too tired to keep it all straight in your head. You look down at the things you'd grabbed, trying to calculate what you could do without. You force a laugh. Humiliation roils in a dark pit in your chest. You find yourself speaking without thinking, “Oh whoops! Sorry, go ahead and take off the soup cans.” Carter, bless his heart, doesn't make a fuss. He punches the register keys quickly and counts the cash you hand him. You very much do not want to look at the stranger behind you. You pray to whatever god might be listening that maybe he wasn't being as nosey as everyone else was in this town, and that he didn't just hear that you can't really afford an armful of groceries.

Carter hands you your single plastic bag, tells you to “Have a good one, hon,” You speed walk back to your truck, your breath puffing in clouds around you.

–

The next time you see him you're driving to work. The radio is playing softly and your truck's heaters are blowing semi-cold air onto you. You're stopped at a light when you see the guy, dressed in a light coat and the same balaclava. He's jogging, somehow managing to work a sweat on the cold. You have no idea what kind of psychopath goes on a run in the dead of winter. When the light turns green you have to drag your eyes off of him before you accelerate through the light.

It was rare that anyone in your town went on a jog. Unheard of in the winter. You were certain the old ladies would be gossiping up a storm at church. You figured it was no different than you and Olivier at Mo’s. You smile at the thought of sharing your sighting of the masked stranger with Olivier tonight. The little chats in the quiet morning hours were a light in the dark of winter.

It was easy to get lost in the cold. It seemed all your waking hours were spent in the dark, during these months. You'd wake up later in the afternoon, always too tired to rise any earlier. It wasn't great for your mental health, but neither would being homeless. You'd take your victories where you could get them. Without much family nearby to rely on, you had to get by on your own.

The joy of adulthood.

–

You see him again that same night. He comes in around midnight. He's the first customer in around an hour. There had been a small rush of truckers passing through, trying to make it off the major highways before some snowfall was forecast to hit the area. You note that he's better dressed for the weather than he was earlier while he was jogging. He's in the same black work coat and leather gloves as before. You find it hard to meet his eye when he approaches the counter.

Something about seeing him in town made the transaction feel off in a way that you've never experienced before. Getting Janet her pack of Marlboro Reds and ringing her son Nick up for his energy drinks was never sullied by the fact that you saw them at the Sonic Drive-In in their old beater from time to time. Seeing him now with the sense that he was apparently sticking around in town made you feel strange. You didn't know anything about him besides his initials and the skull print on his balaclava. Knowing he was likely some retired military operative from a foreign country was nerve-wracking and exciting and weird as hell for your little town. You had no idea how to interact with him.

When you're getting the register open to count his change, you can't help but blurt out, “Are you liking it here?” Immediately you wish you could stuff the words back in your mouth when you see his eyes flick to meet yours. How on Earth could anyone be enjoying one of the worst winters your town has seen in years?

To your surprise he humors you. “It's nice. Quiet,” he says after a beat. You blink at him, quickly looking back down to the cash you're supposed to be counting back to him.

“Good. That's good. Folks can be weird about new people, but I'm glad you're settling in.” Oh God, you're rambling. Make it stop.

To this, he hums. It's a low sound, almost silent, deep in his chest. You suppose that's the only response you're getting as he accepts the cash. You slide his pack of menthols across the counter. Your eyes widen as he doesn’t even recount the bills you’ve handed him, just folds them once and drops them into the tip jar. Sputtering already, cheeks red with embarrassment, you search for words but find none. This had to be about the grocery store. You were completely fine. Really, you were. You get paid this week and you would definitely go back to the store and probably pick up some extra groceries. None of this is coming out of your mouth though, as the man has basically vanished already. You can hear his truck starting up outside, the crunch of the snow and gravel as it pulls out of the lot.

Guilt rolls through you, thick and familiar. You had no idea what to make of this guy. First, he blows into your dead-end town and starts leaving you ridiculous tips on the cheapest cigarettes possible? What the fuck? It makes you feel ashamed and unnerved. No one had ever given you more than the change they simply didn’t want to carry around, and you’d never expected anything more than that.

When you talk it over with Olivier that night in the early hours, they eye you mischievously, clearly very interested in the man’s motives to give you excessively large tips. “C’mon, let the guy toss you a little cash here and there, it’s a free country. He can do what he wants, even if it's to give all his money away,” they tease over the lip of an energy drink. You hang your head, groaning in response.

“I dunno… I don’t know what to make of it, is all,” you admit. That little pit of nervousness in your gut had been sitting heavily all night. Olivier gives you a pitying look.

