☆﹒** glitch !! **
→﹕he/it/she﹒25 →﹕mdni & ddne !!! this blog is 90% nsfw & smut and contains dark content
→﹕i post too many fics about cod men (mostly 141 & graves) →﹕my ask box is always open !!!
→﹕you can call me glitch! i'm 25, autistic, and use he/it/she pronouns. i'm currently hyper-fixated on call of duty (especially tf141 & phillip graves)!
→﹕outside of writing i enjoy gaming, horror, anime, cosplaying & editing (even though i never post it lmao)
→﹕my ask box will be open for potential requests, thoughts, whatever, and moots are always welcome to dm me! i'm always happy to yap!!! i am a little awkward though and bad at replying sometimes but i see & appreciate all the nice comments & tags i SWEAR 😭🫶
→﹕i did not know some people cared LOL so just know spam liking & re-blogging is not only encouraged, but if you do i will be telepathically sending you heart emojis 🫶🫶🫶
→﹕ my own writing will be tagged as 'glitch creates' and any thirsts can be found under 'everything reminds me of him' or '(character)'
→﹕any fics from other creators i rb will be 'glitch recs'
→﹕self-reblogs are "glitch srb" and any fanart, memes, etc will be 'glitch rb'
→﹕anything non-writing related will be tagged as 'glitch rambles'
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☆﹒writing stuff !!!
→﹕i have an ao3 that i post on as well!
→﹕i do post dark content, horror, and content that might be uncomfortable & triggering to others sometimes, but it will always be labelled !!
→﹕all of my writings will be detailed & labelled as "cw: subject" so please heed the warnings !!! any more major triggers will also be in my featured tags so you know what to block !!!
→﹕that being said i don't always remember to cw: tag fics i reblog, so feel free to block the tag (ment. above but it's: glitch recs)
→﹕this is probably gonna be mostly NSFW content, but i do post the occasional fluff or angst
→﹕please don't EVER feed any of my writing to ai, chatbots, etc.
→﹕my masterlist can be found by clicking the link or searching "glitch masterlist"
→﹕you can navigate my blog using the masterlist(s), featured tags, character name smut, or character name x reader!
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☆﹒requests !!!
→﹕ DISCLAIMER before i list my no's be aware this is very much a shame-free space. i'm not here to yuck someone's yum as my yum is someone else's yuck. that being said:
→﹕ my no's:
characters: shepherd, anyone outside of the mw & ghosts franchise
kinks: noncon (i just have certain limits with it so even though you may see me write noncon i would prefer it not be requested!! but, cnc is a yes, though!), incest (fauxcest is a yes, though!), scat, vore, wound play (i think that's what it's called?)
other: teen or child readers, hard drugs / addiction (weed is a yes, though!), self-harm & suicide attempts
→﹕i'm sure i'm probably missing some but that's the biggest ones i can think of at the moment. i'll update this if needed!
→﹕if something isn't on this list or you're not sure if it falls under these, send it away! if whatever's been requested isn't something i'm comfortable with, i'll just say so (in a shame free way, promise!).
→﹕sometimes requests get answered quickly, and sometimes they sit a while, unfortunately. i kind of have to latch onto an idea if that makes any sense? again though, if it's something where i just can't seem to write it at all i'll politely let the asker know!
Wait, rommy, if you're feeling up to it, can we hear more about the ghostgaz bug petplay?? I'm foaming at the mouth at the thought and I'd lovelovelove to hear your thoughts about it (I feel very moth many days so I'm personally vested in bug pet plah :3)
Omg omg so it's like...the most self-indulgent concept in my head rn so I'm just gonna ramble about being ghosts petplay bug(*≧∀≦)
I like to think it centres heavily around building you the best 'enclosure' so things like leafy or moss style blankets, plenty of places to hide. Pillows that look like logs or sticks, and tons og giant bug plushies!!
Ghost cares a lot about giving you "enrichment" such at a game console, or books, or even puzzles you can solve for treats to mimic bugs scavenging for food! You've got about five different bug accessories, mutliple headband and clip-on antennae. You even get a muzzle styled like a beetles mouth, with really sharp spikes so you can "bite" him for handling you too much.
Oh, and of course he's feeding you all the snacks you want. He lovingly assembles a snack board for you to eat each day and leaves it on your table disguised as a rock.
