#luminousbeings crudematter

[ohbo-ohno]

i just went back and re-read the texas chainsaw ghoap x reader you wrote and i've been obsessing over THAT audition tape and...my mind has worms re the insane, unholy combination of the two:

reader, a naive camera operator in the room with a crush on...Soap who came in for an "audition" because...Ghost figured out where you work, knowing that Soap's going to lure you into their big fuck-off car outside...

help me bo, you're my only hope

LUMI HELLO I LOVE YOU!! link to that here for those interested. also i cant believe you sent this to me instead of just posting it it's fantastic

thinking about ghost and soap spotting you and immediately contriving a needlessly complicated plot just to kidnap you kinda kills me lmao. ghost is like "let's just take her off the street" but soap already has a whole fake identity developed for both of them and he doesn't want to ruin his boy's fun :/

the texas chainsaw ghoap thing i wrote is veryyy criminal minds coded lmao, they literally kidnapped a whole group of people just to see who would survive to the end so they could have a new toy. so in this situation, they're not snatching you just to keep you, they're snatching you to make you play along in a sick game to then decide if they want to keep you. insane freaks!

also thinking of soap doing an accent to fuck with you and then switching back to his natural scottish and laughing when you get all surprised... improving in his audition and throwing in ridiculously sexual lines to watch you blush and squirm (you ask him to stop making eye contact and he refuses bc wdym you expect him to deliver lines to a wall? no, it's easier looking at you <3)... he mentions his "partner" simon and you're a little crushed that he's taken and he has the time of his life flirting with you and watching you try to hold yourself back because you think he's unavailable

[devcica]

Wow. You wrote perfect ending for them 💕.

Alford Plea

EPILOGUE - Life Sentence

PAIRING:  Chef! Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader 

WARNINGS: it’s nasty, it’s in the kitchen, Simon’s a dick, Reader’s a dick and this is some next level self-insertion. 18+ only.

4 part series + 1 "epilogue", all written, updates every Sat

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Epilogue

__

Alford Plea: A guilty plea containing a protestation of innocence.

or

Where you knew that fucking your boss could not possibly end well, but you did it anyway, because what else were you going to do?  Not fuck him?

__

THEN

He wants to kiss you.

For what feels like the thousandth time that night, Simon Riley finds his attention inadvertently drawn to his chef de partie, and it’s getting ridiculous.  Embarrassing.  Reckless.

He finds that his eyes linger on the soft lines bracketing your mouth when you smile widely, genuinely, the way you lean forward to hear the bartender over the chaos of the bar, the way it makes your skirt ride up on the backs on your thighs.  How, whatever you say makes the bartender giggle and soon, you’re almost hanging across the bar,  your heads close together in an intense conversation  like you’re best friends plotting the end of the world.      

Simon’s attention is dragged away from you and back to the table, and from that point forward, the evening turns raucous.  Though most of the staff are supposed to be back at work bright and early the next morning, the mood is relaxed and the alcohol is free-flowing and discounted. 

But his eyes never drift too far from you.  Fuck, he wants to kiss you, and it’s making him think stupid thoughts.  

He watches you, trying to think of the right combination of words to say to you that will make you open to him the way you’ve opened up to the rest of them.   Simon’s sure of what he wants but he’s in dire need of the courage for it.  There’s a power differential, he’s your employer, and you’ve finally started to get along with him. 

Well.  You’re not at each other’s throats all the time now. 

He looks down at his drink at the sobering thought and hums noncommittally at the tale Soap’s regalling, but when he looks back up, you’re sitting on a bar stool by yourself, looking down at your phone. Now there’s an opportunity, he thinks to himself, as he stands up and gives the table a vague story about getting a refill.  

When he’s at the bar, he has barely a second before you use one gorgeous, bare leg to hook around a bar stool and pull it closer to you.  Your eyes are mischievous, he thinks, bright and shiny and fucking gorgeous, and maybe…maybe he’ll just stay with you for a drink.  Check on you, see how you’re settling in at work.  That’s all.  He’s your employer, you’ve both been drinking, you’re both rota’d on for work tomorrow…the whole thing would be too awkward.  A bad idea, if he’s ever had one.  

But then you throw a roguish grin at him and what he’s wanted all along—to kiss you?  With one smile, you’ve just changed it—you’ve just turned it into a language in his head. 

____

You’re funny, he realises.  In fact, there’s so many things about you that he’s never noticed while you’ve been at work, while he’s been too busy barking orders at you or throwing specs at you or breathing down your neck while you’re plating up.   You’re funny and dorky and your smile is…kind of perfect.

And tonight, you’re different with him.  You’re relaxed and the alcohol’s made you bolder and—God help him—you’re flirting with Simon.  You’re laughing and teasing and taunting him, and you’re not too far gone, but you are just tipsy enough to miss when Simon casually switches to drinking water instead.  

It feels like only moments later, so lost you are in each other, that it’s last calls at the bar—the two of you have long since given up on the rest of the staff—and you’re grabbing his hand, intertwining your fingers, and pushing him into a taxi before you stumble in yourself.

You’re laughing with him, at him, and it feels like the easiest thing in the world.  Simon is a mess of instinct and adrenaline and the rush of discovering this new side to you—they all blend together in his mind and his body, and he doesn’t ever ever want it to stop.  So he’s pleasantly surprised when you grab his face, still babbling, still so sassy and you’re about to kiss him, you practically pounce on him but—

“No making sex in my taxi!”   

The speed with which you retreat from Simon leaves him stunned for a second, breathless and when his eyes blink open, your eyes are bright, mischief making the corners of your eyes crease, and you’re using both your hands to stifle the laugh that bubbles in your throat.

Simon laughs and leans back against the seat.  “Alright mate, no making sex in your taxi,” he calls out to the driver.  He turns to you with mock seriousness, trying very hard to hide a smile of his own. “No making sex.”

“In his taxi,” you murmur, looking straight at him, and fuck.  You say it like a promise.

“In his taxi,” Simon repeats, dumbstruck.  There is no ground under his feet, and free-falling has never felt so effortless.

____

You’re still giggling uncontrollably, saying…something, struggling with your keys, still failing to open the door to your flat, and Simon finds his arms reaching towards you, almost of their own accord.  He turns you to face him, one hand cradling your face.  His other arm hesitates, then hovers, then settles over your waist, naturally moulding to your contours and lines, and you take one step closer to him.  Into him.  

Simon doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol in your system making you loose and pliant and so fucking warm, but he finds that he doesn’t care.  For what feels like the first time in hours, you’ve shut up.  You’re not giggling or recounting stories or teasing him.  No, you’re doing that thing that women do that drive men like Simon insane.  You’re alternating between looking at his eyes and his lips.  Waiting for him to make the first move.    You lick your own chapped lips, and this is it, Simon thinks.  He’s going to kiss you now, and nothing about your relationship will ever be the same.  He finds the thought scary, unsettling…but all doubt dissipates like tendrils of smoke when he finds that your eyes close and you lean forward all the same.

____

NOW

You’re wriggling against Simon, trying to get comfortable, but he only grunts, and his arm tightens in response against your chest.   The unconscious action makes you smile and blush.  Like a moron.

You’d ended up napping on the floor after the night’s…activities, and you’ve got your back to his chest while his back leans against the legs of the deep fat fryer.  Simon’s been kind enough to put his whites down under the two of you, so you have the particular privilege of leaning against his bare chest.  

And it’s…nice.  Comforting.  

The moment’s ruined with the blaring sound of your alarm going off on your phone—it startles you and you curse out loud as you try to shut it off.  He moans in his sleep and you freeze, a quiet whisper of fucking shit leaving you anyway, before he settles.  You’re just starting to relax against him when his arm squeezes around you again, and warm breath is at your neck.

“You are the noisiest woman I know,” he murmurs and kisses your neck slowly.  Gentle kisses, open-mouthed and slow, so you can relish in the feeling of his hot breath on your skin.  He takes his time and all rational thought flees your brain as you relax into it, moaning softly, making his arm tighten around you some more.  

He flips you around slowly, deliberately, giving you the opportunity to refuse him, but his mouth stays blessedly on your skin through it so the thought of protestation doesn’t even enter your mind.  When you’re finally facing him, your first thought is how the streak of early morning sunlight entering the kitchen lights up the brown of his eyes, making them look like the exact shade of honey you prefer in your tea.

“You didn’t mind that so much last night, Chef.”

“Noisy,” he whispers against the skin of your jaw.  “Infuriating and fucking pretty and talented, bratty and loud and…”  Your loud gasp at his audacity only makes him laugh and he draws you closer to kiss you.  He kisses you with all of the previous night’s passion and then some, and you’re particularly enjoying the way his hand moves down your spine, settling on your ass.

“You didn’t mind,” you remind him against his lips.  “In fact, I remember you wanting me to be louder, wanting me to say your name when you were inside me…didn’t you, Simon?”

He groans into your kiss and you gasp when he smacks your ass, then squeezes it.  “Infuriating,” he repeats without any real heat behind his words.

“Yeah.  I think you liked how loud I was…think you liked it the other night too…”

“And I’ll love it tonight.”

That stops you in your tracks.  “Tonight?  You’re awfully optimistic about getting laid again.”

“Yeah.”  It’s all he says, before he’s kissing you again.  The man is not not arrogant a day in his life, and you find that it suits you just fine. 

 “We should probably get out of here,” you whisper.  “Let’s go home, I’ll make some breakfast.  We have to be back here in…” you groan as you note the time, “..two hours.” 

Simon pauses slightly and laces your fingers between his.  “You don’t want to talk about this?”

“Do you?”

“You work for me.  And fraternising with—”

“Fraternizing?”  You can’t help but laugh at him, and you really have to bite it back when he glares at you.  “Sorry.”

Another smack to your ass for the cheek you’re giving him.  “Just for that, I’m putting you on the rota for the next two Sundays.”  He swallows.  “You’re being easier than I thought you’d be.  This is easier than I thought it’d be.”

“I work for you.  You’re my boss, I’m a woman, and if people find out, it’s not going to look good.”  You push his hair back from his face and bring your lips against his again.  “But, I still want this.  Do you?”

The sound that leaves him is pure disbelief, but he kisses you anyway.  It goes on for a while, and you’re left gasping against his mouth when he rearranges you to sit right on top of dick.  His dick which is definitely, ahem, awake, twitching against your clothed crotch.   When his mouth moves to your ear, you hold your breath in anticipation.  “I like crème fraîche in m’scrambled eggs.”

“You’re a bastard,” you gasp, quickly undoing his trousers and seating yourself on him in record time and, oh.  Oh.  He’s deliciously hard inside you.   The shocked noise that leaves his throat makes you gush between your legs and he is instantly fucking up into you, just like he’s discovered you like.  “Such a bastard, Simon,” you moan.

“You like it though,” he huffs.  “Know y’do.  The whole neighbourhood knows you like this.”  His words are casual, but he’s fucking you in earnest now, one arm holding you in place, while the other caresses the back of your hair.  “Know what this sweet cunt likes, pretty.”

“Fuck…”

“Know how you l-like to be fucked.  Gonna make y’come, just like this.”

The words make you blink your eyes open and look at him.  He’s beautiful like this, his eyes warm and affectionate despite the intimacy of what you’re doing, despite how dirty this whole thing is.  “Feels so good, sweet girl.  You want t’come on my cock, love?”

“Simon,” you gasp in response.  There’s a small, delicate spot inside you, and he hits it, nails it, over and over and over, making you feel like this is how you’ll lose your mind.   

“Such a bratty fuckin’ attitude, so confident and sexy in m’kitchen, but you like being bossed around, don’t you?  Like bein’ told what to do.”

“Simon,” you whimper, and it’s the only word you know how to say any more.  Your helplessness seems to encourage him, spur him on, and he bites your neck.  He doesn’t apply any real pressure, and his tongue instantly salves over where his teeth were to soothe your skin, but it’s enough for you.  It’s more than enough for you, and you cry out, clenching over his cock.   His rhythm falters and the sound he makes ends up sounding like he’s straddling the line heaven and hell right now. 

“Gonna make a mess of’y’love,” he moans.  “Gonna come so deep, gonna stuff you full.  And you’ll keep me inside you, won’t you?”  You’re groaning a yes, please, yes Simon please before he’s even done asking you.  It doesn’t take too long after that, and with a half-shout, Simon’s coming deep inside you.  He thrusts into you through it, pushing it all deep inside you while he shudders and shivers through the aftershocks.  

You lie back down on his chest, trying to calm your breathing but watch as he tilts his head up to the ceiling, mouthing a silent fuck.  A small, satisfied smile breaks out on your face and you close your eyes, but they fly open at his blurted words.     

“I want t’keep doing this.”

“I–yeah, me too.”

Simon’s eyes dart around the kitchen quickly, as though suddenly realising where the two of you were.  “I want to see where this can go.  But.  I dont want y’to feel like I’m takin’ advantage—”

You grab his hand and bring it down to your pussy where you’re dripping.   Almost instantly, like it’s a reflex, he starts to toy with your clit and you jerk from the stimulation. 

“Shut up,” you moan.  “Take advantage whenever you like.”

“Dirty girl,” he grits out, and uses two fingers to gather his come and shove it back into you.  Your eyes fly open at the action and you choke.  “Y’want this?”

“Mmhm, yeah I want this.”

You don’t realise it at that moment, but you’ve both started a chain of events from which there is no going back, for the both of you.  

You don’t realise it but—six months from this exact moment, when Simon proposes, in this very kitchen, by this very deep fat fryer—you’ll think back to this moment.  You’ll think about how all your life, you thought you knew what sex was, what love was, and the difference between the two. 

“Still gonna ride your ass for your limp salads and burnt roux, Chef.”

“Good,” you say, grinning.  “And I’m still gonna make a better ragu than you, Chef.”

Simon scoffs in that patented way that is so Simon, and you can’t help but grin wider.  “Gonna make you work three Sundays, love.”

“Yes, Chef,” you murmur, and kiss him again.

And there it is.  That’s what you’ve begun.  Sex and love and Simon—they’re all about to become the same to you.

____

Taglist: @mykneeshurt || @random-thot-generator|| @xintothewoodswegox

A/N: And that's it folks! Thank you SO MUCH for all the support and the enthusiasm and all the love you've given this series, my pussy is humbled by it all 💕

Alford Plea is officially "complete" (i.e., i've written everything that I originally planned) but I'll pop in with a few drabbles or outtakes, now and then. My request box is also open, so if there's something in particular you want to see...maybe we can make some 💫magic💫 happen?

[bosombuddiesandsailormouth]

Duality of COD fans:

@charliemwrites @ghouljams @luminousbeings-crudematter @ceilidho

[peachesofteal]

peach I want you to know that you wrote the words "He speaks every love language that exists between the three of you" about Johnny in Dead Disco, and I think about it so much...

I think about this a lot too. I love them so much 🖤

[ohbo-ohno]

Please please bo sort a girl out with Ghoap x Reader in an abandoned farm 🤪🤪

1k game here - no more please!

@luminousbeings-crudematter my beloved!!! idk if tumblr gives you a notif when i post an ask you sent so im tagging you just in case lol. also you said "unhinged texas chainsaw massacre" and i tried my best but i've never seen that movie :')

3.8k of ghoap x reader ft. ghost and soap hunting down their newest pet in a corn maze (cw: rough noncon sex, kinda puppy play? super light) this is mostly soap x reader, sorry!!