“Don’t worry too much about it, I think you should just let it ride. And tell me all of the details.” You can’t help but choke a small laugh at their insistence on being in the know. Almost nothing new ever came to town, of course it was the juiciest thing ever to Olivier. You give them a weary smile and wish them a good shift before heading out.

–

The next few weeks are more of the same. You see the man around town, like any other local. At the grocery store, he’s always got a cart full of food, and you’re sure to hurry off out of his way with your armfuls of items. Once or twice you’ve seen him meandering around the local shops, and you sort of dread the idea of running into him at the little cafe you sometimes indulge in when you’ve got a little extra cash on hand. Something in you wanted to be protective of your favorite spots in town, but you knew it was irrational. Soon enough he would be just as familiar to the folks around here as you were.

Without fail, he continued to come into Mo’s with large bills. He’d ask you for his cigarettes, tip you far too much, and leave before you could really say anything about it. He never spoke to you more than you spoke to him and he was never anything other than perfectly polite. You hadn’t begun to have a single idea as to why he insisted on tipping so much.

Eventually, you had come to terms with his insistence on leaving all of his excess cash with you. You started squirreling some of it away, using it specifically on groceries and smaller bills. It was nice to have a little extra padding in your wallet, especially during these cold months. You definitely weren’t touching the thermostat though, that’s for sure. Old habits, and all that. It was easiest to be thankful, to not look this gift horse in the mouth, and to do your best to just keep pushing through the winter.

–

A winter storm was forecast for your town. The weatherman you’d grown up watching warned this would be one of the worst in years, and to stock up on the essentials. You knew you had about a month’s worth of cat food and a few cans of something or other in the back of your cupboards and called it good before heading to work that day. Calling out wasn’t really a thing Mo liked you to do. It didn’t help that you’d woken early today, sweating through your layers of blankets and somehow still chilled to the bone.

Getting ready for your shift had taken about twice the time. You’d taken a cold shower, teeth chattering and your stomach turning the entire time. You did not look in the mirror while brushing your teeth and getting dressed. It had to be bad, the way folks looked at you when you arrived. You were bundled up in a hoodie and an oversized flannel. There was something about being ill that just made the cold weather feel so much worse. The black K-95 mask you’re wearing isn’t doing much to hide the puffiness or dark circles under your eyes. The near-constant sniffling and perspiration aren’t doing you any favors.

Between the little rushes of your shift, you unabashedly sit on the floor behind the counter, not caring if Mo saw you on the cameras and wanted to give you a pissy little talk about it later. You hadn’t had any medicine to take at home and all the store carried were caffeine pills and Tylenol for eight dollars per two-pack. You do your best to stay hydrated, refilling a small styrofoam cup from the soda machines often. The water tastes vaguely like Hi-C Punch, and you try to not think about it. When you’re able to focus on your own hands, you see them shaking as they bring the cup to your lips.

You think it’s around one in the morning when you hear the door chime. Close to the start of Oliver’s shift, the end of yours. No one has been in the store since around eight, you think. Time has stopped feeling real at this point. Breathing heavily, you muster the strength to stand. You lean heavily over the counter, trying to wet your mouth against the sudden nausea crawling up your throat. Under your layers, you’re sweating and chilled and just so uncomfortable. Whoever’s just entered the store stomps the snow off of their boots, and you can hear their steps squeak on the linoleum straight to your counter. A quick glance up and you’re making eye contact with the masked man who has become strangely familiar to you.

You can only manage a nod to acknowledge him, before turning around to grab his cigarettes. He’d been in the night before, so you weren’t expecting him tonight. Normally his packs last him a few days. Why would he come out so late, especially during this bad weather? You can’t really bring yourself to think too critically right now, instead choosing to focus on not passing out before you can clock out and go home. When you turn around, pack of menthols in hand, you find that the man is eyeing you more intently than normal. You think? The mask made it hard to tell. Your hands are shaking, you realize it just as the cigarettes slip from your fingers.

“Fuck, ‘m sorry-” You bend to pick them up and are met with a rush of blood in your ears. When you rise you lean against the counter for a moment, eyes closed. It would later come back to you as an embarrassing moment, but currently, you’re focusing very hard on staying upright.

“You're sick,” the man says, so plainly it's kind of funny. You huff a small laugh, nodding.