To me, it really boils down to ghosts obsession with bugs and his desire to care for you. There's no expectations for you to act a certain way or have a certain amount of energy for him to enjoy it. You could sleep all day and he'd love how cute you are in your leaf cocoon!
Uhhhh also if you want he fucks you and gets you off :3
“a shepherd who owned a dog named grim swam across the river, then whistled for grim to follow, who went over the bridge and became the devil's sacrifice.” it sounded kind of familiar to me, chat…
alt link; ao3
(darkfic, dd:dne, southern gothic horror vibes)
cw & tags: afab fem!reader, southern!reader, reader smokes, religious ment., noncon touching, kidnapping, no smut, implied suicidal thoughts, implied depression, implied abuse, ref. to 09 & comics ghost's backstory, brief body horror, canonical character death, ref. to aesop's fables, dialogue heavy, dd:dne, word count: 3k
Simon’s been guarding the run-down church for as long as it’s been there– ever since he woke up six feet under, covered in dirt and insects. He doesn’t recall all of his life, but he remembers dying, the burning flames of betrayal as Shepherd misled him.
He wants to say he wasn’t always like this; all fur and sharp fangs, snarling at passersby– but Simon Riley will always be remembered as a loyal dog. He wonders if being buried was his reward for serving his handler well, General Shepherd– his shepherd.
Nonetheless, he is more beast than anything now, and it’s been his duty to take care of the church ever since his shepherd misled him across that metaphorical river.
He’s not a religious man, but he knows that a church is nothing without its people– and his church was barren for years until you showed up.
Your scent is tinged with the sour smell of despondency as you slip off your flats, letting your feet dig into the wet grass. As he watches you from the edge of the forest, it feels as if he’s finally been let in on the secret behind this sick esoteric joke he’s forced to call his afterlife.
Soil coats your skin as you dig your knees into the dirt. All you can focus on is the silver chain resting tightly around your neck; the dainty metal cross almost stings as it presses into your chest.
Burnt amber stains the edges of your white dress as you kneel, the smell of the earth (the smell of life) making its way to you as you squeeze your eyes shut.
The last time you prayed, you were just a little girl, still hopeful and full of life. Unafraid to believe in silly things like kindly faeries, guiding animals, or valiant knights from the fables you’d been told.
Your eyes snap open, body shivering under a piercing gaze as you scan the treeline for whoever– whatever– is watching you.
“Hello?” you call out, voice hoarse as you slowly stand up, nervously stumbling towards the edge of the woods. You hear it before you see it– see him.
A low growl fills the woods, reverberating through the trees and pulsating through your bones.
If you don’t look too closely, it’s almost something canine-like. Even on all fours, the top of its head reaches your stomach; its fur is black, and despite being matted with dried, rusty blood, you can make out a white, eerily skull-shaped pattern on its face.
The closer it gets to you, the more you can smell it: a thick, heavy scent of rot mixed with iron. As the stench of death fills your lungs, something bitter in your stomach churns– a covetous feeling settling in your gut, turning your body into a place of rest.
“You’re all alone too, ain’t you?” It tilts its head, impossibly dark eyes narrowed as it observes you. Palm flat, you reach out your hand, letting its wet nose catch a trace of your scent before brushing your fingers against its fur.
A small whine leaves its mouth, its large head rubbing against your wrist as if trying to fix your smell. “You tryin’ to tell me I stink?” you mumble.
It doesn’t reply– why would it, after all– but it does let out a huff of air that feels suspiciously light– too close to a laugh.
“I always wanted a dog, y’know, but you’re not a dog, are you? Reckon I could take you in anyway– you shouldn’t hafta be all alone out here.”
You watch its lips snarl as you pull out a cigarette from the pockets of your dress, unable to hide the way you snort at the sight. “Fine, fine,” you mumble, putting it away. “Here, an apology.”
It sniffs the granola bar cautiously, looking up at you in alarm. “It’s not poison, wolfie–” Clearly, it’s not fond of the nickname if the low, warning growl it gives you is any indicator. “How about Ghost, then? Y’ showed up outta nowhere, quiet as hell, like you’re hauntin’ the old church,” you try.
