#luminousbeings-crudematter

[bosombuddiesandsailormouth]

Duality of COD fans:

@charliemwrites @ghouljams @luminousbeings-crudematter @ceilidho

[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.

[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 🖤

[miyabilicious]

lumi... it is very hard to tell you how beautiful this is and all the things i adored when every time i try to, i find myself going back to read it again, and then i tear up, and then i delete the half formed sentence and start the process all over again (the attempts have not reached double figures, but it's close).

So i'll with the first thought that floored me as i reached the end the first time - amazement at how you brought forth this ending while staying true to chef and this simon.

How the first part distills so succinctly and perfectly the characters and dynamics you've eked out along the way (and i hope you are might proud for that set up and execution of the castle of stone to a castle of glass, because it is a gut punch every time).. the fierce love burning through resentment like it was brush (you'd do anything for him, but you can't do everything for him, he has to do them himself). the fond small rituals. the only regret at having imparted false hope (pulling me back to As if you’re the one breaking his heart). You don't expect his kind of glass to shatter, but cracks once formed only widen.

To the second - from the bargaining of Know you deserve more, and I want to giv’it to ya. Jus’ need some time to here (a push and different kind of time). All the touches and reactions and honesty and what you are certain of and what you are not:

You love this man.  You will always love this man.  Regardless of what he wants to say to you, that will never change. the exhale of your answering sigh feels like you’re finally beginning to release the hurt you’ve held onto all this time—the uncertainty of not knowing, the hollowness that his absence brought, all of it. You recognise it for what it is—the joy of seeing someone you love get the help they deserve after having denied themselves of it for so long.  It brings a kind of warmth that feels both privileged and special, but also a bit like coming into a warm home after a hard day.  He’s reliable and steadfast in his conviction, and you know, you know that he’ll take care of you.  If you’ll have him. But…you had had him.  In the limited way he’d allowed, you’d had him for two years.  And where had that gotten you?  “I don’t think us being together is good for me.” “I don’t know what the right thing is to do, Simon.  You broke my heart and I love you, I love you so much, I never stopped, but I don’t trust you anymore and I don’t know if I can.”    

To the third, and where i find myself truly at a loss at holding a thought outside rereading on a loop.

Will you trust me? and The whole time you were together, this is what you’d wanted. This is what you want now. and “I…don’t know.”  You say the words tentatively, but when you look up into his eyes, you see that he wants this very much.  It’s perhaps the only thing that encourages you in that moment.   “I want to.”    Your response seems to hurt him somehow—his face crumples—but he doesn’t push you any further.  “I know I’m goin’ to have to come to terms with this.”  At your enquiring look, he turns to face you entirely and cups your face in his hands.  “I want to believe that I can have you and keep y’safe at the same time.  M’workin’ on it.”

how much hurt and uncertainty has he wrought in you. how far will he go to make it right.

“Can I ask you something?” “Anything.” “If I told you that I wouldn’t do this with you, wouldn’t be able to give you a chance, what would you say?” He swallows, and takes a step towards you, boxing you in.  He gently lifts your face up to look at him.  “I’d tell ya that I couldn’t ‘ave that.  I’d tell ya that I’d find a way to change your mind.  Do anything.” “And if I still didn’t?”  Your words are a whisper. “Then I’d beg.  I’d move into your flat block.  Be your shitty neighbour.  I’d do your food shoppin’ for you, and wash y’car and feed yer cats—” “I don’t have a car or cats!”  You’re full on ugly-crying now, but his words pull a wet laugh out of you anyway. “Doesn’t matter, dove.  I’d do whatever it took.  Anything,” he insists.  “Not repeatin’ my mistakes.  Not ever again.” You sigh, and set your hands on top of his.  “Do you…will you come home with me?”      

Just as you'd do anything for him, he'll do anything for you.