The collar is heavy around your neck, making every breath difficult as you pant. Your lungs seize in your chest when you stumble through the corn maze, desperate for any light at the end of the tunnel.

It doesn't come, but you push on anyways.

The corn is rough against your arms and legs, your body vulnerable to the rough stalks with so many tears in your clothes. Everything hurts - your feet from the rough ground, your throat from all the screaming, your stomach from pure fear and adrenaline. You're too blinded from terror to focus on any of that, the only thought in your head to go go go go get away.

The roar of a chainsaw is loud somewhere to your right. You nearly fall to your knees at the sound, windmilling your eyes to keep yourself steady. A loud, manic laugh echoes from the same direction, and your legs nearly give out.

Fuck, he's right there.

You can't think about how close the sound is, can't focus on how you swear you can see the corn moving, you can only run.

The stalks split in front of you, and you stumble into a clearing. You freeze, feet stopped right on the border of the new area. You bounce onto your toes, like you'd been tugged to a stop before exposing yourself.

The clearing is empty accept for an old tractor, sitting in the center of the grass. It's just a large enough circle that you'd be exposed for several seconds if you tried to reach it, totally clear if anyone was in the stalks.

But... you could hide there, couldn't you? The machine looks massive from your vantage point, there's surely a place to hide there.

It feels cruel to leave your fellow victims to the killers hunting them down, but you know that you have to try and save yourself before trying to help someone else.

You take a deep breath as you sink back to your heels, crouching a little lower in the corn to see if you can spot any movement around the perimeter.

The chainsaw revs again, and someone screams.

Your decision is made for you. The sound of death sends you forward, instinct making you move.

The dirt is rough beneath your feet, small rocks sticking into the soft parts of your sole and offsetting your run. You try your best to keep your balance, eyes trained on the tractor and the small space you know you can squeeze in.

It's silent but for the sound of your own panting, blood rushing through your ears, nothing but that perceived safety in your mind.

Just as you start to ready your legs to launch yourself up to the seat, legs tensing, you're shoved away. Your breath is forced from your lungs as you hit the ground, dirt and rocks shoved into your arms as you roll.

"Ah!" You cry out, forced to your stomach as you roll. It takes a minute to recognize what's happened, for it to click in your mind that someone's there.

It's too late by the time you realize.

You still try to get away, some animal part of you knowing that it's dangerous to stay down.

You manage to get to your knees, eyes darting wildly to spot whoever's tackled you, to know what direction to run. But the field is empty, and you're already moving before you think to look behind you.

It costs you, because you hardly get a step away before you're shoved to the ground again, your attacker staying over your body.

"Where you goin'?" The man rumbles in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and lips against your ear. He nips the shell of your ear and your eyes fly open, face shoved into the dirt.

Hardly a foot away, a chainsaw rests in the dirt. Blood drenches the blade, slowly dripping into a puddle beneath the weapon. It makes you whimper, trying to squirm away from the killer above you.

"No, no, no," he purrs, nosing his way to your cheek and just leaning there, pressing his smile into your skin, his voice rumbling through your back. "Down, pup, c'mon, you're caught. No point in runnin'."

"Please-" you gasp, neck arching to try and get away. "Please, please, please-"

He makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. "Please, please, please?" His voice pitches up in a mocking tone, a horrible imitation of yours. "You a broken record, lass? Only wanna say the same thing? Come on, tha's no fun, gimme something new."

You shout, the sound caught somewhere between a cough and a sob, hands stretching forward and clawing at the earth. "Please!"

He truly laughs now, a sharp noise in your ear. He stretches himself up above you, chest lifting and hips pushing into yours so that your legs are pinned. All you can do it try to drag yourself forward, hot tears beginning to fall as you're held down in the same place.

"Guess it does sound good from your lips," he muses. He shifts behind you, knees squeezing to either side of your hips and hands reaching so he can grab your elbows.

"Look'it you," he tsks, bending forward to lace your hands together. You cry out at the feeling of being covered, his chest above your head. "Ruinin' your pretty nails, and for what?"

Your head drops to the ground, sobs tearing your throat to shreds as spit falls from your lips. You feel bile working in your stomach, that horrible tension beneath your tongue like you're about to throw up.

"I can't-" you gasp, panic clawing at your mind. You know this man is going to kill you, that he's going to make it hurt, and every part of you rebels at just the thoughts. You can't stop fighting, can't stop trying to get away from him even with the weight holding you down.

"Can't what?" He hums, shifting to kneel above you so that he's not nearly suffocating you. "Can't go anywhere? Naw, bonnie, you're not goin' anywhere now. Caught you fair and square, didn't I?"

There's a part of you that screams to try and argue, to take a deep breath and settle to see if you can make some sort of deal, but the bigger part of you can't calm down, can't do anything but try and shove yourself out from the maniac above you.

"Plus, if I let you go runnin' off you might get caught by Simon." His arms settle on your shoulders and you can't help but yelp, ducking your head low to try and protect your neck. "Then I'd lose. You want that? Thought we were closer than that, lass."

You sob, teeth clenched tight. You don't fucking know the man, you don't know whoever Simon is, you just want to go home.

"That's what I thought," he hums. "Now," he pushes up, and your arms and torso are free as he settles back to rest his weight on your thighs. "I think you and I have some time to play, hm? Before Simon catches us both."

You don't- you don't know what he means, and it's hard to breathe past the fear. It clicks when his hands move to your hips, gripping them tightly.

"Wait," you gasp, eyes flying wide when his fingers creep beneath the hem of your jeans. "Wait, stop-"

"Oh, look at that," he laughs, hands shoving further down until his palms wrap around your thighs. "Learned some new words, baby?"

Your eyes squeeze as your feet kick against the dirt, unable to find any traction without shoes. Scrabbling so frantically only to stay right where you're pinned only serves to work you up more, to make your heart race faster.

"You're warm," he hums, kneading at your thighs and using his wrists to force the pants down, slowly revealing more and more of your skin to the cold night air. "Gonna warm me up, lass?"

"No," you hiss, the realization of what he's going to do sinking in. Your pants are pulled down to mid thigh, keeping your thighs from spreading and leaving your backside on display. "Stop- I'll- don't you dare-"

He laughs again, landing a harsh smack to your vulnerable ass. You cut your begging off with a yelp, hips rocketing into the ground to try and escape the sting when he lands another slap.

"You tryin' to boss me around? Real cute, pup, but you don't have a leg to stand on. Stuck pinned in the dirt and still tryin' to be in charge?" He laughs again, blows shifting from slaps to taps, jiggling the fat of your ass. "Cute, bonnie. Real cute."

You fold an arm beneath your face, try to use the other to force yourself up. "Stop fucking- stop hitting me, you bastard!"

"Oh!" He cackles, his lap slap almost bruising in it's force. "She's got some spine, huh? Maybe you'll be more fun than I thought."

You snarl into the dirt, legs kicking up behind you to try and hit his back. He's too high up on your thighs o reach, and you end up kicking the air like a toddler throwing a tantrum. It only fuels your anger, makes you feel more stuck.

"Keep fightin', bonnie." He presses himself closer to your face, and you catch a glimpse of sharp teeth from your peripheral, his smile sharp. "Makes it more fun for me. Think you'll tighten up if you kick kickin' and screamin'?"

You scream, a primal sound straight from the gut as you throw your head back and to the side, trying to hit him. You somehow manage it, but you hurt yourself just as much. You cry out at the sudden pain in the back of your skull, crumbling back to the ground.

There's a loud moan over your shoulder, and his hips press into yours. He's hard to your horror, his length pressing against the softness of your ass. "Fuck, that felt good."

God, the man is disturbed.

Your attempted attack doesn't stop him from hooking his fingers in your underwear, tugging them down to rest in the crease where your thighs meet your ass.

"Pretty," he purrs, hands stroking from your rips to your jeans, hands pushing hard enough to make you whine. His treatment is all too rough, like he's trying to mold you into the shape he wants. "Can't wait to get my dick in you," he groans, groping you.

"Nooo," you whine, trying to push yourself into the dirt, like it might open you up and swallow you whole, help you escape the horror you can't do anything to stop. "You can't- you can't fuck me, please, don't-"

He moans again, and you hear the clinking of a belt being undone. "Fuck, say it again for me."

Your eyes squeeze shut. You want to be anywhere else, anywhere but here.

You feel the heat of his cock against your ass, and tears sting in your eyes. You taste dirt against your lips, feel your palms sluggishly bleed from the scrapes against the rough ground. You try to focus on everything but what the killer's doing to you, but's impossible

His palm cups your center, fingers wrapping around your vulva and holding firmly. You flinch when his middle finger works between your folds, coming to rest on your clit.

"Need to get you wet," he mumbles, starting to work at the nub to coax some pleasure out of your body. "Simon wouldn't like it if I made you bleed." He snorts, then corrects, "Well, bleeding down there. Won't be shocked if he wants to carve you up a bit."

You shiver, focused too much on staying stiff and keeping your mind as far away as possible to put off the inevitable. What he says doesn't even properly click in your mind, floating in one ear and out the other.

"There we go," he purrs, palm growing slick as your body warms to him unwillingly. He grunts as he shifts to use both hands, one focusing on your clit and the other coming back to tease at your hole.

Two fingers slip in without warning and you yelp at the sudden stretch, hips bucking back instinctively and forcing the fingers further. Your moan is pulled from your chest, part pleasure and part pain.

"You want more lass? Here, don't mind stretching you out."

The third finger comes too soon, too suddenly, and the sting edges too close to pain for you to feel good, even unwillingly.

He's got no patience at all, fingers spreading inside of you while his thumb works furiously at your clit. The mix of good and bad leaves your head clouded, tears slowing as your mind starts to float away a bit.

He moans against your back, face pressed into your shoulder. "Feel so tight, bonnie. Can't wait til you're wrapped around me, wet and tight... fuck, can't wait much longer..."

His teeth press into you throw the fabric of your shirt, the bite only slightly blunted. You breath stutters out of your chest, lips shaking. You want to fight, tell yourself that you should bite and claw and scream, but he's already proven to you that he'd only enjoy that. All you can do is lie in the dirt, lamp and shaking.

Despite all your fear and your hatred for the man over you, you wish he'd stretched you out more.

"Gotta get inside of ya," he grunts, tugging his fingers out with a terribly wet sound. You can hear him sucking your wetness off of them as he shifts further up, letting his hard length rest between your thighs. "Don't... God, you taste good, don't wanna stretch you out too much. You get it, yeah bonnie?"

You whine forlornly, turning your head to the side. You can see him over your shoulder - tall and broad, brown hair in a... mohawk?, bright teeth shown off in a smile. He ducks down while he fists his cock, dipping himself into your wetness.

Wet lips press a kiss to your cheek, a trail of that wetness left against your face. When he pulls back you see the blood dripping from his nose, sniffle at the realization that he's left his own blood over your face.

"Look pretty in red," he whispers, tone oddly soft. It tugs another tear out of you, dripping down the bridge of your nose. His free hand comes up to your face, running a finger through the tear track and sucking the drop off his fingertip. "Taste good everywhere, love."

Your eyes close when he notches himself at your hole, pressing in just enough for you to feel the stretch. He's massive, and the prospect of him shoving himself fully inside of you... you shudder, trying to loosen yourself as much as you can.

He's not kind when he pushes in. You're not sure why you hoped he would be, not with the blood-soaked chainsaw still in your line of sight. But the sudden fullness, the sting, the stretch, draws a high cry from your lips.

His groan nearly drowns out your sounds, your walls spasming around him to try and adjust. You hate that it feels so good for him when you feel like you can hardly breathe around him.

"Feels so good," he moans, words hardly enunciated, thick accent only thickened by his pleasure. You can hardly understand him, far too upset to bother translating him in your head.

"Can't-" he pants, hips jerking out just a few inches only to buck back into yours, pushing as far inside as he can. "Can't come, but can get you off, yeah?"

There's a part of you that's confused by that, that wonders what the fuck he's talking about, but a much larger part of you is focused on the slow drag inside of you.

It would feel better if you were a little wetter, a little more stretched out, but you can't change those things. You relax, try to force your body to cooperate just to make things easier. You try to lean into the parts that do feel good - the way his cock drags against all the most sensitive parts of you, the slap of his balls against your clit - and sink into that pleasant feeling instead of the adrenaline still lingering in your veins.

He doesn't speak when he fucks into you, forehead pressed into your shoulder blade as he starts to drive you truly insane. It starts feeling good quickly enough for you to forget the pain, the horror, and you gladly fall into the oblivion creeping over your mind.

It's good, as horrible as it is to think. The bastard knows what he's doing.

It's some indeterminate amount of time later when you hear the stalks shifting again, eyes flying open just in time to see a man step into the clearing.

The man over you moans when the stranger gets closer, turning his head to the side. His hips buck into you even more roughly, your thighs beginning to ache from the force.

"Simon," he calls out, and it clicks in your head.

The new man is masked and wearing all black, and you recognize him as the other killer hunting you through the maze. His mask is just as terrifying from close up as it was when you first glanced over your shoulder while running, the sight of him in the distance almost floating while surrounded by shadows.

"Bein' good, Johnny?" He rumbles, boots stopping next to the chainsaw and toeing it away.

"Yes, sir," the man over you - Johnny - grunts, thrusts erratic. "Left-left the ring on, haven't come, promise."

There's a hum from above you, the man crouching down. "Good boy. Woulda had to ruin your fun if you got yourself off."

He whines at that, and you can't help but furrow your eyebrows. The man above you going from cocky and terrifying asshole to whining and moaning above you doesn't fit with the image you'd had in your head.

"I ken. 'S why I didn't take it off, ye bawbag." Johnny's voice shakes a bit as he switches to grinding against you, hips pressed flush with yours. The sudden pressure against your clit and so deep inside of you leaves you moaning, eyes rolling back. The peak of an orgasm is right there, just out of reach, and you reach for it desperately.

"Watch it," Simon scolds, shifting forward to his knees and reaching far enough to slap Johnny, the sound echoing through the silent clearing. Your eyes fly open, instinctually flinching away.

Simon's head tilts down to you, ignoring Johnny's whine. His gloved hand comes down to rest on your face, gripping your chin and lifting enough to get a good look at your face.

"Pretty thing," he says, giving your face a little shake before letting you drop to the ground. You can't even begin to care so close to the edge, focus solely on getting off

"'S what I said."

"Hmm. Why don't you go ahead and get the poor pup off? Looks like she's cockdrunk enough as is, might as well get her the whole way there before we take her home."

"With pleasure, sir."

It's hard to focus after that point. Johnny's hand tunnels beneath your stomach and to your clit, working his hips in full thrusts and rubbing you so perfectly. It takes hardly any time at all to get you off, the perfect mix of sensations sending you flying over that edge.

You're not sure what happens between the time when you come and when Johnny pulls out. Your vision nearly whites out, moving away from the scrapes and bruises and into the pleasure gripping every muscle. It's so much easier to lean into the good than the bad, to pretend the warmth is just the pleasure instead of the man at your back.