It must approve of the name because it grows subdued, ears pressed flat against its head as it devours the food you gave it. “I’m sorry for intrudin’ in your space, Ghost; I just… needed somewhere safe,” you whisper.
Ears perking up, it looks at you before letting its stare flicker to the old building behind you. “Now that I fed you, you’re not gonna eat me, right?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that the light reflecting in its eyes borders on something like amusement.
“You wanna hear a story my Ma’ used to tell me?” As it sits down in front of you, tail dragging through the mud, you can’t help but chuckle.
“A lamb was being chased by a wolf, so it ran into a church. Well, the wolf, it shouts at her, tries to warn her that if she gets caught by the preacher, she’ll be killed. And do you know what the lamb says?” You pause, scratching behind its ear before you continue.
“The lamb says, ‘Fine then, I’m better off bein’ sacrificed to the lord than devoured by you,” you finish.
Ignoring its whimpering as you stand up, you glance down at it. “I’m the lamb, but you, Ghost– even with all that blood and fur on you– you ain’t the wolf. I’ve seen hungry dogs before, felt my flesh in their mouths; you don’t got the same sharp teeth they do.”
He follows you to the edge of the property, as far as he can go, and watches as you grab your dirty shoes before turning around to look at him. “I’ll come back; I’ll bring y’ another story and better food– promise.”
After death, it’s become hard for him to keep track of time; seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours, until the days blend into one long purgatory. All Simon– no, he’s back to being Ghost now, isn’t he? All Ghost knows for certain is that it took you far too long to return home to him.
You’ve got a lit cigarette hanging from your lips that you stomp out as soon as you see his eyes lit up amongst the trees. You take your shoes off once again, feet sinking into the mud as you walk towards him.
You still smell of melancholy, though he’s able to at least catch hints of your natural scent peeking through today as he sniffs the air.
“C’mon, Ghost, now you’ve really got me wonderin’ if I smell that bad,” you tease, ignoring the dirt staining the fabric of your dress as you sit in the grass. Ghost pays you no mind, finding more interest in poking his nose into the small tupperware container you brought.
Shaking your head, you pry off the lid, watching as he inspects the food. “Bet you haven’t had steak in a long time.” Drool and pink juice spill down his lips as he scarfs down the meat. “Didn’t even hafta pay for it, y’know? Courtesy of some asshole my coworker set me up with– he was too big for his britches,” you complain.
The fur on his back stands up, teeth digging into the meat a little more harshly– almost angrily tearing it apart. It lies down no sooner than it's done eating. Its lips are downturned in a borderline pout, as it gets slightly closer to you than the last time. “Thought you’d like that.”
“Well, I promised you a story, didn’t I, Ghost?” His ears twitch, head tilted as it stares at you from its spot on the ground.
“There was a wolf– there’s always a wolf in these tales, Ghost. Anyway, the wolf had the bright idea to dress up as a sheep, thought it’d make his life a hell of a lot easier. So, he wears a sheep’s skin and forces himself into their flock,” you start.
“He did a hell of a job, really; he ate with ‘em, sat in the sun with ‘em– played the shepherd like a damn fiddle.” A bitter laugh crawls out of your throat before you can shove it down.
Your fingers pull at the grass as you continue your story. “Then night came, and the wolf was shut up with the sheep– the door closed so tight he couldn’t open it. The shepherd was hungry, and he needed somethin’ to cook; it was supper time after all. Well, he couldn’t tell the wolf apart from one of his sheep– he killed him on the spot.”
Mud cakes under your nails as you let your hands sink into the ground. “Now, Ghost, I, for one, say the wolf is a damn fool for ever thinkin’ it’d be easier to be a sheep. He got what was comin’ to him, don’t you think so?”
Your four-legged friend huffs out a breath, one you decide to take as a sign of agreement. “I’m jealous of you, y’know? If I could be anythin’, I’d wanna be somethin’ big and scary– not that I find you scary anymore; I know you’re nothin’ but a pup deep down,” you say, pressing a chaste kiss to its head as if to prove a point.
Wiping your hands on your dress, you stand up, smiling down at him as you pick up the empty bowl. “Ready to walk me out, Ghost?”
These visits become a routine, a small glimpse into what he imagines the hereafter would be like. Your stories are entertaining, he supposes, always about a wolf and a lamb and always tinged with a poignant tone– your eyes always somewhere far off as you speak.