And the crescendo

He’s tense and stressed, and you want so badly to put his mind at ease.  So you do the only thing you can.  You get up from your position on the couch and sit back down, but this time, you straddle him.  You hold his face in between your palms, hold your whole world in your hands, and whisper to him.  “Ask me, Simon.” “Will you have me?”  His voice is a whisper too, as if he’s afraid of breaking the silence.  As if it would change anything if he did.   As if there was any choice in the matter for your heart at all. And, somehow, you think he gets it.  He understands what you want to say in your silence.  And you know he understands because his eyes soften and he closes them in relief.  When he opens them, they shine, unshed tears clinging to pearly white lashes.   You used to think he was incapable of crying, once.  But that’s okay.  You’ve shed enough tears for the two of you anyway. So when you kiss him without answering him, you know he doesn’t mind.  What you are can’t be summed up in words, even if it can be summed up in a kiss.  He clings to you, hard, and you just hold him, no words required between the two of you in that moment. “I love you, too,” he whispers. “I’m glad we cleared that up,” you whisper back, your smile happy and your heart full.  Your thumbs are gentle against his skin as you wipe the wetness away, and then you kiss him.  

Catharsis and joy and relief (and so much ugly crying followed by semi delirious giggle crying for these two hot messes).

I always held out hope that the intuitive simp of where Simon makes you come before you have to go would turn that insight inwards to sorting out his own problems XD

Thank you for sharing this.

where you both find what was lost

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

WARNINGS: 18+ only. 

LENGTH: 3.8k

You briefly forget you lived a whole life without him.

Every day you try not to think about what it would have done to him to wake up alone to a cold bed, and every day, you fail.

It wasn’t that long ago when you used to think he was unreachable and impenetrable, a castle so thoroughly fortified that there was no hope of you getting through. Bits of the facade had slipped away over the years exposing the interiors to you—sometimes substantial chunks of it in a landslide, but more often than not through the kind of work that left you with bloodied, cracked fingernails as you desperately dug for some give.  

It makes you want to resent him for it.  

You want to resent that being with him had turned you into someone you never thought you could be—someone who’d been ground down to a point where you couldn’t recognise the person staring back at you in the mirror.  

And yet…when you think about him, it’s not resentfulness you feel.  No, when you think about him, you find yourself ready to fight the laws of nature.

You find that you’re prepared to hold him together with your bare hands when he threatens to come apart, willing to rage against the natural order of death and decay to pull him out of the rotting ground.  You know that you’d pluck the stars from the skies for him with a smile if he asked, uncaring for your burning palms.  You’d do anything for him.

But some days are harder than others.   

Thinking about when you’d last seen him makes your body physically cringe from the memory.  

He’d fallen asleep next to you.  A moment as rare as it was precious, and you’d cherished it, traced his features with your eyes for hours.  You’d burrowed into him, put your head on his chest so you could hear his heart.  You’d brushed his hair back from his face when his brows had furrowed and his fingers had twitched, he’d even said your name in his sleep. You’d soothed him best you could, and then you’d left.    

Looking back, leaving wasn’t the hardest thing you’d done.  No, it was the false hope you’d given him by showing up at his door at all—you regretted that, more than anything.  He wouldn’t say it—you didn’t think he was capable of saying it—but you knew he’d hoped that you’d stayed.  

After all, you know that in his own way—in the tattered, visceral way a man like him was capable of—he loved you.  Looking back now, you knew he loved you unconditionally—beyond reason and without fault.  That had never been the problem.  

But it took leaving Simon Riley to realise that you had been clawing at a fortress that turned out to be made of glass after all, and a thousand shallow cuts could still bleed you to death.

But the more you think about it, the more you realise how less it all matters.  He did what he did to protect himself and you, in the best way he knew how, and it still changed your life, the very fabric of your being altered by a love that continually stayed just out of reach.  You weren’t sure what he was to you anymore, if anything at all, but somehow, his absence made you want to be a better person.  