You're brought back into the real world by the feeling of something being wrapped around your neck, left just tight enough for you to jerk, panicked you couldn't breathe.

"Hush, pup," Simon shushes when you jerk up, eyes flying wide. "Just givin' you your collar. Makin' sure anyone who spots you can take you right home, hm?"

Johnny tugs you up as Simon speaks, grip just a tad too rough on your shoulders when he pulls you up to your knees. You're still a bit out of it as he tucks your jeans and underwear up, dick hard and slick against the small of your back.

The fear comes back as you're brought to your feet by Simon, hands on your elbows tugging you up. You're unsteady on your feet, knees almost knocking together while you blearily blink up at the masked man.

The sound of metal clinking together, a small yank against your neck, is what brings you fully back into your skin. Simon clips a leash to your collar and then Johnny's, matching pink and blue leads that make your eyebrows furrow.

Johnny - shirtless, drenched in blood - smiles at you, teeth stained with his own blood.

"Come on," Simon rumbles, a sudden tug against your throat nearly sending you to your feet. "Need to get you home, pup."

Johnny catches you before you can fall, laughing as he helps you up. The sight of a black studded collar at his throat jars you, fingers lifting to feel at the fabric around your throat. It's not studded, just a soft leather with a thick ring at the front where the leash connects.

"Looks good on you," Johnny compliments, guiding you to stumble along behind Simon as the man leads you both away, into one of the entrances to the maze.

"What..." your throat is rough and you cough, heartbeat picking up. "What're you doing?"

Johnny's smile is a little condescending, almost herding you forward by staying half behind you. "Takin' you home, lass. You're the last one alive. You make a pretty final girl, bonnie."

There's a sharp yank at your collar, tugging your attention to Simon where he's glancing over his shoulder at you. "Think you'll make a good pup. Johnny's been needing a new little friend, might as well be you, hm?"

There's.... nothing really to say to that. You're too weak, too shaky to try and make a run for it. The blue leash is held loose in Simon's hand, but the pink is wrapped tight around his fist. There's no way you're strong enough to jerk it out of his hand, and even if you could you've got no way out of the maze - they already found you first.

Johnny's hand nudges you forward, almost making you fall. He moves to walk beside you, shoulders almost rubbing together. You think the expression he shoots you is supposed to be comforting, but it's anything but.

You breathe deeply, head beginning to throb again, and hope you have the strength to survive what they'll do to you.

[ceilidho]

Do you have any recommendations for cod dark fic writers?

hmm i wouldn't say these are all "dark fic" writers, but these are my personal favourite writers in no particular order:

@peachesofteal, @ohbo-ohno, @charliemwrites, @luminousbeings-crudematter, @kneelingshadowsalome, @moondirti, @moongreenlight, @vanderilnde, @pfhwrittes, @391780, @eilidh-eternal, @alwaysshallow, @yeyinde, @soapskneebrace, @ghouljams, @kaadaaan, @auspicioustidings, @imagine-shenanigans, @diejager, @sentientcave, @mortuarywriting, @luvit, @shotmrmiller

im probably missing some people, and some people that i follow haven't written in months so i won't tag them, but i also recommend checking out my ao3 bookmarks!! i'll be honest though, i haven't been able to find new writers in a hot minute because i've been so busy with work/personal life/writing/etc, so im sure there are lots of new writers that i simply just haven't come across yet :((

[jolalibrary]

this brought tears to my eyes, @luminousbeings-crudematter !! i love rain appreciation!! thank you so much for being so lovely!

need to see you

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader summary: Things aren't as easy when you both get back to base. Especially trying to keep a professional distance, worsened when you get hurt. an: can be read as a standalone, but does follow had to see you really freaking well :) word count: 4.7k

simon ghost riley masterlist

Keep your distance. 

That’s what you keep telling yourself. Reminding yourself. More so because your eyes keep landing on him—Ghost.

But then, how could you not? How could you even be expected not to?

This secret. The one forged through sweat, sex and showers has to be guarded and protected—even in the moments when every fibre of your being desperately screams out for him. Each time he raises his hand to adjust his gloves, you’re sure you clench your thighs—the same way you do each time he gives you a look. A certain kind of look. One so reminiscent of a time when you’d said you couldn’t come again, and he told you that you could.

Good girl.

Keeping your distance was best.

Even if you want nothing more than to reenact the time when his fist was in your hair. Even if you craved getting new friction burns on your elbows and knees, with him making you come so hard you forget you’re even a soldier.

There’s also the times when your frustration has risen to new heights and you feel less than whole. When you need comfort and kindness and a moment away from orders, killing and fucking sand. 

You decide you should really keep your distance then.

Not because you don’t want him and not because you don’t care for him. But, because he’s your lieutenant. He has a job, a role—as do you.

It’s why you treasure the moments when he’s the one who surrenders. When he finds you. 

You have no idea what you fuckin’ do to me, Rain. 

You try not to think about it—the effect you have on him. But you see it in the moments when he pulls you into dark corners where the two of you steal milliseconds. His hands grasping, you able to steal a rushed kiss and he leaves bruising touches—as if needing to remind himself your real and very much alive.

“Be safe.”  “Always am.”  “No. You’re fuckin’ not." “I try, I promise.”

His words pressed into your shoulders, collarbone and sternum. Your smirk stolen when his hand slid between the two of you when, teasingly spreading you with two fingers as his body pins yours in place.

If your mind ever tried to scrub him from it—you know your body would never forget him.

It hums and fucking sings for him. It aches for his touch. Thankful he never makes you miss him too much, not letting your body forget how delicious it is when he fills you, stretching you when his hips meet yours.

“Lemme hear you. I need to hear you.”

And you hum, chant and fucking sing his name.

“That’s my girl. Fuck—that’s my girl.”

Ensuring his eyes stare into you as he brings you close, your orgasm pending, so close to pushing you over the edge—teasing you, breath dancing over your lips. 

Ghost enjoys making you wait. Torturing you. Ridiculously enjoying the fact that you want his mouth on yours, but won’t surrender, instead choosing to directly sear himself into your soul, as you whimper his name, until it paints itself on the walls of whatever room you two find yourself in.

Between these times—when he orders you to his room or turns up at your door—you could convince yourself it’s a dream. If not for the fact you have one of his t-shirts amongst your stuff, you could have been persuaded you’d made it all up.

But, it’s real. It’s real because of the soft moments between all the others. The innocent things, the soft looks, the nods.

He tries to be near you, making it impossibly difficult to touch him. His body shielding you from the others, unknowingly being protective—more so than he ever was.

If anything, he's closer, but more verbally distant. Only making jokes and normal retorts when you've worn him down, convincing him it's okay.

It's as though he's worried if he doesn't, everyone will know he spent his time off fucking you senseless. That he sought you out when danger knocked.

That he feels something for you. 

“You know, I held your hand after drinks in the mess—and Soap didn’t realise. I think we’re good.” “That’s because you tricked him into doing two shots to your every one. “Exactly. Not the smartest cookies we work with.”

Some days you take the distance better than others. You’ll stand, stiff spine and chin raised, fighting it reaching out. Knowing he needs it.

But, on harder days—like today—your fingers clench and pinch your skin through your trousers so you don’t speak, to afraid you’ll cry. Whispering his name under your breath when he’s pulling you to evac.

His hand lowering from his chest, as if he’s been grasping it, eyes on you as your form begins to crack.

“Can we just… stop for a second… it hurts….“

But, he won't. Even if you're pleading, just needing him. Not even to stroke your cheek or call you sweetheart, to just tell you it'll be okay.

Not speaking, not stopping, until he can lean you against the truck, Soap quickly wrapping an arm around you—stopping you from falling.

“You’re good, Rain. Alright?”

You’re not.

He knows it too.

Having frozen when he saw your arm in natural light, having ripped your t-shirt with his knife to see what he's dealing with. And since then, he's kept his distance like a complete fucking bastard.

“Johnny, put her arm back in.”

Soap’s head almost cracking with how quick he spins towards him, his arm already holding you up. “Lt, maybe we should wait—“

“Put her arm back in. Now.”

You blame your tears on your arm, not on his coldness. It’s not that you expected him to put it back in himself, but… something, anything.

“Please, Soap… please. Can we wait? It really feels like we should,” you whimper, leaning against the truck.

Pleading and pleading, hearing him whisper, “Sorry, Lass.”

Even if you want to wait, wanting to—

Your scream rips through you.

It burns. It pierces. Your eyes clenching shut, wanting him—needing him. Even something, a look, a touch.

But, when your eyes open, he’s not there. Not even close.

You should get checked out when you return.

Darting out of the truck before any of them can say anything to you.

Instead, you forego food and painting a smile on your face, needing to be alone. Needing to lick your figurative and physical wounds without forcing a front. 

Embarrassment having woven in amongst the anger; the cracks deep within you widening, all of your own demons flowing out.

So you find solace in the shower block. Letting the sound of the running shower drown your hiss and groans as you strip with difficulty, your hand gripping the counter as you pull your top over your head, staring at the various colours of the developing bruises and the swollen nature of your shoulder. 

It’s everything when you step into the burning hot water.

It’s scolding and numbing all at once, a welcomed feeling compared to the dull, constant, throbbing ache due to the dislocation. 

Each action you try to do worsens it, biting your lip until it bleeds as you try to wash your hair—wash the pain, sand and dirt from your skin. You try to wash his ignorance from you too, craving him, needing him.

Realising how wrong that was.

You knew who he was. Knew all he could give you.

It didn’t stop it all from hurting. All of it. Loving him. The missions. Missing him. The last few weeks of chasing phantoms. 

Fuck.

You love him.

It bubbles inside of you, strangling you. Reaching up from deep inside of you, knotting everything as you try to keep a handle on it all.

But it’s too much. And so you sob. 

Silently at first. Body shaking, hand clutching your mouth. And then it ripples through you.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

It makes your chest rise and fall quicker, and quicker. It vibrates through you, your grip on the body wash bottle slipping as it clatters and your spine crashes into the wall. 

As each tear spills, the shower does its best to hide them. Tries to bury them. Keep your secrets as if they’re its own. 

It’s not until the last sud slides down the drain do you begin to replay it.

Your positioned compromised, your feet rushing to the stairs, being thrown off your feet, hand clutching your gun as the dust blocks your vision. You can hear him scream into your radio; it almost sounding like care and panic.

Almost. I have no where to go. Find a way. Copy. Rain? You can do this.

Your body fighting it’s way through. Reading between the lines, Find a way back to me.

So you have to. You have to do something. Get out. To him. Whatever your motivation, you fought. Knife in hand. Gun poised. Clearing each level, glad for the explosion and the dust, working in your favour as you moved silently.

Each turn, you hoped you’d see one of you—needing it.

Almost there. So close. So fucking close until you see them. The one you’re after. His picture burnt into your mind from the amount of briefings you’ve had about it.

So you don’t think. Not as you slam your body into him, knife clattering away from you and him. Your gun swinging back around. Their body made of stone as you both land, their reaction quicker, flipping you, hands around your throat. Your nails scratching, pushing your leg up, something they preempt, before tightening and tightening as your shoulder screams, and your throat hisses for air—

Then, all of a sudden, he’s ripped from on top of you. Blinking, trying to breathe as you clutch your throat. Hearing someone shouting to someone—British, gruff.

Your eyes opening, finding him—Ghost. Simon. His eyes full of fury, wildfire and brimstone—scanning over you, checking you.

You’re not sure what you expect, but him being calm isn’t it.

“You hurt?” “Shoulder. Dislocated, I think.” His hand outstretched, pulling you up by your good one as you wheeze. “I found a way, like you said.” “Fuckin’ Jesus, Rain.”

You’d known it would be hard. The two of you.

But that tone. The way he hissed it at you, it made something knot inside of you.

Knowing deep down the only reason his indifference hurts is because you wanted to bury your head into his chest. You wanted a stolen moment. But you couldn’t, not without letting them all know. The secret festering inside of you, making things horrid and bitter—half-wondering if you can handle much more of this.

Missing him, while knowing why it has to be this way.

It’s why you stay in the shower. No one expects anything from you in here. You can enjoy the sound of nothingness. The emptiness. Fall apart in the complete fucking silence—no one doing anything about it.

Away from him, your brain can’t conjuring what ifs and what could have been. A moments peace from pain as the water scolds to the point it numbs, the silence soothing the rest of the anxious adrenaline.

And then, it’s ruined.

Jumping, heart lurching out your throat when the shower-block door flies open, the sound of two boots shattering it all before the discernable sound of a lock is turned.

You know that gait. Know those boots. 

The gruff voice calling out, “Rain,” confirming it. “Rain?”

Still, the way he says your call name almost makes you smile. It’s laced in worry, in care, hearing his boots stop outside where you are.

Seeing the shadow of him through the curtain. That burly, thick, tall god of a man. The one whose hand dwarfs yours and whose body can shield you from the sun. 

You should speak, almost willing yourself to as you swallow. Running the back of your hand against your face, before turning the water off—removing the background noise and replying without any words that your conscious.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbles, dark and gruff—if only to himself. 

You hear a shuffle before a gloved hand darts through the cream curtain with a towel balled in his grip, “Here.” 

You consider being difficult. 

Forcing him to say whatever he has to communicate through the curtain and not do it with your eyes on him. Because he likes that. He said as much in one of the many times he tried to snap you in half. 

Your eyes are fuckin’ everything, sweetheart. 

You take it from him all the same. Ensuring you don’t touch him as you do. Wrapping it around yourself, not bothering to run it over your hair, not bothering to really dry yourself. Protect, shield, hide. That’s your focus, your only focus—as you open the curtain, the sound of plastic and metal grating as you unveil yourself. 

You’re not sure what you expect, but his mask half-lifted, exposing his lips and lower cheeks, and leaning against the tiles wasn’t it. You expected stiff shoulders, a menacing glare, and a rigid body. 

“I’m not fucking you if that’s why you’ve locked the door,” you say quickly, ensuring your gaze is as sharp as his. 

“I’ve not—bloody hell, Rain. S’not why I’m here.” 

Stepping out, your wet toes against dry tiles make goosebumps dance up your legs. Your eyes focusing on the mirrors above the sink, feeling water dripping down your skin. It falls from your hair to your shoulders, raising your good arm to use your palm to wipe condensation from the mirror—not wanting to look at him directly. 

He’s not moved any of your clothes. Not even the ones you‘ve taken off, the ones covered in blood or the ones you need to put on. Except for your tags. 

Your eyes linger on the one with the clear thumb mark having been brushed over it. Too smooth to not be a gloved thumb, the condensation having been removed, leaving it almost dry and exposing your name to the world. 

Eyes connecting with his, watching him dip his as he sighs.

You’re betting he’d hoped you wouldn’t notice.

Forgetting who you are. How you always notice the smaller things—it’s why you’re good, why you’re needed. It’s also why you’re better on roofs than hand-to-hand—it’s why your shoulder dislocated when you rugby tackled the enemy to the ground. That and the man you took down being double your size. You barely make Ghost move during sparring.

“Rain, c’mon.”

The lump in your throat forms as he says your name again. Finding it quickly fills too much space—cutting off any reply, and almost hindering your breathing.

But, he’s shifted, leaning sideways now to watch you, your eyes lifting from the sink to the mirror and back again. 