It rests its head in your lap tonight– the closest it’s gotten to you thus far. “Takin’ a shine to me, huh, Ghost?” The words come out as shaky as your hands that reach out to rest in its fur. “I don’t have any food today, so if y’ gotta eat me, I get it.”
It must not find the joke funny, a low growl vibrating against your leg. “Sorry,” you mumble, fumbling around your pockets as you pull out a cigarette.
You yelp, his teeth just barely grazing your thigh– correcting you like a misbehaving pup. “I know, I know, you don’t like it– tough shit, I need it. Swear, I’m about to have a come-apart.”
It whines each time you take a shaky inhale, the noise breaking something inside you as smoke fills your lungs. “Hell have mercy, fine. You win, Ghost,” you cough out, watching fondly as his tail thumps, dirt flying with each smack against the ground.
After only three puffs, you press the dog end into the ground, letting the wet grass put it out. “I think it’s story time, ain’t it?” You don’t wait for his response before starting.
“A hungry wolf found a skull, sitting on top of the dirt. He kicks it with his foot, flips it upside down, and inspects it before laughing. ‘You used to be so pretty, so pleasant,’ the wolf says. ‘Now you don’t got your wits or your beauty, and you ain’t got a thought or voice.’ And so, the wolf starved that night.”
You let the words linger for a moment, content to stare down at its pitch-black eyes. “Well, I fear that’s the whole story, Ghost– bit of a let-down, ain’t it?”
Today, the cold wind carries your scent to him before his eyes have the chance to find you. You smell wrong: a pungent stench of metallic decay– you smell like him.
If he closes his eyes, Ghost can recall what true fear feels like; he holds on to the fog-covered moments of molting snake skin against his lips, a jawbone pressed like a tool between his fingers– a deep feeling of loss. The memories flash in front of him, ears pressed flat against his head as he takes in your state.
Your eyes are bloodshot and glassy, black streaks dried and crusted against your face as you sit down in front of him. He notices that you didn’t bother to cover your feet today; your heels are threatening to bleed.
Its wet nose presses against your cheek, a soft sound that you assume is meant to be comforting, pushing past its snout before crawling into your lap. “Now we both know you’re too big for–” A pathetic whine cuts you off. “Never mind,” you sigh.
“I think you’ll like today’s story, Ghost. There was a town, take your pick, that wanted to build a bridge that could hold up against the flood– they kept failin’ though. Then the devil shows up, promises to build them a big ole’ bridge as long as they sacrifice the first livin’ creature that crosses it.”
Your fingers run down its spine, a soothing motion for both you and your canine-like companion. “Y’gotta be dumber than a bag of hammers to trust the devil himself, really. The townspeople argue ‘bout who should be their victim when the shepherd has a bright idea– he’s got a dog, a good dog, real loyal, named Grim.”
You can feel its body stiffen beneath you, claws pressing a little harder against your legs. “Well, he swims across the river, then stands, whistles for Grim to follow, and he does; he trots across that bridge and becomes the devil’s sacrifice.”
“Grim didn’t deserve that– you didn’t deserve that, Ghost. Me and you, we’re cut from the same cloth– just two loyal dogs who trusted the wrong shepherds,” you lament, gently pushing him off you as you stand up.
“I can’t promise when I’ll come back. Can’t guarantee I ever will, but–”
The sound of bones crunching and mending– snapping in and out of place– quickly fills the air; your bittersweet farewell gets swallowed along with the dread that threatens to creep up your esophagus and spill out of your lips.
You don’t have to open your eyes to know it's– he’s– standing behind you; you can feel the hands grabbing at your waist, something impossibly tall towering over you.
“Turn around, lamb.”
His eyes are so dark they almost appear pitch black as they stare right through you. The next thing you notice is the skull covering his face– not a mask; the bone is too textured, the color too real. You quickly recognize the familiar pattern, one you’ve stared down at for months now.
“Ghost?” you whisper, your body rigid as you stand.
“Can call me Simon when ‘m like this,” his voice is low, gravelly, and the words come out slowly as if he has to remember how to use his own vocal cords.
Jaw tight, you manage to mutter out a response. “Simon… what are you?”