As time passed, you found yourself reflecting on your time together fondly—he’d liked your cooking, and so you tried to make more of an effort to feed yourself on your days off from work.  He’d worried about your safety, and while you didn’t share in his paranoia, you took yourself to a self-defence class.  Just once, for fun.  You stocked your preferred brand of wine at home, but now there were bottles of IPA in the fridge too—a new one every other week, just to try.  All because of that one time you’d offered one to him, and the face he’d pulled had made you belly-laugh.  His eyes had softened, and he’d kissed you, brushing his thumb across the apple of your cheek.  And then he’d reached for his regular, predictable bottle of beer.

But life went on, as it tended to.  You tried your best not to think of him actively and on purpose, but you found that he invaded every thought anyway.  You hoped he was okay.  You hoped that he’d found the feeling of peace and safety that he’d so needed.  And through it all, your life continued its unrelenting march forward, giving you no choice in the matter, paying no attention to how much you wished to turn back time.  

A year passes before you hear from him, and an infinite amount of moments whizz past you at the speed of light while you stand, frozen, looking at your phone in a daze at the words that follow his name.  When you look up, it feels like the universe has gotten a couple of degrees warmer.  You understand intimately the hold he has on you—absolute and without any give—but the short message from him after all this time has you clutching at your chest.  

So when he asks you for your time, you acquiesce.  You’ve always known that your inability to say no to him would be the death of you, but what more have you got to lose, you figure.  

What’s an hour or two at a coffee shop with a man who won’t stop haunting you?

____

He’s waiting for you when you arrive—just as big and broad and beautiful as you remember.  He sits at a table by the window, his gaze fixed at the door when you walk in.  

The first thing that catches your attention is the blonde mop of hair that looks dishevelled and unruly and sticks out in all directions.  You know first hand how his hair feels, and you want to reach out and touch it, run your fingers through what you know are soft strands of gold. 

But most importantly—no mask. 

And then you notice something else.  There’s no one else in the cafe, just the two of you.  You follow his quick glance outside, and see the glimpse of a familiar mohawk in a Jeep outside, and you instantly roll your eyes at his melodrama.

When you take a seat in front of him, he slides a drink in front of you, and when you reach out to take it, he touches your hand instead.   Your eyes shoot up immediately and…it makes you feel a certain way about the situation you’ve found yourself in.   You look at him, really look at him, in his standard dark hoodie and jeans, the slight tilt to his head while he considers your reaction, and despite everything, a smile breaks across your face. 

You love this man.  You will always love this man.  Regardless of what he wants to say to you, that will never change. 

It comforts you greatly when his own eyes crinkle in response. 

“Hi, love,” he whispers, and the exhale of your answering sigh feels like you’re finally beginning to release the hurt you’ve held onto all this time—the uncertainty of not knowing, the hollowness that his absence brought, all of it. 

“I’ve missed you,” are the first words you say to him, and his brows furrow slightly.  It’s only a split second later and you’re regretting your words, knowing that he maybe doesn’t want to hear them, and why on Earth would you open with this anyway—

“Me too, pet.  S’why I…thank you for comin’.”

“I—yeah, of course.”

Knowing he needs a moment to collect his thoughts, you look down at his fingers, curled around his cup in a death grip and he flexes them slightly, then releases the cup.  You watch as he brings his fingers close to yours again , and in almost comical levels of slow motion, the tips of his fingers touch yours.  When you don’t pull away,  he exhales, audibly, and you have to wonder what he’s thinking about.

When a few moments pass in silence, you lean forward, and squeeze his fingers.

“Simon…why am I here?”

“I…I’m seein’ someone.  Price made me go after…well.  He made me go.  Get it free through work anyways, thought it couldn’t hurt.  Help me sort some shit up here,” he clarifies, pointing at his temple.  “Wanted to let you know,” he adds.      

The words don’t compute for a single second, but when they do your surprise makes you jerk back in your seat.  “Like…therapy?  You’re seeing a therapist.”

“Mm.”

“Fuck, Simon, I—that’s fantastic!  How has it been?”

Conflicted green eyes meet yours quickly, then dart away again, outside the window.  “Hard.  Feels pointless some days, but doc says m’doin’ good.”