I had to see you.

Sighing, you stare at him, softer, more forgiving than you’d have mustered earlier. 

“You’re a piece of shit.” He rolls his lips, looking at you, as if imploring you to continue. “I needed you—“

“—I know—“

“—and you… you passed me to Soap? Like you’re not… like we’re not. Why? I don’t even ask you for anything—but, I needed you, Simon. I tried to spear a man twice my size into the ground and you couldn’t even look at me!”

He stands, and you shake your head, hiding your eyes as you look down at your clothes, hands gripping the counter.

“Deserve better than me, sweetheart.”  “Better than what? You’ve not even asked me what I want.”  “What d’you want?”  “You.” “Dirty girl.” “Ha. Ha. I want all of you. Not just your cock. I want, when you’re ready, all of you. Nothing more. Nothing less. I don’t need a label. I don’t want special treatment. But, if you want me, and only me, then I’m yours. No games. No hiding and running away. It’s us. Until one of us decides it isn’t.” “Yeah?”  “Yes, Simon. Warts and all. Skeletons and masks.”

You understand, on some level. Aware it’s even a little selfish of you to call him out on something you know the reasoning behind.

Because if they find out, it changes things.

Your guard will go down. The two of you fumbling, risking it getting out of the base and onto enemies radars.

And he’s lost so much. Too much, truthfully.

It’s why you both made the stupid promises amongst bedsheets and sweat-slicked bodies that nothing would change when you were here—at work. 

And, he must be replaying the same conversation. His eyes glazed, ever so slightly before they land on you. They’re warmer and kinder.

As kind as Ghost’s eyes can ever be when behind his mask and surrounded by face paint. 

“I couldn’t, that’s why.”

“Because you’re afraid showing me a slither of kindness will tell them all you’re sleeping with me?” you snap.

His hand running over his jaw. “No—and we’re more than that. And y’know that.”

His voice tainted with hurt as you arch your brow.

And he sighs, rolling his jaw. “I couldn’t because I wanted to burn everyone in our path each time I looked at you. And then I couldn’t put your arm back in because I knew it would hurt, and I can’t fuckin’ hurt you, Rain.”

Your head turns, meeting him face on. Surprise falling across your features.

“I can put my finger in your wound, I can hold your head while you’re fuckin’ bleeding. But, sweetheart, your scream… fuck, I wanted to punch Johnny. I wanted to find Price and that fuckin’ man, and rip his head off. Fuck keepin’ him alive. And fuck, the fucking mission.”

It thunders, your pulse. Heart hammering so loud, you’re sure he must hear it.

“You have no idea what I wanted to do when I found you, when I saw where his hands had been,” he adds, his fist clenching at his side, eyes dropping to your neck.

Your ears buzzing from your quickened heart rate. It hammering, thick, heavy and pounding into your ribs and making the anger melt.

Turning back to the mirror, you let your shoulders relax, ever so slightly. Sliding a hand up, moving your hair as best as you can—trying to disguise your hiss and groan as you reach down to pick up your dog tags. 

And he hears it. Ghost hears your pained hiss.

He must have. His feet move, chest coming into contact with your towel-covered back in an instant. The mere knowledge he’s there makes you want to turn on the spot, and curl into him. Even if he stays rigid and doesn’t move.

Because it hurts. It hurts more than you thought it would. Knowing it’s all likely because you’re tired and drained of everything, of keeping a smile on your face, of fighting him and his apparent displeasure at you.

It’s only a dislocation. 

It’s not a bullet. It’s not a knife. You’ve literally survived worse. 

Still, you blink, tears begging to fall—fighting them with all you have. Only then feeling his fingers tap on your elbow, looking through the mirror to you for permission: can I touch you, can I help you?

You nod, tears falling as you whimper a “Please”. It coming out all strangled and strained, barely close to your normal voice. 

He’s gentle, oh so gentle.

Taking the chain from your hand, lifting it, letting the scent you’ve come to know as simply him mixing with the air. Smoke, sweat and wood. The metal chain teasing your skin and neck, gloved fingers tracing your skin.

Your throat thick, your body tense, having needed him close for the last hour—and yet you still hiss when the tags hit your breastbone, the click of it so loud in the built-up silence.

The same silence you expect to be interrupted again when he moves. Keeping your eyes closed, not wanting to watch him do so.

But, Ghost doesn’t move. 

One eye opening, finding him watching you.

Instead, his fingers slide from around the chain down the back of your neck. The fabric rough against your soft skin, watching them descend down, moving to your collarbones—to places he’s nipped and kissed. Your body almost flushes with warmth. Sheer will and determination are the only reason you haven’t let it. 

Something which is harder as his hands slide down the side of the towel, firm grip feeling the way you curve until they land at your waist. 

He’s stiff. Tense. It takes you a second, but you’re sure he’s hugging you. His version of it, anyway. 

Tight and rigid, until his shoulders defriend his ears, and his muscles realise you’re not going to pull away. Not realising you never would. That you’ve wanted this, needed it—and been too afraid to ask.

It’s all you’d wanted since he pulled you up off the ground, your other arm hanging limply. You’d just wanted to be pressed against him, whether it be like this where he kept your spine to his chest or where your chest was to his. 

And from the way he’s holding you, you’re not sure this is just for you. That maybe, like you, you’re sure he wants to be around you. Unprepared—same as you—to delve deeply into the churning emotions which have begun peppering his heart. All of it a confusing array of emotions too complex to be unpacked here, tomorrow or next week. 

Your lips almost whisper thank you, but he silences it with the way he looks at you.

Don’t fucking thank me, Rain. I know I shoulda done this earlier.

His chin comes to rest on the top of your head, affirming the thought you’re sure you can hear, his eyes pinning it in place in your mind. Not wanting you to forget there’s a part of him—the one which had been in your home, in your bed—that is softer and kinder than the man he has been earlier. 

Even if the steam is misting over the parts your fingers brushed away, his eyes prevail. Persevering through condensation and steam.

The look slowly pecking its way through you, the walls you’ve thrown up, the shield you’ve put in place whenever he has to do his job when he has to show no mercy and treat you like the subordinate you are.

“We good?” you ask, needing to.

The thought pecking and pecking.

He shifts his chin, allowing a twitch of his lips to show. “We’re good.”

You blink in relief, leaning back into him—letting him wrap his arms around you a little easier as you relax.

“Simon…”

You rarely say his name, and it forces his eyes up from wherever they’d fallen. Usually only letting yourself taste each letter of it when he tells you to when he’s buried so deep inside of you, and you’re not thinking. 

“It hurts… a lot.” 

He sighs, cool, against your wet hair as he wraps his arms around your front, holding you tighter on the one side of your body that isn’t screaming in agony. 

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

The parts of his face you can see, seem to be turning over something, eyes glancing over your shoulder, one hand lifting, almost ghosting over the developing bruises and inflamed skin. 

His lips part, as if to speak something else

And, then he turns you. Your feet move with ease until you’re face to face with him—lower back pressing against the sink counter. 

A tear falling down your cheek, one quickly followed by another.  

If you hadn't just spoken, you’re sure you could have easily excused it as water from your hair. But, from this position, it doesn’t blend. It stands out, sparkling and shining to the two of you—as he raises a hand to wipe it away with his thumb.

“I like you alive, too.” 

Your eyes meet his, taking a moment until you realise the call back to your words from your bed that first night: I care about you and… I like you alive, Simon.

He dips his head, making it easier to stare into his eyes as he nods. I mean it. I mean them. Believe me. 

Both of your shoulders sink, as if the rest of the unspoken words are heavy on both of you, adding a breath each to the air as he lifts his mask up to his forehead before you raise a hand to touch his lower cheek.

You brace for the flinch—before your hand touches him. The one he always does as soon as you brush his skin with any kindness. The demons inside of him making him think he’s not worth it, all the scars which your eyes cannot see, having made him that way. 

It’s why when your fingers make contact, you don’t change your expression at his wince, holding his stare, so he knows: It's okay, I’ve got you. 

“We good?” you whisper, too afraid to say it any louder.

Watching his eyes fix on you, feeling him curl his head slightly into your palm. “We’re good.”

His own hand beginning to draw the same shapes, as you are on his cheek, on your hip—his forehead slowly pressing against yours.   

And it’s intimate.

More intimate than the two of you have been in some time. A moment growing, blossoming. It stuffing out the silence and making something else in its place.

“Rain...”

“Ghost.” 

“…Sweetheart.”

You smile, not quick enough to retort a baby, darling or a dearest back, because he says your name.

The same one he stroked earlier. Your real one.

“Wh-what’s wrong?”

And it hits you. Silences you. Able to hear the thought. His thought. 

It screams and shouts. Having been stuffed down inside of him for weeks. It almost thrums in the air, having begun as a soft strum of a guitar or the soft lulls of a piano and is now reaching its climax—the part of the song where the key changes, the bridge, and everything shifts on its axis. 

He tears his eyes from you. 

The confirmation damning. 

“Oh, Simon…”

You watch his Adam's apple bob, his jaw tightening even as you try to stroke the tension away—pulling his focus back to you. 

Not saying it with words either, but responding with a similar look.

I do too. 

And you hope he can hear you too.

Hoping he’s in tune with your internal thoughts, as you are with his. That you’re both speaking the same language, even if you’re saying nothing out loud.  

The silence different than before. It’s comforting. Allowing the two of you to have as many milliseconds, seconds and minutes.

“C’mon, you need food.” 

Your eyes dip, rolling your lips together as he drops his hand from your hip, your hand falling from his. Looking up, watching his mask shift back into place 

“Ghost…” 

“Yea?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, sighing. “Could you… I know that it’s not usually what we do, but… could you help me… get dressed?” 

He nods. Brief. Direct. It almost making you laugh.

Unsure how the two of you are more embarrassed about that, than almost saying out loud that you love one another. 

“Lemme know if I hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Eyes locking with yours, he blinks—once, twice—before his hand reaches past you, and you wonder if he’s smiling.

Wanting to find out, his face so close, but he moves as if reading you, returning to his position clutching your underwear.

You can’t help but watch as he slowly lowers down onto his knee, your hand leveraging your weight on the counter as you raise one leg.

He’s delicate, more than anyone would believe if you ever told this story. Not even looking up when you pull the towel up, even if you’re exposing your bottom half to him.

Ghost being so methodical, tapping your other foot as you slide it through the leg hole. You feel the knot in your stomach tighten as his hands pull the fabric up, moving it past your knees, your thighs and onto your hips. 

His eyes linger on your skin, before flicking to your eyes and then presses a single, masked kiss to the space just above where the bone of your hip is.

The action alone screams the same words he didn’t say earlier. Those three words. 

Ones you don’t require him to say, not needing to hear them. 

You know. 

Have known since he stood opposite you between your opened bedroom doorway. It rolled from him then, just as it is now. Thick, large waves, and you don’t mind if it pulls you under, wishing it would fill your lungs, drown you. 

Because you’re hoping to drown him too. Not even realising you’ve already pulled him under. Having done so months ago, before he’d even shown up at your door.

[peachesofteal]

@luminousbeings-crudematter has me sick over the idea of Simon being your insufferable ex.

18+ MDNI / explicit sexual content (I wrote this on my phone so mind the mistakes)

It’s not that you didn’t love Simon. You did. You still do. But love had turned into something else, within months, had turned into heartbreak, and anxiety, and pain. The waiting, the worrying. Standing in the doorway at two AM, wondering if he’s going to let you touch him this time or if he’s going to shut you out for days, disappearing into a shell of himself. Becoming the Ghost that haunts your house, instead of your boyfriend.

It was too much. And not enough. All at the same time.

He said he understood. It felt so mutual, when he held you the night of the break up. He rubbed your back and kissed your tear stained cheeks, telling you not to blame yourself, telling you that he was okay, that you’d be okay, that everything would be just fine.

So, you started to try moving on, pieced yourself together and started get back out in the world, tried feel the sun on your face. You went to dinner and brunches with your friends, picked up a new hobby, went back to yoga. You were healing, even starting to think about dating again, bandaging the gaping hole in your heart with tape and glue, anything to cover up the ache that still lingered there.

There was just one little problem.

“Si, we can’t-“

“Hush.” He sticks a thumb in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, manhandling your jaw wide as his other hand unzips his jeans, reaching to free his cock, heavy and hot in his grip, nearly too thick to be believed, fat tip already leaking. Your knees slide against the cold ground of the grimy pub bathroom, thighs pressing together without conscious effort. “I like this dress, love.” He hums as he thrusts the length of his cock down into your mouth, hot skin sliding against your tongue, pushing all the way down your throat until you can’t breathe. “Fuck, that’s it.” You peer up at him through your tears, watching the way his head tips back, adams apple bobbing with a swallow. He’s wearing the mask, the black cotton one, and you can see why your date was so freaked out. From this angle, he looks terrifying. Giant, broad muscled shoulders and arms forced into a black sweatshirt, most of his face hidden by the mask and hood.

No wonder your date didn’t say a word when he suddenly appeared at your table, gripping you by your elbow, excusing you from your meal.

“Simon, what are you doing he-“

“Sorry mate, can I borrow her for a moment?”

“That’s my girl.” He grunts, fingers tugging at the straps of your dress, jerking you closer. He doesn’t force himself too far, but you take as much as you can willingly, letting him smash your nose into the hair at the base of his cock, tears smarting with every half breath. “You were made for this cock, sweetheart.” He fucks your face, coaching you through it the entire time, telling you how good you are, how sweet and perfect, and how you’ll never be able to replace him.

He puts you back together so tenderly afterwards, wiping your face, kissing you softly as he fixes your hair.

“You can’t go back to that table now. Want me to take you for dinner?” He asks innocently, like he didn’t just give you a belly full of come. You glower at him, but he just smiles under the mask, eyes scrunching just so, handsome in a way that completely devastates you every time.

“This is the last time.” You grumble, fixing your dress as you stalk out the bathroom, down the dark back hall to the emergency exit. He’s hot on your heels, fingers casually brushing the swell of your ass, the echo of his half mocking, half sincere chuckle ringing in your ears. “Simon, I’m serious, I-“ He cuts you off, dragging the mask down to press his lips to yours, tasting what’s left of him in your mouth before pulling away.

“What makes you think I’m not serious?”

I know for a fact he threatens to give you a baby every time he fucks you. Presses you into missionary and makes you look at him as he whispers about how he knows exactly how to fix this.

[ghostslillady]

She's gonna have the night of her life.

Also, where did she find a husband who's willing to do this!!!!

@homicidal-slvt @deadbranch @juvenillia @ghosts-cyphera @mysticalgalaxysalad @kneelingshadowsalome @actuallyhiswife @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @writeforfandoms @ghostaholics @mykneeshurt @anitalenia @konigsblog @random0lover @sweet-as-an-angel @luminousbeings-crudematter @blingblong55 @loneghostwolf @tacticalanklebiter3000

[charliemwrites]

currently craving some good writing and since i finished reading *all* your stories, feel free to use this to tag your favorite cod writers :)

All???? Oh my god that’s so sweet, thank you!!!

Let’s see, I’ve got a laundry list of talented, skilled, sweet, incredible writers that I enjoy reading.