“Y’ told me a lo’ of stories, love; take a guess.”
Your mind races, flipping through memories of sitting on your mother’s lap like pages of an old and forgotten book– mentally searching a collection of fables.
“You’re a church grim, ain’t ya?” His eyes crinkle, giving you a slow nod as he waits for you to continue. “A loyal dog that got buried here by someone who didn’ deserve you. Now you gotta watch over this place– or what’s left of it, I reckon.”
His face presses against yours, tongue lapping at the salty tears running down your cheeks– it’s not as comforting as it used to be. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to run, but his hands are wrapped so tight around your arms that your fingers begin to feel like pure static.
“Let me go, Simon–”
Lips press against your forehead, his palm gliding up and down your spine– mimicking the very affections you’d freely given him. “I can’t do that, lamb; can smell the thoughts of death lingerin’ in yer head. Yer worryin’ me,” he sighs.
After all, it’s his duty to serve his shepherd and take care of the church. A loyal dog is admittedly nothing without a shepherd to follow, and a church is nothing without its people– Simon Riley is nothing without you.
The inside of the church fares no better than the outside; greenery creeps in through the window and up the soggy walls, a damp smell in the air as he leads you past the doors. He has a pile in a corner consisting of a few ragged pillows and several blankets littered with holes. You can feel his eyes on you, gauging your reaction– waiting for your approval.
“It’s… nice, Ghost– Simon, I mean, Simon,” you correct yourself.
He doesn’t waste any time before dragging you into the pathetic excuse for a bed; his hulking form trapping you against his chest, the wooden floors creaking with the combined weight of both your bodies.
“Tell me another story, love.”
Shakily, you take a deep breath before speaking. “My Ma’ loved to tell me this one. There was a wolf that made friends with a flock of sheep– but he didn’t hurt ‘em. The shepherd was suspicious, though, always watchin’ and lookin’ out for somethin’ to happen.”
“The wolf kept at it for a month of Sundays, and eventually the shepherd realized that the wolf hadn’t done nothin’ wrong. He started to see him as a friend– someone he could trust.” The words leave a sour taste in your mouth– a lingering flavor of betrayal on your tongue.
His warm hand caresses your head as if he’s trying to pet you as you once did him. “The shepherd left the sheep in the wolf’s care; he comes home to find his flock’s all gone– every last one of ‘em. He’s outraged, shakin’ his fist and screamin’ at the sky. ‘I was an idiot– but that’s what I get for trustin’ my sheep with a wolf.”
“What do y’think of tha’ one, lamb?”
“I think…” Your voice trails off, hands clenching into fists where they rest stiffly by your sides. “I think it’s cruel of the wolf, y’know, a real dick move to pretend to be the lamb’s friend like that, just to turn around and devour her.”
Pressing a quick kiss to your hair, he gives a quiet huff as he contemplates your words.
“Good thing ‘m not the wolf, then, innit, love? Wha’ was it y’said– I don’ got the teeth for it.”
thinking about waking simon riley up with head. lips wrapped around him, fingernails scratching gently at his thighs, coaxing him awake as you take him deeper into your mouth.
your forgot, though, that his reflexes don't turn off in sleep. in fact, unconscious is the only time he can't keep them in check around you.
you end up with a bruise forming around your eye.
he ends up apologising profusely and pressing a bag of frozen peas against the side of your face whilst you try and go down on him again - safely awake this time.
genuinely i don’t think it’s possible to easily explain the explicit part of online friendships to people who don’t Understand. i don’t mean like, explicit in the sense of “oh you’re sexting” or whatever. no. i mean when you and your friend start gleefully making up explicit sexual scenarios for your shared blorbos and you get giddier and giddier as you add more detail and you’ll be grinning at your screen as you type away at mach speeds. and it’s entirely nonsexual in an interpersonal sense, you’re not really getting Into it, but ohhhhh it’s soooooo fun and satisfying. and you can NEVER tell someone who doesn’t also do this that your mood is actively improved like fivefold because you and your friend played Sexual Tuoys together because they’ll go “what the FUCK.”
something something caleb who dates solely to try and push down his feelings for you
18+ (smut)
cw & tags: afab fem!reader, heavy fauxcest / pseudocest, cheating, reader and caleb both are the problem in this, possibly a bit ooc, gaslighting, manipulation, i think that covers it ?, word count: 2.9k
Between the pages of an old book in Caleb’s room, there lies a quote: gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love. The words made themselves a home in the furthest corner of his brain until they became more than just an excerpt.