“Oh, Simon,” you breathe, and this time you feel a warmth in your chest you hadn’t expected to.  You recognise it for what it is—the joy of seeing someone you love get the help they deserve after having denied themselves of it for so long.  It brings a kind of warmth that feels both privileged and special, but also a bit like coming into a warm home after a hard day.  You feel lucky to have it, but you know how fragile it is anyway.  

“Thank you for telling me,” you say sincerely, and he nods, but his eyes stay fixed on a point outside the window.

You use the hand currently not entwined with his to take a sip of your drink and decide to wait him out.  What now, you wonder.  And while he watches the early autumn sky, you take the opportunity to watch him.

When he finally opens his mouth to speak, his words are gruff, but soft, in a tone that is so endearingly Simon.  But what you’re not prepared for, what you could never have been prepared for is what he says.   “I hurt you…” he starts.  “I know that.  Hurt the one thing in my life tha’ matters.”

 When you don’t respond, too shocked, too overwhelmed, too wrecked to say anything at all, he continues.  “I’d like the chance to fix things, love…if you’ll ‘ave me.”

And that’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it?  He’ll try his best to fix everything between the two of you as far as he can, you do believe him.  He’s a fortress, after all, with a back broad and strong enough to carry the both of you.  He’s reliable and steadfast in his conviction, and you know, you know that he’ll take care of you.  

If you’ll have him.

But…you had had him.  In the limited way he’d allowed, you’d had him for two years.  And where had that gotten you?  Just thinking about it again leaves you feeling like there’s a twisted, gnarled pit in your stomach.  

“Simon,” you start. “I don’t—look, I’m happy for you.  Really really pleased, but.  I don’t think we’re good for each other.”  You take a deep breath and steel yourself against what you’re about to say next, knowing what it will do to him.  “I don’t think us being together is good for me.”

At your words, he closes his eyes and winces, turning his face away like he’s been slapped.  But still he doesn’t let go of your hand, his fingers lovingly curled around yours.  “I know I deserve that,” he says, hoarsely.  “Know I fucked up.  But I can’t–can’t accept this for us, pet.  I won’t.”  When he looks back at you, you can see a mirror’s reflection of your own exhaustion staring back at you on his face.  He brings your intertwined fingers up to his mouth and kisses them.  “Know I can make you happy, love.”  

“You hurt me, Simon.  Your actions, your words, how you were with me.”  Your voice takes on an embarrassing wobble, and your eyes are so teary that you can’t even see him anymore.  “I don’t know if I have it in me to do that shit again.”

He’s on his feet at once, rounding the table and kneeling by your feet.  Your hand grips him like a vice, fingernails biting into his palms, but he doesn’t even flinch.  When he looks up at you—dark, mossy-green eyes filled with the tangible evidence of how difficult the last year has been for him —it pushes you over the edge, and you sob softly.  This was not what you wanted.  None of this was what you’d wanted.  

“Why didn’t you…where were you?” you hiccup.   “Why did you wait so long to come back to me, Simon, it’s been a fucking year!  I thought you’d moved on and—”

“No!  Never, love, I can’t move on—don’t want to—without ya.  But I had to take the time.  I know I made you feel like you were dispensable to me, or replaceable.  Know I refused to give you what you deserve.   But when you fuck things up like I have, you don’t half arse shit.  You don’t—don’t repeat y’mistakes.  You go to your girl, and you beg.”

He reaches up to touch your cheek softly and you lean into it, sighing deeply.  “I don’t know what the right thing is to do, Simon.  You broke my heart and I love you, I love you so much, I never stopped, but I don’t trust you anymore and I don’t know if I can.”    

“Love you, sweetheart,” he whispers back.  “Never stopped.”

The sincerity in his words only inspires fresh tears.

____

When you return from the ladies’ room, he’s not in his seat.  But before you can panic, you see him standing just outside the entrance to the cafe, his back to you and his arms crossed over his chest.  When you join him, he wordlessly offers you a cigarette—his own—and lights a fresh one for himself.  It’s completely silent for a few moments, just your collective breathing, and the crackling of the cigarettes.