@ceilidho

@ohbo-ohno

@groguspicklejar

@bi-writes

@syoddeye

@xoxunhinged

@dragonnarrative-writes

@konigsblog

@luminousbeings-crudematter

There’s a dozen more that I just know I’m forgetting to add, but I’m traveling rn so my brain is a little scattered.

[random-thot-generator]

Rhea, babe... Wow... Thank you for this, sweets. I don’t know what else to say that won’t sound simpy or corny AF. ��💕I... I need to hug ya...

hug

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 7

(Frenemies/Tenderness AU)

SEVEN: Can't Let Go

SIMON GHOST RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: A week has passed since the argument in the alley, and Reader's hurt has been replaced with a seething anger that leads her to make a spur-of-the-moment decision out of spite. However, her poor choices lead to a potentially dangerous situation.

(PLEASE MIND THE TAGS. This chapter could be triggering for some readers.)

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Bad Coping Mechanisms, Allusions to sex, Threat of dub/non-con sexual situation, Brief Violence - Reader's a scrapper, Threat of violence though not acted upon... yet, No use of Y/N

(Notes: Ngl, this was a bitch to write. I had no less than three other alternative versions of this chapter, before choosing this one, but thankfully had some help along the way. Massive props to @glitterypirateduck for the much-needed advice and input. I ended up leaving the badger out, babe, but I hope you like the chapter, regardless. 😉👍)

[Image via TENOR]

Word Count: 5020

Chapter 7

-

...I ain't tryna find fate, it's too late to save face I can't get away, maybe there's no mistakes

You break me, then I break my rules Last time was the last time too It's fucked up, I know, but I'm still

Outside of the party, smokin' in the car with you Seven Nation Army, fightin' at the bar with you Tell you that I'm sorry, tell me what I gotta do 'Cause I can't let go...

—Post Malone, 'Chemical'

-

The walk to work is nice.

Blue skies and tattered clouds arch overhead, the remnants of puddles from an early morning shower reflecting the first sun you've seen in days. The world smells fresh and green and new, the signs of spring brightening your mood. It makes you feel light, the first time in a week you've felt like lifting your head to look around.

The first time since your fight with Riley.

You push the thought away. You're not going there today. Not again. You worked through the worst of the hurt and disappointment, and now you've settled into a comfortable, quiet fury that you keep wrapped around you like a warm blanket when the chill of loneliness creeps into your bed at night. You don't miss him, you don't want him, and you sure as hell don't need him. He's just one more bitter lesson you've had to learn the hard way. You won't make the same mistake, again.

Well... not again, anyway.

A car beeps its horn behind you, and you glance back to see Jerry Finch, the lorry driver who delivers the kegs to the pub, waving at you from a black sports car. You give a half-hearted smile and wave back, your steps slowing when he steers his car to the curb.

His window rolls down, rap music thumping before he turns it down. Leaning on his arm in the open window, Jerry tips his chin down to look over his aviator sunglasses at you, a smooth half-smile on his lips. "How ya doin', Dee? Headin' to work?"

You nod, stepping closer to his car, trying to ignore the way he looks you up and down before meeting your gaze. He gives you an appreciative smile and ticks his eyebrows up, ever the flirt. You sniff in amusement and squint against the sun to see him better. "Morning, Jer." You nod at his car. "No lorry today. This your day off?"

He gives you a charming, almost boyish smile and nods. "Yeah. Had some business here in the village, though." He glances down towards the pub, then slants his gaze back to you, thumbing at his bottom lip. "I can give ya a lift, if ya like. Goin' that way, anyhow."

You hesitate but then nod in acceptance. It's just an acquaintance from work offering you a ride, nothing wrong with that. He smiles and motions for you to get in, once more letting his eyes wander over your figure while you settle yourself into the passenger seat and put on your seatbelt.

"Thank you," you murmur, glancing up at him, then away. Jerry's never been one to hide his interest, taking every opportunity to flirt with you when given half a chance. Of course, it makes you feel good to have a handsome man flirt with you, but it also makes you a little leery, too. You try to be nice, but you don't want to encourage him, something that Fiona fusses about every chance she gets.

"Bloody hell, Dee, give the bloke a chance. He's got a good job, he's good lookin', fit as fuck, an' he's gaggin' t'get with ya. What can it hurt?"

Rationally, you know Fi is right, but you can't help yourself. There's just something about him. You can't put your finger on it but being near him just feels... off. You clear your throat and look out the window, your eyes catching on a dark gray Gladiator parked in front of the Tea Room.

Riley.

You can see him standing inside through the tall Georgian windows, chatting with Margie, the owner. She's handing him a bag and a to-go cup that you know will be filled with English breakfast tea brewed strong, with a splash of milk and two sugars, the way he likes. Your heart squeezes in your chest as you watch him exit the building and get in his truck.

Riley's been avoiding the pub when you're on shift. Fiona says he's been showing up in the evening, sitting in his usual spot while nursing his Dewar's. She also doesn't fail to mention Tessa Harker has been chatting him up quite a bit lately, too. It hurts to hear it, but you only give a tight smile and mutter, "Good for him," much to your friend's irritation.

Fiona and Ollie have both noticed the way you and Riley have been avoiding each other, but apparently Riley has kept mum about the argument, as have you. You had wondered if he would spread word about your other job at the Grind out of spite, but no one has mentioned it so far, and for that you're relieved, but you're still wary of what he might do with the information.

"So, what time ya gettin' off work?"

The question draws your attention back to the big man sitting beside you. Did he notice you staring, you wonder. "Um, I get off work at five."

"Then what?" he persists, and you know where this is going.

You shrug, keeping your eyes focused straight ahead. "Then back home, I suppose."

"Come out with me, instead," he suggests, shooting another one of his charming smiles your way. "There's a nice Italian bistro in Blackheath. I deliver to 'em. Nice place, good food."

"Oh, um, well..."

He chuckles and reaches over to pat your knee. "No rush, sweetheart. Got all day t'think it over, yeah?"

Again, the feeling that something is off with him comes to the fore of your brain, but you smile, regardless. "Yeah, sure. I'll... think about it," you reply, knowing your mind is already made up. You just have to think of a nice way to let him down. Again.

Jerry gives your knee another pat, which turns into a sly caress that has you flinching away. He huffs a laugh at your reaction, giving you a playful 'just-kidding' grin, before he lifts his hand and places it back on the wheel. He has big, beefy hands, thick fingers with blunt tips, a working man's hands. You usually find that attractive, have often admired Riley's large hands and long, supple fingers, but for some reason, the sight of Jerry's ham fists curled around the steering wheel makes you feel uncomfortable.

The car comes to a stop in front of the pub, and you're quick to unbuckle your seatbelt and open the door. "Thanks for the ride, Jer," you say, one foot already resting on the pavement.

"Think nothin' of it, love. Glad t'give you a ride anytime," he murmurs, suggestion heavy in his tone. He flashes another smile at you, winking again. He does that a lot, and you find it annoying. "I'll stop by later, see if ya want to go out for dinner, yeah?"

"Y-Yeah, sure. Okay."

You get out of his car and sketch a little wave as he pulls away, then turn to head inside the pub, only to come up short. Riley's standing right in front of the entrance, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes fixed on Jerry's car, which is now rounding the green.

"Friend o' yers?"

It's the first words he's said to you since last Sunday in the alley, and the way he says it instantly gets your hackles up. You square off with him, casting a disparaging look over him. The proper thing would have been to offer you an apology, but you know better than to expect anything like that from him. Instead, he leads with a question that sounds both accusatory and insulting, all at the same time.

Typical.

"Shouldn't you already know? That's what you're good at, isn't it? Keeping tabs on me?" you snap, glaring at him.

You make a point to bump his shoulder as you pass by him and enter the pub. He's on your heels in an instant, following you through the door, obviously irritated by your response. You ignore him as you round the bar, pulling the strap of your bag over your head before placing it on top of the bar to take out your phone and a paperback.

"Wot? Ya got nothin' else t'say, doll? Tha's not like ya."

Your eyes snap up to glare at him. "Thought we said all that needed to be said last Sunday," you hissed at him, trying to keep your voice down, knowing Ollie would be back in his office.

Simon plants both hands on the bar and leans in, his dark eyes scathing as they pin you to the spot. "I wasn't finished talkin'. It was you that fuckin' ran off," he growls in return, but manages to keep his voice to a low rumble.

Your brows shoot up in mock surprise. "Oh! How terribly rude of me. I suppose I should have stood there until you were finished insulting me." Your eyes narrowed as you sneered at him. "Fuck you for that, by the way."

He's wearing his black surgical mask today, so his angry scowl is more evident than usual. He shoves off the bar in a fit of temper, hand coming up to jab a finger at you. "Like I told ya last Sunday, me an' you need t'talk, an' this time yer goin' t'bloody listen to wha—"

Your snort cuts him off. "We have nothing left to discuss. You made your opinion of me quite clear. But hey! At least I know where I stand with you now. Don't worry, though. I'll keep my distance. Wouldn't want to embarrass you by being seen associating with a slag, right?"

"Dammit t'hell, Dee! I never fuckin' called ya that. I never thought that. Would ya just bloody lis—"

"Riley, lad!"

You both turn to see Ollie heading your way, a pleased smile on his face. Shooting Riley one last venomous glare, you turn your back on him and make for the swinging door leading into the kitchen, his frustrated growl giving you a sense of grim satisfaction as you slip through the door. Fuck him. You hope he stays pissed off for the rest of the day.

You can hear the two men talking as you go back to hang up your jacket, eyes wandering over the unused kitchen as you pass through. What you wouldn't give for a kitchen this size, and here this one sits, unused and abandoned. You had mentioned a time or two that adding a small menu would bring in more business, but since the last cook quit, Ollie hasn't been too keen to fire up the kitchen again. It's a pity, really.

"Dee, love."

You glance over your shoulder to see Ollie standing at the service window. "What'cha need, Ol?"

Mind makin' me an' Riley a cuppa an' bringin' 'em to the office?"

You frown, wondering what happened to the tea you had seen Riley with before. You shrug it off and nod. "Sure thing, Ol. Be right out with 'em."

"Thanks, love," he says, rapping his knuckles before disappearing from sight.

You rinse out the electric kettle and fill it with water, then plug it in and switch it on before grabbing three mugs and the tea tin. You consider making Riley's tea wrong, just for spite, but that would be petty, even for you, or as Riley would call it, bratty. You sniff. He's a fuckin' brat. A bratty arsehole.

You scoop instant coffee into your own mug then add the tea bags to the other two cups, before going to the fridge to take out the milk. It's become routine for you to make both men's tea, your hands going through the motions while your thoughts wander back to Jerry and his dinner invitation.

Your first instinct is to turn him down, as you have all his other invitations, but the memory of how pissed Riley looked as he watched the other man drive away gives you pause. He always did eye Jerry with open suspicion, his instant dislike of the other man never something he tried to hide. He's never said why he doesn't like Jerry, but it didn't change the fact that it would probably piss Riley off to learn you were going out to dinner with him.

Maybe you are petty after all, because now your mind has changed. You are going on a dinner date this evening after work.

Setting your mug of coffee in the window to retrieve later, you take the other two mugs with you out of the kitchen. Rounding the bar, you head towards the narrow hallway that leads to the bathrooms and Ollie's office, walking slower to not spill any of their tea. You can hear their voices through the door as you stop to announce your presence. It's Riley who opens the door for you, not bothering to move out of your way as you slide past him with an irritated expression.

"Move, ya big lump," you grumble lowly, which gets a soft sniff of amusement from him. Arsehole.

"Ah, thanks, love," Ollie says, reaching out to take his mug. You set Riley's on the edge of his desk near the old club chair where he always sits. "Mind closin' the door on yer way out?" Ollie asks.

You give a nod, turning around to see that Riley is still standing in your way. You go to step around him, and he steps in your way again. You blow out an aggravated breath and raise your eyes to his, the urge to shove him again making your hands twitch. When he quirks a brow up at you, you grit your teeth and glare at him. Then an idea sparks in your brain. You look back over your shoulder at your boss.

"Say, Ol. Ya mind if I cut out a little early this evening? I've got a dinner date with Jerry the lorry driver."

Ollie nearly chokes on his tea before he manages to get his cup set down on his desk. His sharp eyes dart between you and Riley, an odd expression on his face as he tries to make sense of what's going on. He finally clears his throat and gives a curt nod. "Yeah. Sure, love. No problem."

You give him a sweet smile that turns spiteful when you turn your head back to the man in front of you. "Thanks, Ol," you reply, meeting Riley's furious glare. "Excuse me. Need to get back to work."

You can see his hands balling into fists, and it sends a thrill of sadistic glee through you. You'd rather die than look away from him right now, a smirk appearing when he has to hold his tongue and step aside for you. By the time you reach the hallway and close the door behind you, you're damn near giddy. The smirk on your face grows to a full-on wicked grin by the time you reach the bar again.

Satisfied with the good, hard poke you've just given the proverbial bear, you begin your prep work, humming a catchy pop song under your breath.

-

You manage to avoid any more close interactions with Riley, though he hangs around the bar your entire shift, giving you a baleful glare every time you draw near. You make it a point to ignore him, chatting with the other customers, talking and laughing like you weren't bothered at all by his brooding presence. You see him visibly stiffen when Jerry comes swaggering in, his signature charming smile already in place.

Before he can speak, you step to the bar and offer him a sweet smile. "Hi, Jer. Ollie said I can leave early, so we can go whenever you like."

Jerry can't hide the surprise on his face, but he swiftly recovers as he leans an elbow on the bar to bring his eyes level with yours. "Good. Been thinkin' 'bout it all day," he murmurs, his eyes drifting down to your lips.

You stiffen, discomfited by the look in his eye, but try to hide it by ducking to grab your bag from beneath the bar. When you raise up again, a pleasant smile is plastered on your face. "I just need to grab my jacket and tell Ollie I'm leaving, then we can go."

"'Course, sweetheart," Jer replies, watching you as you round the bar and head for the hallway. He catches Riley staring at him and lifts his brows, giving him a smug little smirk, which you honestly think is stupid of him. Despite Jerry's size, you have no doubt Riley would mop the fucking floor with him. You roll your eyes. Men and their stupid bloody posturing.

The sooner you get this over with, the better. This game is quickly losing its appeal.

-

Jerry offers to take you home to change if you want, but you decline, honestly not comfortable with the idea of bringing him up to your flat. He seems a little perturbed when you turn down his offer but then shrugs and drives to Blackheath, instead.

As he said, the little bistro is nice, the food delicious. The conversation is lackluster, though, but you weren't really expecting much. Beyond talking about himself, Jerry doesn't seem to hold much interest in other topics. Big surprise.

Once you're back in the car, he drapes his arm over your seat and leans in, a sexy smirk on his face. "So, where to next, sweetheart? Your place or mine?"

Your brows shoot up in mild surprise. "I thought this was just dinner," you reply, crossing your arms over your chest. "Moving a little fast, don't you think?"

He tips his chin down, giving you a knowing look. "C'mon, Dee. We're both adults here. I've seen how you an' that other barmaid check me out. Not that I'm complainin'." He gives you one of his smarmy winks, and you fight the urge to wrinkle your nose in disdain.