Love is a choice, so here he silently sits in a bed that is not his while his girlfriend screams at him. As he glances over at the small clock on the nightstand, he realizes the argument has lasted hours by now.
“I just– I don’t get it, Caleb; something’s wrong with her–”
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
She stares at him with a pinched expression. “That’s the first time you’ve spoken during this entire conversation, and it’s to defend her. Are you fucking kidding me?”
He’s exhausted; the one-sided discussion has run in circles to the point of collapsing in on itself. “What do you want from me?” he sighs, hand dragging down his face as he glances back at the red, flashing numbers.
“I want you to choose me,” she whispers.
He shows up at your door an hour later, heartbroken and with a bottle of cheap liquor. “I broke up with her,” he mumbles, sitting next to you on the floor as he pours you both a shot.
You’re thankful that the glass pressed to your lips hides your smile, letting out a small cough once the sour liquid slides down your throat.
“I’m sorry, gege,” you say, both of you knowing the words are a lie.
You hated her for taking Caleb away; you tried not to be bitter about it, but it grew harder to hide your disapproval each time she stared at you with eyes that were just a shade off from your own.
He shrugs half-heartedly as he pulls you into his lap, letting his head fall onto your shoulder. “You’re my sister; it wasn’t a decision.”
He wakes up half-dressed in your bed, your leg thrown over his hip as you sleep next to him. He blames the blurred lines and memories on the alcohol as he tells himself his half-hard cock has nothing to do with the feeling of your body on his.
The bright screen of his phone is what wakes you up, your breath on his ear as you watch him swipe his way left and right– mostly left, you note– through a plethora of women.
“Didn’t take you for the rebound type,” you mumble.
He waits a little longer this time before deciding to introduce you to his newest girlfriend. The faint ghost of your drunken lips on his flushed skin makes him painfully aware of how bad he needs this relationship to work.
“It was nice meeting you.” She smiles brightly, pressing a kiss to Caleb’s cheek as she walks out of his apartment.
You don’t say anything, content to watch the movie playing on the television as he stares at you. “What do you think?” he comments.
“Why does it matter what I think?” you ask, knees tucked under your chin as you stare at the screen.
The correct answer is that it shouldn’t; your opinion shouldn’t have any effect on his relationship. You shouldn’t have any effect on his relationship. “You’re my sister; of course it matters,” he settles on.
You don't say it out loud– you don't need to– but the question rings in his ears as you wrap your arms around him.
“I'd never ask you to choose, Caleb,” you whisper, lips too close to his pulse point as you nuzzle your face against his neck.
“You don't have to, meimei,” he sighs as he pulls out his phone, your thumb brushing against his as you grab it out of his hands.
One of his fingers shakily presses send on the break-up text you drafted; his other hand grips your hip to stop you from squirming against his thigh.
He doesn't tell you he's in a relationship this time– he doesn't have to. He can hide her from you, but he can't hide the way he sighs every time his phone buzzes or the disinterested phone calls in your hallway.
He knows you’re at the cafe before he even sees you, his body pulled towards the sound of your laughter echoing from the small booth in the corner. “I didn’t know the two of you knew each other,” he comments, placing a hesitant kiss on your forehead as he slides into the seat next to you.
“She's a friend of a friend. I guess Granny was right; it really is a small world.”
It should be a good thing that the two of you get along so well– logically, he knows that much. He drops her off at your apartment for another movie night he’s not invited to, wondering if this is what it felt like for you to watch someone steal him away.
After three days of radio silence from both of you, he receives the phone call he’s been waiting on– it’s just from the wrong person. She’s sobbing into the speaker as she tries to get the words out.
“I can’t– I won’t tell you who it was, but I cheated on you. It wasn’t an accident; it was an active choice. I’m sorry, Caleb; you deserve better,” she sniffles.
He tells himself it’s anger settling in his veins as he knocks on your door that night. The two of you sit in a tense silence until you finally speak up. “She tasted like you.”