After all this time, Simon seems different to you.  It’s still him, of course, but something’s changed.  You can’t seem to put your finger on it, how he’s still the same man, but not hiding like he used to.  How he carries the same darkness, but it's tinged with greys now.  How he seems to wear his heart on his sleeve, but not quite.       

“How’s work?” he asks, suddenly, and you scoff.

“For real?”

“Yeah, why not, love?”

“Work—work’s good.  Busy, but good.  What, uh, what about you?  Saved the world, yet?”

“More times than you know.”

It draws a smile from you, and while he doesn’t quite smile, his eyes soften.      

Your own falters before it falls.  “I don’t know where to go from here, Simon.”  You reach out to him and grab his hand, and he gives it to you easily, almost without a thought.  Eager to establish contact with his warm skin, you intertwine your fingers again.  “Tell me about therapy.”

Simon sighs heavily.  “S’hard.  There’s so much.  Want to be better though.  Better for you, better for…work.  S’just a lot.”  He sneaks a glance at your hands clasped together.  “I wanted to come see you before.  Some time ago.  Doc told me not to and he was right.  I wasn’ ready.”

“And you are now?  Ready, that is?”

“I don’t mean to bring up bad memories.  But I will give you new ones, pet.  Happy ones.  Will you trust me?”

He’s hurt you.  He’s made you feel small and perhaps used you to insulate his own heart.  But…you also love him.  And he loves you.  The whole time you were together, this is what you’d wanted.   This is what you want now.  

You hesitate, wavering on your feet.  “I…don’t know.”  You say the words tentatively, but when you look up into his eyes, you see that he wants this very much.  It’s perhaps the only thing that encourages you in that moment.   “I want to.”   

Your response seems to hurt him somehow—his face crumples—but he doesn’t push you any further.  “I know I’m goin’ to have to come to terms with this.”  At your enquiring look, he turns to face you entirely and cups your face in his hands.  “I want to believe that I can have you and keep y’safe at the same time.  M’workin’ on it.”

“You have to let it go, Simon.  Or you’re never going to find peace.  You’ll never be truly happy.”

He quiets then, his quota of words exhausted for the moment, and you continue to look up at him.  You don’t know what to say to him at that moment which feels like it goes on forever.  A thousand infinities spent staring at the man you want a future with, a man who’s broken your heart an innumerable number of times, a man you will always love, a man who says he wants to fix things with you.  

You think you can see it clearly now.  The millions of billions of threads that bind the two of you together, ensnared into a ball of yarn so tightly knit, it has no hope of being unknotted.  Bright and beautiful, colours ranging from the shades of greys he lives in to the infinite hues and tints and tones he inspires in you, but hopelessly snarled in and around itself.  

Every time before this you’d tried to disentangle yourself from him—the memory of his voice, the feeling of his skin against yours, the future you’d made up in your mind—it had left you with more knots than when you started. There was no winning. 

“I don’t want to presume that everything’s okay now, love.  Know I’ve got some grovellin’ to do.  But—”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If I told you that I wouldn’t do this with you, wouldn’t be able to give you a chance, what would you say?”

He swallows, and takes a step towards you, boxing you in.  He gently lifts your face up to look at him.  “I’d tell ya that I couldn’t ‘ave that.  I’d tell ya that I’d find a way to change your mind.  Do anything.”

“And if I still didn’t?”  Your words are a whisper.

“Then I’d beg.  I’d move into your flat block.  Be your shitty neighbour.  I’d do your food shoppin’ for you, and wash y’car and feed yer cats—”

“I don’t have a car or cats!”  You’re full on ugly-crying now, but his words pull a wet laugh out of you anyway.

“Doesn’t matter, dove.  I’d do whatever it took.  Anything,” he insists.  “Not repeatin’ my mistakes.  Not ever again.”

You sigh, and set your hands on top of his.  “Do you…will you come home with me?”           

____

You make the short journey back to your flat on foot, hand in hand with him, feeling lighter than before.  He wears a simple black surgical mask, and you find yourself thinking that some things remain the same almost as much as others change.     