You sniff and give your head a small shake. The audacity of this bloke. Did he honestly think you were just going to drop your knickers because he bought you dinner? "Yeah, I think I'd rather go home by myself. I have work in the morning."

Jerry draws back, blinking. "Are you serious?" When you roll your eyes, he scoffs and tilts his nose up, as if he can't believe you are turning him down. "Whatever. Your loss, sweetheart," he mutters with a slight sneer and starts the car.

The drive back to Banfield is tense and awkward, but you honestly prefer the silence. When Jer finally speaks up, you startle out of your thoughts. "Mind if I take a shortcut?" he asks, his tone off-hand.

You shrug. "Fine with me." If it gets you home quicker, you're all for it.

Yet when he veers off the main road onto a country lane, you frown. You aren't familiar with this particular backroad, but from the direction you're going it doesn't look like you're heading towards home.

"Are you sure this goes to Banfield?"

Jer slants a condescending look at you, a shitty little smirk pulling up a corner of his mouth. "I drive for a livin', sweetheart. Ya really think I'm goin' t'get lost on the way to bloody Banfield?"

Your eyes roll up, but you hold your tongue, yet after another five minutes with nothing even closely resembling civilization in sight, you can't keep quiet. "We should be in Banfield by now. It's just a ten-minute drive from Blackheath. Are you sure you took the right road?" You glance around at the dark, unfamiliar landscape. "I don't even know where the hell we are right now."

"I took the scenic route," Jer drawls, waving a hand. He then drops it on your knee and gives it a squeeze. "Chill out, sweetheart. We'll get there. Eventually."

Apprehension creeps up your spine like the drag of an icy finger. You don't like this. This man, who you really know nothing about, you now realize, is driving you out to the middle of nowhere. "Maybe you should turn around."

Jerry glances over at you again, and this time the look in his eye makes the small hairs on the nape of your neck stand on end. "Maybe you should try to relax." His hand slides up your leg to grip your thigh. "I'd be happy t'pull over an' help ya with that, sweetheart."

And there it is. The reason for getting you out here alone. You aren't even really surprised, always knowing in the back of your mind that there was something off with him, though you chose to ignore it this time, just to spite Riley.

Hindsight really is a bitch sometimes.

"Jer, I told you I wanted to go home," you murmur, trying to keep your voice low and even.

He huffs, a smug expression on his face. "C'mon, Dee. Stop playin' hard t'get. It's jus' me an' you now. Your boyfriend doesn't have t'know. I can keep my mouth shut. It'll be our little secret, yeah?"

"My boyfriend?" you blurt out, confused.

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, right. Sorry. Your friend," he sneers and then scoffs. "Don't act like ya don't know who I'm talkin' 'bout. That scarred up freak with the mask who's always up yer arse."

"What the fuck did you just say?" you choke out, fury strangling your voice. You're ready to claw out his eyes for what he said about Riley.

Jerry waves a dismissive hand at you. "Enough with the games, Dee. I know ya only went out with me t'make him jealous, an' I'm fine with that, really, but don't ya think I deserve some sort of... ya know, compensation for playin' along?"

Rage consumes you, hot and prickling beneath your skin. "Take me home. Now!"

The cold, flat look in his eye chills you to the bone. "Not 'til I get what ya owe me, sweetheart. Don't look so offended. I doubt this is the first time you've paid up for somethin' by lyin' on your back."

The hard slap you deliver to his smug face has him swerving across the narrow road before he slams on the brakes, sluing the car around in the loose gravel. You only manage to free your seatbelt before he grabs you.

"Are ya fuckin' crazy, ya bitch?" he yells in your face, shaking you hard as he shoves you back against your door. "Ya could'a killed us!"

You jab your thumb in his eye for his trouble. He bellows in pain, releasing you to clutch at his face, freeing you to reach behind your back to paw at the latch. The door flies open under your weight and dumps you out backwards onto the gravel. When his hand seizes your ankle in a crushing grip, you frantically kick out with your other foot. Though you're unable to see from your position on the ground, you revel in a brief moment of satisfaction when you feel it make solid contact with his head, and he yells in pain again. Yanking your legs free of the car, you scramble to your feet, snatching your bag from the ground as you sprint for the woods.

Too terrified to look back, you run headlong into the tree line. You stumble through the undergrowth, feeling the spindly branches and thorns tear at your clothes and snag in your hair as it rakes bloody scratches into your exposed skin. You trip over tree roots and stub your toes on stones hidden beneath the moldering ground cover of dead leaves. All the while, Jerry is bellowing like an enraged bull as he thrashes through the foliage somewhere behind you, shouting threats and curses at you the whole time.

When you inevitably fall flat on your face, you skid across the forest floor to hitch up at the base of a huge oak. You have just enough time to crawl behind its massive trunk before Jerry comes crashing through. When you hear him approach, you clap your hand over your nose and mouth to muffle the sound of your gasping breaths, terrified he will hear you. Your eyes go wide when you see him pass by your hiding spot close enough that you could reach out and touch him, if you wanted. Scared beyond reason, you press your back against the rough bark of the oak and pray he doesn't see you when he pans the flashlight on his cell phone around.

A strangled noise issues from his throat before he growls out a frustrated, "Fuuuck!" You can see him pacing back and forth as he rakes his hands through his hair. If you didn't know any better, you would think he was panicking. "Crazy fuckin' bitch," you hear him seethe under his heaving breath, growling again. "Fine, ya stupid cunt!" he shouts at the dark woods, throwing his arms up in the air. "Find yer own way home, then!" He then turns around and stomps back the way he came, still uttering curses.

You don't dare move, not even when the sound of his heavy footfalls fades away. You don't dare move, not even when the only thing you can hear is the wind rattling the tree branches overhead. You don't dare move, not until you at last hear the distant sound of a car motor rev to life, the sound gradually diminishing until you can't hear it any longer. It is only then that you are brave enough to slowly stand up on your shaking legs, only to lean once more on the trunk for support as a sob finally tears free from your chest.

You remain that way for several minutes, trying desperately to regain your composure, even as your brain keeps circling around the notion that Jerry's departure is some sort of ruse to lure you back out into the open. It's the idea of spending a cold night alone in the woods that finally has you lifting your head to take in your surroundings and evaluate your situation.

At first glance, it seems pretty dire. You have no idea where you are, you're too scared to venture back onto road for fear of Jerry lying in wait somewhere, and it's pitch dark out tonight, not even the wan light of the moon visible in the overcast sky to help guide you through the woods.

Your only real option is to call for help.

Reaching into your bag, you take out your phone, cursing under your breath when you drop it due to your trembling hands. The glow of the screen is a small comfort as you unlock your phone and open your contacts list. You stare at the emergency number, finger hovering.

If you call the police, there will have to be a report filed, and then there will be an inquiry to investigate your claims. You already know it will be your word against Jerry's. His solicitors will no doubt drag your name through the mud to discredit you, and he will probably still get off with nothing more than a light slap on the wrist, if he even gets that, because he actually didn't do anything to you, at least not physically. Hell, you had done more damage to him than he had to you. He could claim you attacked him, and he wouldn't even be lying.

You look back down at your phone, one name standing out like a beacon in the dark. When you see that name, you think of home, of safety, the two things you want most right now. You select it and hit the call button, holding the phone up to your ear and praying there will be an answer. Your breath catches in your throat when you hear the line connect.

"Whad'ya want, Dee?" a gravelly, annoyed voice growls into your ear, and a sob escapes your throat, you are so relieved to hear him.

"Ruh... Riley? P-Please, Ri... please. I n-need you..."

-

No one in the White Dog knew what to think when the usually quiet giant that sat at the end of the bar suddenly erupted out of his seat, the bar chair toppling over. "Doll! What's wrong? Where are ya?" he barks into his phone.

He apparently doesn't like what he hears.

"He fuckin' did what?! " he growls, a look of pure murderous rage igniting in his dark eyes. As he listens to you, however, his rage is tempered by his troubled concern. "Are ya hurt, love? I swear t'God if he―" His hand clenches into a trembling fist, even though his voice is now a low rumble. "Please don't cry, love. I know, I know, but I'll find ya. Ya know I will. I'm on my way right now. Just... keep yer phone on for me, yeah?"

He's already making for the entrance as he says this, the murderous look returning as he mutters, "I'll kill that bastard," before he barges through the door. He hits it with such force, it slams into the outside wall hard enough to shatter the frosted safety glass. He doesn't even acknowledge it as he runs to his truck and tears off down the street with a bark of tires the next instant, leaving a silent pub full of stunned onlookers in his wake.

-

-

Taglist: @stillinracooncity @cumikering @cutiecusp @deadbranch @ghostlythots @thetiredtoad0-0 @glitterypirateduck @gothgirl6-6-6 @sofasoap @cathnoneofyourbusiness @shuttlelauncher81 @luminousbeings-crudematter @crunchlite @delilah-grimes @bobochacha

[mykneeshurt]

Absolution

Image from wallpaper flare

Priest! Simon Riley x F! reader AU

Warnings - 18+, minors DNI, explicit smut, religious themes, if you're interested in going to heaven this ain't the fic for you, this is incredibly blasphemous so if your easily offended by religious themes being used DNI

100% inspired by @dotcie - you let all your love rot inside you

Thank you to @luminousbeings-crudematter for encouraging this and helping me with multiple ideas and beta reading it for me!

------------

The church was dark, the late evening sun shone through the stained-glass window above the altar. Hues of blue, red, green and purple descended into the empty church. Candles lined the walls, each mounted by a gold baroque style holder. The flames flickered as the warm summer air kissed them gently.    Stone arches adorned the walls, each one intricately designed with faces of angels and demons. You walked along the aisle touching each of the pews with your fingertips, the wood was stained a deep walnut colour. Each seat perfectly imperfect, littered with the scars of the congregation who graced their presence. 

Your eyes roamed along the paintings of different bible passages, all hung delicately along the sandstone walls. Each painting an abyss of pain and torment, each brush stroke a testament to the sheer emotion the artist must have felt. 
 
As you reached the altar you once again questioned why you were here. You sunk to your knees seeking sanctuary, the maroon carpet offering some comfort to your aching joints. The weight of what you’d done pressed heavily on your heart. So much so silent tears fell, staining the carpet beneath you. 
 
‘Are you ok?’ A voice from behind you asked, it was gentle and calm. Gasping you spun around, stood before was a shadow of a man. He was tall, his broad physique clearly visible through the shadows. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry I didn’t know anyone else was here’ you stammered, your breath catching in your chest. 
 
He stepped forward out of the shadows and into the light. As the sun rays illuminated him before you his divine beauty was slowly revealed. His jaw was sharp, his lips plump and soft with a small scar cutting through them. His hair was a sandy colour which was swept away from his face, bar a few strands which hung lazily on his forehead. He wore all black, his sleeves rolled up revealing a tattoo on his forearm. 
 
You stayed kneeling, feeling unable to move, unable speak. He stood before you extending his hand to cup your chin, his touch was merciful, soft, all consuming. Slowly he caressed your cheek, his thumb wiping away the solitary tear that stained your skin. His gaze pierced through you, eyes dark and possessive, a foreboding presence lurking in the void. 
 
‘Tell me what’s bothering you?’ He asked, voice calm but thicker than molasses. You tried to find the words, tried to articulate the feelings deep within you, but the words wouldn’t come. ‘Use your words’ he cooed, still cupping your jaw. All moisture suddenly evaporated from your mouth as you opened your lips to speak. ‘I … I did something bad’ you stammered. 
 
‘Is it forgiveness you seek?’ 
‘Yes Father’ your voice all but a whisper, yet still echoing in the empty church. He hummed to himself, dropping his gaze to your lips. ‘Stay’ he ordered as he removed his hand, a silent whimper falling from your lips as your cheek cooled from his touch. 
 
He walked to the alter and despite his muscular stature he moved almost silently. Like a ghost. As he turned back to you, he held the Ciborium in his hands, the emerald colour contrasting perfectly against his porcelain skin. Towering over you he pulled the host from the cup ‘I have a passage I’d like you to read, but first, take the body of Christ.’ 
 
Holding out your hand you waited for him to place it in your hands, except he didn’t. ‘Open’ he said forcefully. Lowering your hand, you opened your mouth sticking out your tongue. A small smirk tugged at your lips as he placed the thin wafer onto it. The host slowly dissolved on the heat of your tongue, as did any remaining sanity. He pulled your lower lip with his thumb ‘good.’ 
 
He motioned for you to follow him to the lectern, a black bible with gold rimmed pages sat unassumingly on the shelf. Placing you in front of him he bent you over slightly, your body completely pliable in his hands. He gently skimmed the pages with his fingers, the tattoo now fully visible. Veins kissed the surface of his skin as the defined muscles danced with every movement. 

Finally he stopped on the page he was looking for: Proverbs 28:13. His face was dangerously close to yours, so much so you could see the texture of his skin. A small amount of stubble littered his skin as his breath fanned over your neck. Lowering his lips to your ear he whispered ‘read, and no matter what don’t stop.’ His words vibrated down your spine straight to your aching pussy, taking a deep breath you began to read

‘Whoever conceals their sins …' his hand slipped to your lower back, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the text in front of you.

Gulping you tried to continue ‘... does not prosper …' his fingers grazed the back of your thighs, causing you to buck your hips slightly.

‘... but the one who confesses …' a whine exuded from the back of your throat, guttural and desperate.  ‘Shhh, keep going’ he whispered in your ear. Swallowing hard you tried again.  

‘… and renounces them …’ his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties, the sudden contact made you jump, you bit your lip trying to stifle a moan. ‘Good girl, keep going.’   ‘ … finds mercy.’ As the last word slipped past your lips, he sunk his finger into your wet cunt causing you to lurch forward onto the lectern, gripping the sides for balance. ‘Read it again’ he ordered. Taking a deep breath, you did as you were told, sounding out each word, each syllable laced with desire and pleasure. He slowly added another finger, stretching your pussy with his girth. Your whine rang out in the desolate church, ricocheting off the sandstone walls as he pumped his fingers. He pressed his thumb against your clit, once wet with your tears it was now wet with your arousal.  

Soon enough you were tripping over your words, a stuttering mess under his touch. With his free hand he wrapped it around your throat pulling you close to him, his fingers still orchestrating a flurry of moans from you. You were completely lost in him, your jaw slack as whimpers and gasps seeped from your very soul. You were so lost in fact you didn’t even realise he’d manoeuvred you towards the altar, the cool granite kissed your skin as he pressed you against it.  

Removing his fingers, he placed them on his tongue savouring your arousal, his gaze once again found yours ‘fuckin sinful’ he growled. Using his muscular arms, he trapped you against the altar the warmth of his skin seeping into yours like a virus. Reaching behind you he grabbed the gold chalice and took a sip of the wine, never once breaking eye contact with you. Gripping your chin, he tilted it, so you were looking directly up at him, slowly he placed his lips against yours allowing the wine to trickle into your mouth. A single drop trickled down your neck, his tongue was soon pressed against your skin lapping it up.  