You wake up to an empty apartment the next morning with finger-shaped bruises on your wrists. An ache settles in your lower half as you slowly sit up, your phone lighting up with another text from your brother’s ex-girlfriend.
Now that their relationship is over, you don’t hesitate to block her number.
Caleb likes his current girlfriend well enough; she’s kind, very polite– if not a touch boring. He doesn’t love her, though– and no matter how many times he half-heartedly repeats the words back to her, he knows now that he never will.
He isn’t particularly attracted to her, but she looks similar enough to you that he can close his eyes and pretend he is– yet she’s different enough that no one can call him out for it.
Once is a chance, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern- something Josephine once said to you both as kids.
As he watches you stare at the marks littering his collarbones, he wonders if that makes the fourth time a choice.
“Seriously, gege?” you scoff, unable to look away from the faint bruise on his chest peeking out from under the collar of his shirt.
Shame settles in his stomach, avoiding your piercing gaze as he pulls the fabric up. “Sorry, Pips,” he mumbles.
You roll your eyes at him, sipping at your cup as the sound of the movie fades into the background. “When were you gonna introduce us?”
Never, he thinks to himself. If it were his choice, these parts of his life would never cross– unfortunately, though, that’s not for him to decide.
“Bring her to dinner tonight.” The words sound eerily like a presentiment– a ringing in his ears warning him of future disaster.
He always swore he would say no to you when you asked, but all it takes is your soft hand on his knee for him to crumble.
“Okay, okay. You’ll love her.”
The air in the booth is agonizingly thick– it has been since he chose to sit down next to you. She’s glaring at you from across the table, his arm wrapped tight around your shoulder.
“You’re in school, right?” You ask, taking a sip of your drink before offering it to him to try. He doesn’t even bother to grab the glass, his lips brushing against your fingers as he sips from your straw.
Before she can even lean across the table, your thumb darts out, brushing off a drop of liquid from the corner of his mouth. “Thanks, honey,” he coos, her hands balling into fists at the nickname.
“Yeah. I’m in school,” she mumbles, fork picking at her food as the two of you share a plate.
You smile widely, either not noticing or just not caring about her standoffish behavior. “That’s so fun! What exactly are you studying?”
Metal clings as she drops her fork, a deep sigh leaving her lips. “Caleb, I don’t feel good,” she lies, watching your brows pinch in worry.
“Okay,” he shrugs, taking a bite out of the half-eaten sandwich you’d decided you didn’t like.
She tries again, unable to hide the bite in her words this time. “Caleb, I don’t feel good, and my stuff is still at your place. Can we please just go already?”
He looks over at you, seemingly waiting for your approval. You glance at her quickly before diverting your attention back to him. “Gege, don’t worry, I’ll be fine on my own. Just take care of your girlfriend, okay?”
Right as he’s about to stand up, your fingers dig into his shirt, dragging him down enough so you can place a chaste kiss on his cheek. He leans in close to you, whispering something she can’t hear before placing several bills onto the table.
“Caleb, what the fuck was that?” she shouts as soon as the restaurant fades in the rear-view mirror.
He sighs as if he has any right to be frustrated right now. “I don't know what you mean.”
Her fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly she can feel her bones start to ache. “You know exactly what I mean. That was fucking weird. You called her by the same fucking pet name! The two of you are weird– I mean, are you always that touchy with each other?”
“Don't be jealous; she's my baby sister. I’m all she has–”
It’s a low blow; she knows that much, but she can’t stop herself. “Except she’s not even really your sister, is she, Caleb? The two of you were just adopted by the same woman, so why the fuck are you using that as an excuse?”
It’s silent in the car as she pulls into the driveway, guilt settling in her stomach each second that passes without another shout.
“You’re right– no more excuses,” he mumbles, refusing to look at her.
As soon as she parks the car, she leans over, mouth feverishly pressing against his. She knows she fucked up when he doesn’t move or melt, shutting his eyes until she pulls away.
“Let me make it up to you, baby?”
Her lips mumble soft apologies the entire time they walk through his hallway, eventually stumbling into his bed. His eyes are squeezed shut, arms stiffly by his side, as her hands trail down his body.
“Who's fucking you?” she moans, hips slamming down as she rides him.
He swallows the name that's settled on his tongue. “Honey, please,” he moans loud enough to drown out the sound of her.