Once inside, you busy yourself fixing you both a cup of tea, and he busies himself inspecting the newest addition to your tiny flat—a gigantic bookcase.  When you lead him to the couch, he hesitates.

“Dunno if this is a good idea, love.”  

“Sitting down?”

He smirks.  “Sittin’ down wi’ ya here in your flat.  Bein’ here.  All of it.  Shouldn’t we take things slow, dove?”

And at that you have to laugh.  “If we took things any slower, we’d be dead before the next time you fuck me.  Sit.  I just want to talk.  I’ve missed you.”

He’s not entirely convinced, but he doesn’t help his own case when he settles in and pulls your feet into his lap.  Giving his fidgeting fingers something to focus on, you reckon, but you’re not complaining in the slightest.

“It’s not like I’m completely without fault,” you start without preamble, finally giving words to something you’d been too scared to even think about.  “I pushed you at all the wrong times.  I gave you ultimatums and threatened to make my support conditional when I should have given you—”

But Simon’s already shaking his head.  “No…y’did the right thing.” 

“Simon—”

“No, pet.  Say what you need to say, but not this.  Y’did the right thing,” he insists, squeezing your feet softly.  “You did what y’needed to to take care of yourself when I didn’t.  Y’set your boundaries.”

“Set my boundaries,” you repeat with a laugh, though it’s all far from funny.  “I set my boundaries, and I lost you.  For a year, I lost you…and I was so scared I lost me too.”

“Y’could never—”

“I know I didn’t.  It took me a while, but I realised I could never lose myself.”  You smile and lean forward, cupping his cheek.  “I never even really lost you.”      

“I can’t promise that y’never will.  I…work a difficult job.  Necessary one.  Could get hurt, could die.  Won’t be easy.”  He pauses and looks into your eyes then, holding your attention absolutely.  “But I promise, love, I’ll never stop tryin’ to come back to ya.  Never.”

You consider his words.  “Therapy made you soft.”

He groans and leans back on the couch.  “Nah.  Think it was somethin’ else.”  But then he shoots you a quick look, and his fingers squeeze your feet again.  His mood shifts dramatically, and you struggle to keep up with him at the best of times so this is just insane emotional whiplash.  But you’re prepared for what he’s going to say next, you can feel it.   

He’s tense and stressed, and you want so badly to put his mind at ease.  So you do the only thing you can.  You get up from your position on the couch and sit back down, but this time, you straddle him.  You hold his face in between your palms, hold your whole world in your hands, and whisper to him.  “Ask me, Simon.”

“Will you have me?”  His voice is a whisper too, as if he’s afraid of breaking the silence.  As if it would change anything if he did.  

As if there was any choice in the matter for your heart at all.

And, somehow, you think he gets it.  He understands what you want to say in your silence.  And you know he understands because his eyes soften and he closes them in relief.  When he opens them, they shine, unshed tears clinging to pearly white lashes.  

You used to think he was incapable of crying, once. 

But that’s okay.  You’ve shed enough tears for the two of you anyway.

So when you kiss him without answering him, you know he doesn’t mind.  What you are can’t be summed up in words, even if it can be summed up in a kiss.  He clings to you, hard, and you just hold him, no words required between the two of you in that moment.

“I love you, too,” he whispers.

“I’m glad we cleared that up,” you whisper back, your smile happy and your heart full.  Your thumbs are gentle against his skin as you wipe the wetness away, and then you kiss him.  

____

A/N: Big oof.

Ao3 says I've written about 55k works in 10 months, and I can promise you that these were the hardest. What started out as just smutty prompts turned out to be this emotional roller-coaster of a story, and I cannot be more grateful to you, reader, for sticking with it. Every kind word I've received about these two hot messes means more to me than I can articulate, so I won't even embarrass myself by trying.

Thank you to every single one of you that have read and liked and reblogged and commented or even just lurked here. Thank you thank you thank you.