You pulled him by his shirt collar into another kiss, it was velocious and messy. He gripped at your thighs pulling you up onto the altar, tilting you backwards the wine fell causing the once pristine white cotton to turn red with your sins. He nipped at your collar bone as he raked his nails along your skin, moaning into his mouth it was too much but not enough all the same time. He kissed along your torso and onto your abdomen, his lips teased the sliver of skin which poked out between your top and skirt. Goosebumps trickled along your skin as he bit the sensitive skin.  

Pulling at his hair you silently begged him to continue, silently pleading with him to taste you. Keeping his eyes on yours he lifted your leg onto his shoulder, he ripped your panties at the seam and placed his lips onto your weeping cunt. The sudden intrusion caused you to arch your back and moan into oblivion. His eyes pierced yours as he moved his tongue in languid motions, each swipe pulling another whimper from your chest. You gripped his hair digging your nails into his scalp, God rays cascaded around you encapsulating you both in this moment of pure sin. As the priest looked up you could have sworn it was Lucifer himself staring right back at you.  

‘Fuck … don’t stop’ you whined, finally finding words to use, finally finding your voice. Kissing his way back up your body he hovered over you for a moment, his stare intense and dominating. ‘Simon’ he muttered. You hummed, not quite catching what he said. ‘My name … Simon’ he repeated, edging closer to your lips once more. Pulling your lips open he allowed a dribble of saliva to drop into your mouth, instinctively you swallowed allowing the ribbon of spilt to glide down your throat.  

‘Please fuck me Simon’ you said as you placed your lips on his once more. Pulling away he unbuckled his trousers allowing his cock to spring free. Still staring at you intently he began to pump his hard cock ‘allow me this and I shall absolve you of all your sins.’ You could hear how breathless he was behind his stoic demeanour, a man on the edge of losing control.  

‘Yes Father, please.’  

Slowly he pushed into you, once again stretching your cunt, the sting was delicious. You both gasped as he filled you to the brim, bottoming out in one swift motion. He placed his forearms next to your head as strands of hair fell forward framing his face perfectly. The sun had moved slightly causing the coloured glass to reflect onto your bodies as you became one. He kissed you again, except this time you bit his lip causing it to bleed, ‘hmm, the blood of Christ’ you said smirking. Lowering his head to your neck he smiled into your skin ‘Amen.’  

He began to move his hips back and forth, caressing the sweet spot within you. The sound of skin on skin reverberated in the church, filling the once silent, once holy place with the sin of lust. Placing his hand around your throat he hissed through his teeth ‘beg me for forgiveness, for I will be your absolution.’ Tears stung the corners of your eyes as he fucked you on the altar, each thrust took you to a new level of pleasure. You ran your nails along his shirt, desperately trying to imagine what his skin felt like.  ‘Please, forgive me’ you whined as you rolled your hips into him ‘please father … please.’  

Upping his pace, he held onto your hips as he dug his fingertips into your flesh. Small grunts and breathless whimpers filled the space between you as he allowed himself to give into his primal desires. Rolling his hips, he dragged his cock against your cunt making you feel every movement, every thrust, every inch of him. Pulling your hand off his back he placed it on your clit ‘show me’ he murmured ‘show me how you like it.’ Feeling yourself instantly tighten you began to play with your clit, you watched as he dropped his eyes to watch the show you were putting on for him, his mouth opening slightly before biting his lip.   

Your breath began to catch in your throat as you felt yourself on the brink of orgasm, as your eyes rolled you caught sight of Mary looking down on you, watching you getting fucked within an inch of your life on the once pure altar. Wrapping your legs around him you pulled him closer, not wanting to let him go.  ‘Faster’ you begged, ‘harder Father please.’ He let out a slight chuckle of disbelief, once again placing his hand around your throat ‘you’re insatiable.’ Biting your lip you giggled, but that giggle was soon replaced with a broken guttural moan as he slammed his hips into yours. This was enough to push you into the blinding light of your orgasm, your back arched off the wine-stained cloth as you came around his cock. Shockwaves of pleasure shot through every fiber of your body as rode out your high.  

As the white noise from your orgasm finally dissipated your eyes met with his, his gaze was piercing, all knowing and consuming. His pace became sloppy, knowing he was close you sat up and pushed him away. Turning him round so his back was now against the altar you dropped to your knees, staring up at him like you did mere moments ago. You placed his cock on your tongue as the sweet bitterness of your combined arousal seeped over your tongue, ready to receive him. He looked down on you blocking out the sun, the light giving the illusion of a halo around him, but you knew when you were looking the devil in the face.  

Slowly you took his cock to the back of your throat, the change in sensation causing him to throw his head back and hiss. He cradled the back of your head as you bobbed back and forth, humming a hymn softly to yourself, praising the man before you. The humming caused vibrations to travel down his thick cock adding a whole new layer of pleasure to this already wicked act. He became breathless as you worked his cock in your mouth, you could feel the change in him as you dragged your tongue along his shaft. ‘Yes’, he whispered softly, repeating it like a prayer. Looking up at him you pleased with him to let go, to finish what he’d started.  

And that he did. You kept looking up at him as he came in your mouth, doe like eyes eager to please the man in front of you. His mouth was parted slightly as ragged breaths fell from his lips; he caressed your jaw as you swallowed. His touch just as soft and possessive as before.  

-----------

LMAO see you in hell x

@cowyolks @strlingsav @ave661 @glitterypirateduck @soapyghost        

[theorist-fox]

Theorist Fox's Fic Recs 🦊

These are my favorite stories. Highly recommend all of them for I think they are my Holy Grail of fanfiction.

🧡 i hear you like magic? i've got a wand and a rabbit! (Simon Riley/Reader) by makoodles

🧡 Indigo and Texas Red (Simon Riley/Reader) by slaterbabe

🧡 Haunted and Shadowed (Simon Riley/Reader) by tarajanee (AO3)

🧡 Bleeding blue (Simon Riley/Reader) by nsharks

🧡 Licking wounds (John Price/Reader) and Houndtooth (Simon Riley/Reader) by bitter fruit

🧡 Situationship-verse (Simon Riley/Reader) by luminousbeings-crudematter

🧡 Service Dog Johnny (Simon Riley/Reader/John MacTavish) by void-my-warranty

🧡 Skin Deep (Simon Riley/Reader/John MacTavish) and Threshold (Simon Riley/Reader) by rememberwren

🧡 VICE (Simon Riley/Reader/Konig) by xoxunhinged

[ohbo-ohno]

not me begging to be soft reader playing stardew valley (romancing Elliott obv) while Ghoap gut a honeymoon-ing couple

you are laying on your stomach, kicking your feet and giggling on your very fluffy blanket, and there are multiple sets of intestines being tugged from people's stomach behind you. johnny is going to turn your ass red when he learns you're flirting with another man (no, it' doesn't matter that he's not real, bonnie)

[shotmrmiller]

just a drabble

prompt for this was how terrible reader is to even acknowledge texts that reader's date is doomed but im pretty sure i lost the plot drooling over a crazy fictional man but hey! it is what it issss.

TW: obsessive behavior, controlling, and baby trapping.

Toxic!Simon was possessive over you. He knew who you spoke to — always knew of your whereabouts. So when you told him you wanted to break up two months ago, Simon humored you; After all, he always kept you within arm’s reach.  However, after he saw you getting ready for a ‘date’, it seemed that you were under the impression that this was not temporary. 

And that was unacceptable.

—-----------------------------

Simon watches you eat dinner with a guy— having a lively conversation before eventually getting up to leave with your companion in tow. Simon sends a text, pockets his phone, and rises from the bar in the restaurant directly across from the one you'd eaten at— before heading towards his truck.

It’s time he moved you back in with him—  especially now that you’re in a more delicate state.

With the secret cameras he had installed in your flat some time ago, he always kept an eye on you. But last month, Simon had noted the absence of your menses — meaning the seed that had leaked through the tiny punctures he had made in the condoms finally took.

He offhandedly wonders if you’d get upset with him over this, but ultimately it didn’t matter. It was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, after all.

—---------------------------

You step through the door as your date holds your hand, fingers intertwined. You turn to him and softly say, “I’m going to get some water if you don’t mind. Make yourself at home.”

Agreeing with a nod, he politely asks if he can use your bathroom. You direct him towards the bedroom door and proceed to the kitchen. Setting your belongings on the countertop, you reach into your purse to grab your phone.

As you glance through all the notifications, you recall a time when Simon pointed out your bad habit of never responding to texts, warning you that it could cause problems— 

And then you see it. A text from Simon.

Gripping your phone tightly, a sense of dread consumes you. Your finger taps the screen, and as you read his message, you come to a chilling realization.

Simon saw you at dinner.

A loud bang startles you. As you turn to look, you suspect that the noise may have been from the front door, but no one’s there. You cautiously tread through your flat, calling out for your date— while desperately hoping that the sound you just heard was a figment of your imagination. 

Entering the bedroom, your eyes meet Simon's as he lounges on the bed. Despite the relaxed position of his arms crossed behind his head, his unnerving stare reveals that he is far from calm.

The silence in the room is oppressive, and the rapid beat of your heart in your ears deafening. He moves to stand in front of you and says, “I was more than generous in granting you this break but it ends now.” 

He takes a step forward, standing tall over you, and grabs your chin with his fingers almost cruelly.

“You. are. mine.”

With a quivering breath, you ask Simon what he did to your date (aint your date no more, though) and Simon just shrugs— making you wonder if his body will be found face down in some ditch come morning.

Simon envelops you in a tight embrace, causing you to surrender all control as you lean helplessly into him. He effortlessly manipulates your every move, like a master puppeteer with his marionette.

His arms once shielded you from the outside world; Now they’re confining— his makeshift cage for you. 

a/n: make a mental note to tell Simon that you’ve a doctor appt for the stomach bug that's been plaguing you for a while.

id have all of his babies, like no sweetheart now you're stuck with me.

@luminousbeings-crudematter

@ivymarquis

@neoarchipelago <- gotchu

[random-thot-generator]

@luminousbeings-crudematter​

Dang,sweets... You always humble me. Thank you so much for this. 🥹🥰

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 8

Frenemies/Tenderness AU

EIGHT: Lost and Found

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: As Simon desperately searches for you, his darker nature emerges. Beside himself with the state he finds you in, his only thought is to get you to safety, but it's not long before his plans for vengeance take precedence. Meanwhile, you are struggling to cope with what's happened, too shaken by the night's traumatic events to comprehend what lengths Simon is willing to go to in order to keep you safe.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Allusions to Violence, Allusions to SA, Minor Character Death, Simon goes full-Ghost, No Detailed Descriptions of Violence, Mentions of Blood, Protective Simon, Traumatized Reader, No use of Y/N

(Notes: I didn't go crazy with the violent details, but you'll definitely get the gist of what went down. Reader is obviously traumatized by what's happened, so I tried to keep that in mind while writing for her. Our girl has had a rough night, y'all.)

[image via TENOR]

Word Count: 4464

Chapter 8

-

“The shadow is dark and the woods are cold, but they are not endless. No matter how lost you are now, you are not lost forever. You are findable.

Love just keeps on looking.

Love forever tries.” ― Anna White, Mended: Thoughts on Life, Love, and Leaps of Faith

-

Simon was quietly losing his mind.

He began losing it the moment he answered your call, and the longer it took him to find you, the closer he danced to the edge. If he could just call you, hear your voice, it would ease the chokehold his anxiety had on him, but he couldn't risk it. Your phone's battery power was already low when you had called for help.

It had pained Simon to do it, but with no time to mince words, he had to tell you to hang up and sit tight, that he would be able to track you through your phone's GPS, but you had to conserve what power it had left. He didn't miss that little beat of silence after he told you that, but he'd ignored it. He could worry about explaining that later. Finding you was his only priority, now.

"Don't worry, doll. I'll find ya. Stay in place and stay hidden. I'll come to you."

That had been almost an hour ago. An hour for him to process everything you had told him, an hour to fully comprehend the danger you had been in the moment your walked out of the White Dog with Jerry Finch. The danger you were still in, because Finch was in the wind, and for all Simon knew, could be tracking you down himself right now, slipping up on you at this very moment.

Simon growled, the feral sound echoing in the high vault of the trees.

He glanced down at the receiver, watching the moving blue line that traced his path to you grow shorter. He was close, but he wasn't moving fast enough; the terrain wouldn't allow it. He couldn't curse it, though. The thick foliage that was holding up his own progress was the same foliage that had thwarted Jerry's attempt to catch you. The bastard probably never considered that he would have to chase someone through these woods when he chose this location.

That thought alone had Simon teetering on the very brink of a rage-fueled tantrum, even as it spurred him on. A shortcut to Banfield, is what Jerry had told you.

That had been a fiendish lie.

Simon had been so relieved when the tracker had first pinpointed your location, but it was the location itself that almost gave him an aneurism. The gravel lane Jerry had taken you down was no backroad into Banfield. It was a service road that cut through a protected woodland, which then terminated a few kilometers further along at a series of stream-fed ponds surrounded by marshland. It was a nature preserve for native waterfowl.

It was a bloody dead-end in the middle of nowhere with no one around.

As he followed your path through the woods, his mind conjured up all the horrifying images that could have been your fate tonight. The bright beam of his torch stuttered erratically over the foliage, his hands shaking with fury, as that one terrible question kept playing on a loop in his brain.

Just what the fuck had Finch been planning to do to you?

The answers Simon came up with only served to fuel that rage already burning like a furnace inside him. When he got his hands on Jerry fucking Finch, he would take immense pleasure in getting those answers out of him.

And Simon was a master at extracting answers from reluctant subjects. He would take his time with Finch. That sick bastard would curse the day he ever laid eyes on you before Simon was done with him.

When the tracker indicated that he had reached your location, Simon turned it off and shoved it inside the pocket of his coat, shining his light around the area. The tracks stopped here, but you were nowhere to be seen. "Doll!" he barked, eyes searching.

The sound of crackling leaves drew the beam of his torch to a large oak on his right. You crept around the tree, keeping a stabilizing hand on the trunk as you used the other to shield your eyes from the bright beam of light shining in your face. "I'm here," you replied in a wavering voice, and Simon almost completely lost it.

You looked like hell, your hair a wild tangle, clothes muddy and torn, face smudged with dirt and tracked with tears. You were covered in scratches, bruises and abrasions, your eyes huge in your face, glassy and fevered.

Without thinking, he rushed forward with a snarled, "Fuckin' hell!" and took you by the shoulders, eyes blazing with fury. He was so incensed by the state you were in that he failed to notice the utter panic that registered on your face at his aggressive approach. It was only when you let out a gasp and stumbled back that he realized how he must look and loosened his grip.

"It's alright," he muttered. "I'm jus' so..." Seeing you this way had him seeing red. "Nnngh!" he growled, his fingers tightening on your shoulders. You stiffened under his grip, wide, teary eyes directed up at him as your chin wobbled.

"Please don't be mad, Ri. 'M sorry. I just couldn't think of who else to call," you warbled out, the last word pitching up before hitching on a choked sob.

Your words caught him off guard. Bloody hell, you thought he was mad at you?

"No, doll. No. I'm not mad at ya, love. I... fuck..." He pulled you against his chest, his hand pressing your head against his pounding heart. The relief that washed over him was profound, making his hands tremble as they cupped your face. He took a step back to look you over, brushing the hair from your face as his dark eyes darted over your form. "Are ya hurt? Did he hurt ya?"