“Why’re you here? Storm’s gonna get bad tonight.” It’s a poor attempt at deflecting the obvious statement. Something bristled in you at him, it was enough that he’d seen you at the grocery store. Being seen by him like this now, especially after all the cash tips he’s been leaving you, makes you feel cagey and defensive.

“I could ask you the same.” He slides you a twenty as he says this. You meet his eyes, briefly. It’s easier to look at him with half of your face covered, you realize. Maybe that’s why he’s never been seen around town without his balaclava. He meets your gaze evenly, seemingly unaware of the shame that pulses under your skin. You sniffle loudly, not looking down at the bill on the counter. You’ve got about a dozen questions for him, but your jaw is clenched so tightly you’re not sure where to even begin. Just when you’ve worked up the nerve to fire a question at the man, the door chimes.

Both of you turn to see Olivier entering the shop. They wave one mittened hand at you. “Oh hey! You’re here too, Simon. Nice to see you again.” Simon? Somehow Olivier had failed to mention his name after all this time. Admittedly, you’d never even thought to ask. He’d never introduced himself formally, and you weren’t one to pry, especially into the lives of odd men who only buy their cigarettes after sundown. Simon raises a hand to greet Olivier, the most human thing you’ve seen him do so far.

“Hey Liv,” you croak, clearing your throat a little. At the sound of your wrecked voice, Olivier grimaces at you. Already, they’re reading into their tote back and donning a mask.

“Stay over there, and disinfect the counter when you leave!” They harp, only half joking. You nod wearily and quickly check Simon’s cigarettes out on the register. It feels strange to even think of him using his first name. Simon takes his leave, and as soon as you've got your coat on you’re following right behind him, waving a quick goodbye to Olivier as you go. They’re immunocompromised, and the last thing you want is to make their life harder by getting them sick.

The snow falls heavily, immediately sticking to your eyelashes and blinding you. You drag your gloved hands over your eyes, trying to clear them. Blinking rapidly, you see that the parking lot is a smooth expanse of honeyed yellow. The street lamp makes the area look warmer than it is. You can already feel the cold sinking into your fingertips. The trees on the edges of the lot are bowed heavily under the snow’s weight. When you step into the lot, the snow is powdery soft, but icey beneath. Not good. It would be a very slow drive home once you got your truck moving. The snow is only about halfway up the tires, but you’d still need to shovel it out to give it a fighting chance of leaving the lot if you could get it started in this cold.

When you get it started.

Historically, your beloved fossil of a truck has not done well in the cold. You’d been meaning to replace the battery and get the transmission checked out this Summer. You had forgotten.

The sound of snow crunching behind you tells you that Simon has not left the lot, and is apparently watching you have your silent meltdown now. Great. “You want some help getting that snow shoveled?” It’s strange hearing him outside of the contained environment that is Mo’s. The wind changes his voice. It’s odd to be shoulder to shoulder with him, and not talk about cigarettes. Dejected, you know when to choose your battles. You nod your head and lead him to the driver's side door of the truck.

“I might need a jump, it really doesn’t do well in this weather,” you admit wearily. Simon nods like he knows that already. Maybe he did, it’s not exactly the nicest-looking vehicle anyone’s ever seen. You crank the door open and hop in the seat. When turning the engine over multiple times does nothing but pitifully crank the engine, you lean your forehead against the steering wheel in defeat. Before you can say anything you can't fight the urge to suddenly cough. You turn away from Simon, who's kind of hovering near the open door of your truck, to bury your mouth in your elbow to cough. You've honestly had enough of being gross and embarrassed in front of this guy for one night. When your coughing fit is done you lean back, exhausted, against the seat. Your throat is raw, and your entire body feels weak. The thought of shoveling out your truck and waiting on the battery to charge fills you with dread. “Fuck this, man.”

Snow has started sticking to Simon's coat, dusting white onto the black fabric. He's standing a small distance away with his hands in his pockets, giving you a decent amount of space. “You want a ride home? Can come deal with it in the morning with you, if you like.” You turn your head to regard him, thankful again for your mask to hide behind. There's plenty of security footage of him coming into the store over and over again. You supposed if he wanted to kill you there would be at least a half-decent physical description. Plus Olivier probably knew more about him, given that they're a chatterbox no matter the time of day.

Your eyes flick out to the lot. The snow shows no sign of stopping. Fuck it.

“My house isn't far from here.”

#oh hey im back #sorry for the hiatus lol #ghost x reader #cod mw ghost #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #my writing #subtle sugar daddy stuff #idk i love angst so much??#i just want reader to be well taken care of <3

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