(MASTERLIST)

[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 :((

[jolapeno]

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.

[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)

[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.

[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        

[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.

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

[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

[ohbo-ohno]

age gap ghoap pwp save me

...age gap ghoap pwp...

save me age gap ghoap pwp

lololol hehehe it's dumb kid (19) soap tries to rob old grizzled veteran ghost and it Does Not go as he planned

(icky gross nasty noncon sex :/)

[devcica]

Oh, god, oh god. This was intense.

Alford Plea

PART 3 - Anticipated Penalty

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

“Simon,” you whine.  “F-fuck just–please, fuck…” you trail off in a moan because the capacity to speak in full words finally seems to leave you.  You don’t even know what you want from him.  For him to slow down?  Or speed up?

He stands behind you on the edge of the bed, while you’re in…a compromised position.  His arm feels sturdy and solid on your back, pushing your chest firmly into the bed, while he grinds his pelvis into yours from behind you.  Only your feet dangle off the edge of the bed, and his hips make slow, languishing contact with yours, but he’s so much taller, so much more imposing, that he has to bend forward and bring his chest almost flush against your back. The motion pushes him so much deeper inside you, you’re not sure where you end and he begins.      

You don’t know what you want, and it seems almost pointless to even want to figure it out at this point.  

 Your face is turned to the side, watching him in the mirror, watching what Simon Riley looks like inside you.  His brow is furrowed—he has the exact same look when he’s trying to block everything out and concentrate on a singular task at work, you realise—and oh.  He’s looking at you through the mirror too.  Speaking to you?

“...d’you want, sweet girl?  Tell me and s’yours, love.”  But his words are slurred, drunk from the alcohol,  drunk off the way you feel around him, tight and warm and practically strangling his cock inside you. 

What you want most of all, you decide, is for him to never stop.

____

NOW

It’s your own fault for jinxing the day the way that you’d done.

You’d made the stupid mistake of thinking that lunch service had been relatively breezy, and now hell itself had opened up from beneath your feet to spew the most fucking vile dicks that had ever eaten at the restaurant.  Ordering off the menu, failing to understand the concept of rare meat, wanting faster service, wanting and wanting and wanting.     

You want to kill them all, and then set the whole kitchen on fire.  

It also doesn’t help that despite all of it, the primary recipient of your ire is Simon. 

 You’re not a complete idiot—you didn’t expect him to…well, you didn’t expect anything from him.  Obviously, the previous night was a mistake and you needed to acknowledge that you’d both fucked up and then move on.  Except…

Except you couldn’t.  You couldn’t pretend the previous night was a mistake and you couldn’t just move on.    

He has a certain way of moving through the kitchen, you realise, as you glance up at him from your station while you plate up.  There's a method to his madness, a unique grace in his chaos.  It’s why the kitchen runs so well.  He’s committed to his work, works just as hard as anyone else, and he may be a dick, but he leads the kitchen well, paying attention to the most minute details.  

And you know Simon can pay attention.  You’ve been the beneficiary of his attention, after all.   He gave you his attention last night—more than once—and then this morning—again, more than once—and boy, are you hoping to have some of his attention—

“Chef.”

He’s standing in front of you, looming over you, peering with barely-restrained disdain at the side salad you’re assembling. 

“You feelin’ alright?” 

You can imagine your face right now—caught looking like a deer caught in the headlights (or a stupid woman looking at her boss that she fucked the night before)—and look back down to your salad.  Then back up at him.  “...yes?”

“Is that the salad you make when you’re feelin’ alright, Chef?”

You’re only just coming to realise that he’s not floating on the same cloud you are, and you’re moments away from being chewed out by Chef Riley, your employer, not Simon, the man you fucked last night.

“I…what’s wrong with it?”

You’ve never heard a more derisive scoff leave someone’s mouth before.  “Start again.  S’ain’t leavin’ my kitchen, understood?” 

“What’s wrong with it?”  You cross your arms across your chest and you see his eyes lazily make the journey from your face down to your chest, and lingering, before they lift back up to your eyes.  He takes a step forward in your direction, and you have to struggle to control your breathing and hold your ground.  