You shook your head, but you looked confused, dazed. "N-No, I don't think... I..." Your eyes drifted to the side as you struggled to find the words. "I just want to go home," you whispered as two fat tears slipped down your dirty cheeks.

Simon swiped them away with his thumbs. "It's alright, love. I got ya now. I got ya. C'mere."

He took you under the arms and picked you up as he would a child, his throat constricting when he felt you wrap your limbs around him, clinging to him like a lifeline. He said nothing, only clutched you tighter to his chest as you sobbed into his neck the entire walk back to the truck.

-

You were silent as Simon drove back to Banfield, staring out the window, hands laying limp in your lap. He kept glancing over at you, worried. You were obviously in a state of mild shock, should probably be checked over by a physician, but when he had mentioned taking you to the A and E, you'd shaken your head and muttered a low but fierce, "No!" clenching your hands into fists. "No hospital, no police."

He didn't know what to make of your vehement refusal, but didn't push, worried about upsetting you further. However, he gave you no such consideration when he bypassed the road leading to your flat. You frowned, confused. "I thought you were going to take me home."

Simon shook his head. "'S not safe, doll. That cunt could be waiting for ya, fer all I know. 'M not riskin' ya gettin' hurt again t'find out."

You hadn't even thought of Jerry lying in wait for you at your flat. The thought of it terrified you. You shrunk back into your seat, feeling helpless and unmoored. If you couldn't go home, then where the hell were you supposed to go? "But I don't have anywhere to go," you replied, your voice high and tinged with anxiety.

"Yer stayin' at my place until the threat is neutralized," was his quick response, his tone brooking no argument as he directed his truck towards his street.

You could only stare back at him, dumbfounded. Riley wasn't the type to have house guests over. He once told you he could count on one hand the number of people who had been inside his home and still have a couple of fingers left over. "Ri, you don't have to do—"

"Dee, do not fight me on this," he snapped, his gaze piercing when he shot you a warning glance. They softened as he gazed at you. "Not this," he muttered, the muscle in his jaw ticking beneath his mask. "Yer stayin' with me. End of discussion."

He looked you over, assessing you, then took out his phone. Making a call, he stuck the phone inside his hood and pressed it to his ear. You knew the moment the call connected, Ollie's distinctive voice growling an angry torrent of words you couldn't quite catch. He said something about a door and called Riley a greenie, something he did only when he was joking or angry. He didn't sound like he was in a joking mood at the moment.

"Captain," Simon barked into the phone, interrupting Ollie's tirade. "Listen t'me. We have a situation. I'll brief ya on the particulars later, but right now, I need ya to ask Fiona if she minds stayin' wif Dee at my place fer a few hours."

You shook your head, but he just shot you another warning look. "Ri, no..." you pleaded in a frantic whisper, but he ignored you.

There were a few seconds of silence and then Ollie said something in a lower register of voice that you couldn't hear. Simon's brows furrowed. "She's banged up, but she's sound," he said, casting a quick glimpse over you.

There was another pause, then another brief reply. "Yessir," he growled, then ended the call.

"What's going on? What are you doing, Ri?"

Simon put his phone in his pocket then replaced his hand on the wheel. "Don't worry 'bout it. I jus' need t'make sure yer taken care of, doll. Everythin'll be fine."

He pulled up to the curb in front of his row house and parked, telling you to wait until he came around and helped you out of the truck. Keeping a protective arm around your shoulders, his head panned back and forth as he hurried you along the walk to his front door. He shielded you from the street as he unlocked the door, keeping your back to his chest as he hustled you inside.

His entire demeanor was changed. He reminded you of a shark, his movements quick and aggressive, eyes dark, flat and predatory. He was in full soldier mode, his body tense, senses on high alert.

"Stay here while I do a quick check," he muttered lowly, creeping on silent feet through his own house. He checked the main level, then the downstairs, and then finally the upper floor. When he returned, he motioned for you to follow him into the kitchen. "Drink," he ordered, retrieving a sports drink from his fridge and setting it on the island between you.

His sharp tone grated against your already frayed nerves. "What the hell is wrong with you? You've been barking orders at me since you found me."

He whipped his head around, eyes dark and intense as he pinned you with a glare. "Until I know where the hell tha' bastard is, 'm not takin' any chances, understand? Who knows what he's capable of right now? He's got t'be off his fuckin' nut t'try what he did with ya, in the first place. He could be out there even now, tryin' to figure out a way to get inside so he can get at ya again, an' I'll be damned if I let tha' happen. You might not give a damn about yer own bloody safety, but I do! Tha's what the fuck is wrong with me!"

You flinched away from his harsh words, tears welling despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. This was all too much, too overwhelming. Throwing up your hands, you turned and hurried out of the kitchen, not knowing where you were going until you entered the guest loo under the stairs and locked yourself inside.

Turning on the tap, you glanced up at your reflection in the mirror, shocked at your own appearance. Twigs and dead leaves were caught in the tangles of your hair, your face dirty and scratched, eyes bloodshot and wild. "Bloody hell," you whispered to the mirror, raising a shaking hand to your face to examine the extent of the damage.

A knock at the door made you jump. You blew out a breath, in no mood to argue with him. "J-Just give me a minute, Ri. Please?"

You heard a thunk on the door and knew he'd dropped his forehead against it. "'M sorry, doll," he muttered lowly through the door.

Why could he only apologize through a bloody door? You took a deep breath, dropping your head, and exhaled slowly through your nose. "I know you mean well, Ri. I just..." You sniffled and huffed out a breath. "It's just a lot, ya know? And I'm— I'm struggling, okay?"

There was a pause, the shadow of his boots shifting before the crack under the door. "Ya know yer safe here, doll. I swear I won't let nothin' else happen to ya. I'll— leave ya be. Take yer time."

You sighed, unable to ignore the contrite tone in his voice. "Ri?"

"Yeah, doll?"

"Thank you. For— everything."

There was another pause. "I'll always have yer back, doll. No matter what. Understand?"

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Yeah, Ri. Me, too."

You heard his weight shift. "I jus' heard somebody pull up. Prob'ly Fi an' Ollie," he spoke through the door, then you heard his footsteps move away.

You opened your eyes and looked at yourself in the mirror again. You couldn't go out there looking like this. Grabbing the little wastebin by the sink, you began plucking the dead foliage out of your hair.

-

When you finally emerged from the loo, you could hear the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. Pushing through the swinging door, you stopped short as three sets of eyes turned toward you at once.

"Oh, my God," Fiona whimpered, hurrying to catch you up in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry, Dee," she sniffled at your ear. "I never would'a thought he would do somethin' like this."

You saw Ollie grip Riley's shoulder as they exchanged a look, the tension in his body putting you on edge all over again. "What's going on?" you rasped out.

Fiona drew back and glanced over her shoulder, then back at you. "I'm goin' t'stay with ya while they try t'track down Jerry."

You shook your head, frantic. "No! Can't you just leave it alone? Don't you understand this will only turn out bad for me if you threaten him? He could go to the police, tell 'em we got in an argument, that I attacked him. It'll be my word against his, and who do you think they'll believe?" you demanded, looking between the three of them.

It was Ollie who stepped forward. "Love, I get it, I do, but somethin' has to be done. We can't just leave him be. He's too dangerous. Think about it, love. Do ya think yer the first bird he's done this to?" he asked. "We can't just let him get away with this, because he'll think he can jus' keep doin' it, and the next lass might not be so lucky."

You knew he was right, but it didn't change the fact that it was your neck on the chopping block. "If you threaten him, he'll come after me. He won't be stupid enough to try something physical again, but he'll fuck with me in other ways, get the police involved. I could be charged with assault."

Simon rounded the island and took you by the shoulders, peering down at you with an earnest expression. "Doll, listen t'me. Me an' Ol are just after intel on him right now, alright? Ol has some mates that can help us. That's all we're goin' t'be doin'. Finch won't know owt about it. If we get the right intel, we can use it against him, yeah? Stop him from doin' this again. It won't come back on ya, doll. I won't let it."

You reached up and grasped his wrists. "Promise me you won't don't anything crazy, Ri."

He sighed. "Everythin' will be fine, doll. I promise."

You stared up at him for a long moment, then cast your gaze at Ollie. "Don't let him do anything that will get him in trouble."

"No worries, love. I can keep him in line," Ollie replied, sounding confident.

You returned your gaze to the big lug in front of you and blew out a resigned breath. "Fine."

The two men exchanged another look, then Simon placed his arm around shoulders and led you back out of the kitchen, Fiona and Ollie trailing behind. "I want ya t'get some rest, alright? My room's upstairs, second door on the left. Take a shower an' have a lie down, yeah? We'll be back a'fore ya know it." He grasped the nape of your neck and bumped his forehead against yours. "We'll fix this, doll. Ya got my word." He looked over his shoulder. "Take care o' her for me, Fi."

Fiona bobbed her head, looking between the two of you. "I will, Riley."

Ollie stepped forward and patted your shoulder. "Don't fret, love. Everythin' will be fine. I'll keep an eye on him for ya," he promised, nodding at Simon.

You watched the two men ready themselves to leave, Fiona standing next to you, taking hold of your hand. Before they left, Simon came forward and took your hands.

"Don't worry, doll. I'll take care o' this. Get some rest. I'll see ya when I get back."

He then stepped back and nodded, before ushering Ollie out the door. As soon as it closed behind them, Fiona darted forward to relock it, then punched in the code for the security system.

"There," she muttered, turning to give you a forced smile. "Safe as houses," she intoned, then took your arm. "C'mon. Let's get ya in the shower."

You let her lead you up the stairs but glanced back at the front door. "You don't think Riley was lying, do you? He wouldn't just go after Jerry, would he?"

Fiona patted your arm, shaking her head. "'Course not," she lied.

-

Simon was driving, headed towards Blackheath, while Ollie was finishing up a brief conversation on his phone. "Right, then. Thanks, Seamus. I owe ya one, mate." He ended the call and nodded to Simon. "Got an address. Seamus is onboard and willing to help out, whatever we need. Think Finch is smart enough to go to ground?"

Simon grunted. "Maybe, but it's hard t'say. After what happened, he's got t'know I'm comin' for him. Or he bloody well should."

Ollie hummed as he peered out at the dark landscape. "I want t'get this bastard as bad as you do, son, but if Dee finds out..."

Simon gripped the wheel. "She won't." He glanced over at his old captain. "Ya saw what he did, Ol. Tha' cunt put his fuckin' hands on her. Hurt her. Would'a done much worse than tha' if she hadn't fought him off an' got away. If tha' were Hillary he'd done tha' to, what would ya do?"

Ollie didn't even hesitate. "I'd kill the bastard."

Simon grunted.

They rode the rest of the way to Blackheath in silence.

-

It was near dawn by the time Simon made it home. He found Fiona asleep on the couch, so left her to her sleep. His only thought at that moment was to find you, make sure you were alright. He climbed the stairs on silent feet and eased down the hallway, slipping into his bedroom.

He found you sleeping in his bed, wearing one of his old T-shirts, head buried in his pillow. It was about the best damn sight he'd ever seen. He shoulders went slack as he sighed and leaned back against the wall, taking you in for a moment.

This was how it was supposed to be. This is what you deserved. This, he realized, was what he could give you. Safety, security. A proper home. If only your pride would allow you to take it. He huffed a breath.

You and your bloody pride.

Simon could work around that, though. A plan began brewing in his head, a plan that would help to greatly relieve your financial burdens as well as ensure your safety, all at once. He just had to get you to agree to it. He considered the best approach to take with you as he gathered some clean clothes and stepped into the loo to shower.

He peeled off his dirty clothes, the coppery smell of blood wafting up from the dark clothing. He crammed them into the hamper, then tossed his ruined gloves along with his soiled balaclava into the waste bin and tied up the bag. He didn't want to risk you seeing them. You never needed to know what really happened to Finch. As far as you would know, Finch was going to be a fugitive on the lam, suspected of leaving the country.

Simon and Ollie had discovered what a truly depraved bastard Finch really was when they searched his flat. The incriminating images and videos they had found on his laptop, along with his activity on a particular dark web forum were enough to put the bastard away for years. All of that would come out, of course, once the police followed up on the information they had received from an anonymous source.

Simon paid no mind to the pink swirl of water at his feet, too busy scrubbing the rusty stains from his nail beds. He studied the bruised ridge of his knuckles, flexing the sore hand. He couldn't recall how many times he hit Finch after he confessed what his plans had been for you, but Simon did remember running a reverent touch over the bruise you had left on the bastard's cheek where you had kicked him. He had smiled at the sight and murmured, "Tha's my girl."

When he exited the bathroom a few minutes later, he saw you stir, your eyes fluttering open. You pushed yourself up on an elbow, squinting at him. "Ri? You just get home?"

He came to sit beside you on the bed. "Nah. Jus' got out o' the shower. Sorry if I woke ya. Go back t'sleep, doll."

You laid your head back on the pillow, peering up at him with a sleepy, hooded gaze. "Did you find what you were looking for? The intel?"

He nodded, taking your hand to rub his thumb over knuckles. "We did. Once we use what we've learned, he won't be a problem anymore. Ya got nothin' to worry 'bout, love."

You nodded, then sighed. "You look tired. You should lie down."

He shook his head. "'M fine. Was gettin' ready' t'do some work in my office. Jus' wanted t'check on ya first."

Your brows puckered as you regarded him. "Will you stay with me? Just til I go back to sleep?"

Simon blinked. You wanted him to stay with you? He swallowed and gave a slow nod. "Sure, doll."

You shuffled back in the bed and rested your head on the other pillow, looking up at him expectantly. Simon sighed, then turned and brought his legs up to stretch out on the bed beside you. He felt your hand creep into his, squeezing it as you sighed and closed your eyes. "G'night, Ri."

"Night, doll."

Simon laid beside you, listening to your breathing even out and deepen as your hand grew slack in his. He scooted down to rest his head on the pillow so he could see your face better in the dark room. The tension slowly seeped out of his body as he watched you sleep, his eyes tracing over the soft lines of your face. He would do anything to keep you this way, safe and at peace.

His eyes began to grow heavy. He should get up, leave you to sleep, yet when he went to pull away, your fingers curled around his hand and a frown puckered your brow again. He eased himself back into the mattress, not wanting to disturb you further. He could wait a few more minutes, then try again. He let his eyes drift shut while he waited, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing.

A few hours later, Simon stirred awake to find you nestled into his side, his arm wrapped around your back, hand resting on your hip. You had flung your arm over his waist, your cheek smooshed against his chest, one leg thrown over his. He laid there, letting himself grow accustomed to the feeling. He hadn't slept like this with anyone in years, couldn't bear the thought of it, yet he found he liked how your soft, feminine form felt pressed against his. Your warmth permeated his body and lulled his mind like a soporific drug, tempting him to stay in bed and enjoy this brief moment of peace.

You should get up, he told himself, but then he felt your arm tighten around his waist. He couldn't help but wonder if this had been your plan when you'd asked him to lie down with you. You wanted him to get some sleep, and lo and behold, here he was. He sighed, peering down at you. You always knew how to get your way with him. Every fucking time.

He tilted his head until his masked face was pressed into the crown of your head and breathed you in. Pulling you closer, Simon closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

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