You hear the lull of conversation hush around you, turn into tense murmurs.  This isn’t new.  You butt heads with Simon a lot.  But, for no obvious reason, he seems particularly unimpressed with you today.     

 “Do as I say, Chef.  Not repeatin’ myself.”  And with that, he steps back and turns to leave.  

 The dismissal stings.  You hate to admit it to yourself, you hate to even think about it, but you’d thought that the night before had meant something to him.  You didn’t have delusions of grandeur—you weren’t expecting to be treated like anything special—but you had expected him to be nicer.  Maybe…more kind.  And not only was he not being nicer, he was going out of his way to be a dickhead.  

“No,” you gripe.  “I’ve made it like the spec says, and it’s good to go.  Go find someone else to bully, Simon.”

It’s like watching a car crash—you know it’s horrible and awful and you should peel your eyes away from the mess—but you can’t look away.  You have an out-of-body experience, watching yourself in slow motion as you say the words to your boss, and you can do nothing but continue to watch in horror as it happens.  It doesn’t even occur to you to shut your mouth.     

Simon pauses, his shoulders frozen tight, and then turns towards you slowly.  Disobedience does happen, in his kitchen.  He allows people to challenge him, to disagree with him.  He’s not unreasonable.  

But disrespect?  In front of his staff?  

He looms over you, and you’re already wondering where else you can find a job that doesn’t require a long commute.

He leans forward towards you, and his voice is a whisper that gives you goosebumps on your arms when he speaks.  “Just for tha’, ‘m going to stuff your mouth full till you can’t speak, love.” 

And oh, he doesn’t realise what he’s done.  The hard 180.  The professional disrespect.  The fact that everyone you work with, everyone, is watching you.

You watch in slow motion for the second time in the day as your open palm makes contact with his cheek.     

____

THEN

Simon Riley kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before.  It’s equal parts passionate and arrogant, exactly like he is.

His hands come up to hold your face in place while he thoroughly explores the hot cavern of your mouth.  His tongue fights yours for dominance, and he kisses you for so long that it feels like a fight turning into an argument, then a bicker and when you grind your hips against his, looking instinctually for some friction, he groans against your mouth, surrendering, finally letting you win.  

This time, it’s your hands that move into his hair, running over the diligently kept crop until you reach the nape of his neck and pull him deeper into you.  His hands feel warm and a comforting kind of big as they shamelessly explore the contours of your body.  He runs curious but confident hands along the sides of your waist, squeezing and pulling your hips into his.     

He breaks away from you for a moment only to reach behind him and pull his shirt off in the particularly sexy way that men tend to.  The way that is designed to drive women like you insane.  

This is it, you realise.  He’s taken his shirt off, and soon, yours will join it on the floor.  Nothing will ever be the same.   Point of no return.

You’re less bothered by the thought than you thought you’d be, you realise, as you take a step away from him.  You see Simon’s eyes widen, and he runs a shaky hand through his hair.  You take your own shirt off.  

You don’t realise it then, but you’ve never been more correct.  You’ve just about demolished the relationship you’ve had with Simon up to that point, and nothing stays the same after that moment. 

____

A/N: yeah…full brainrot took over at this point

A/N 2: this wasn't uploaded yesterday (as it should have been) purely because of who I am as a person

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

[ceilidho]

Who are some of your favorite cod writers on tumblr?

oh god, so many and i for sure am going to forget some while answering this

@charliemwrites @kneelingshadowsalome @ohbo-ohno @chai-isms @luminousbeings-crudematter@391780 @frogchiro @peachesofteal @moongreenlight @belovedunseelie @soullessdianthus @bbbbyblu @konigsblog @cheesit-notes @xintothewoodswegox @alwaysshallow

i am for sure missing people but right off the top of my head, these r my faves. but also, im very new to cod tumblr and i don't think i know even half the writers on here that i'd probably enjoy !! like 2 people on this list only came across my dashboard this week