The second she hears the term of affection, she wishes he had just stayed quiet.
Pushing harder, her fingers pinch at his nipples as she purposefully clenches around his cock. “Caleb, I asked you a question. Who's fucking you? Whose pussy are you about to cum in?”
In that moment, something in her tone changes, her voice pitched just right to indulge his deepest fantasy.
She gasps as he spills inside her with a loud moan– more passion than she’s ever heard from him before. Paying no mind to the way his cum drips down her skin, she quickly scrambles off of him.
“Honey, wait–” Ignoring his stuttered excuses, she quickly gets dressed; the sound of the door slamming behind her echoes throughout the apartment.
It's late when your phone rings, Caleb's old shirt draped over your body as you quickly hit accept. You don’t expect to hear his girlfriend speaking to you, at least, not so soon.
She's shaken up; you can tell by the way her breath trembles over the speaker as she explains she’d copied your number from his contacts.
“What's wrong?” you sigh, fingers playing with the hem of the fabric.
“It’s Caleb; we were–” She stumbles over the words, voice frantic as she tries to plead with you. “We were having sex, and he moaned out your name. I know he's your–”
The word brother lingers between the two of you despite going unspoken. “I know he's taken care of you, but the way he acts around you isn't normal and I just. I thought someone should tell you.”
“Thanks for the warning, really, but I promise you I’m fine– Caleb’s not someone I have to worry about.”
“You don’t understand, I think he’s in–”
You scoff, and she can hear the sound of your mattress squeaking as you move. “Look, Caleb's last girlfriend… she has a really similar name to mine, and well, I didn't want to make you feel insecure, but you look so much like her. I think that’s the whole reason he kept us apart for so long– he didn’t want me to slip up. He'll never admit it, but he's still hung up on her, you know?”
She wants to argue that she knows what she heard and what she saw, but you’re quickly filling the silence.
“I appreciate and admire the way you tried to protect me, really, but I'd feel so guilty if I didn't tell you the truth,” you breathe out.
You’re so sincere; it's nearly impossible not to believe what you're saying.
“Oh my god, I'm– I'm so sorry, I can't believe I accused him of–” she chokes on her words.
The fact that you’re comforting her only worsens the guilt in her stomach. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you one day, but I think maybe it's for the best that you guys don't see each other for a while– that kind of thinking isn’t healthy, you know?”
She sobs even harder, only able to mutter a small agreement, mentally berating herself for ruining a good thing– for being jealous of her boyfriend’s sister.
You glance down at Caleb as you hang up, gently tossing the phone onto the nearby nightstand. “Seriously, another one? Why do you even bother trying when it always ends the same?”
He ruts up into you, tears falling from his eyes as you bounce on his cock. “Sorry, 'm sorry,” he whimpers, face flushed as he stares at the spot where your bodies meet.
“I know you're doing it on purpose now, gege. You like it when I touch you like this, comforting you when you show up teary-eyed at my door. So hard as you watch me clean your mess each time you fuck up like this.”
“Please, ” he begs, one of his hands sneaking underneath his shirt, squeezing at your tit.
You know exactly what he needs right now, leaning down to capture his mouth in a messy kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, licking at the roof of your mouth as he tries to taste as much of you as possible.
A whine fills the air as you pull away, your thumb wiping up the spit that drips down his face, quickly licking it off your skin.
You can tell he’s close, his stomach tense as your hand trails along it. “Who's fucking you?”
“You, meimei,” he groans. His body shivers, hips jerking up as he spills his thick cum inside you.
Ignoring his whimpering, you continue to slam your hips up and down on his sensitive cock, chasing your own high. His hand slips between your thighs, pinching and pulling at your swollen clit– that’s all it takes for you to stumble over the edge.
You gasp, head thrown back as you cum all over his length. A mixture of your fluids drips out of your hole and down your thighs as you pull away.
His arms wrap around you as soon as you crawl into bed next to him, lips pecking along the back of your neck and shoulders. “I’m sorry, honey, really.” his voice wavers as you refuse to turn towards him.
“I just… I don’t get it, Caleb– why can’t you just choose me?”
He almost wishes you’d be angry; instead, you just sound broken. “It won’t happen again,” you scoff at his words, but let him intertwine your fingers. “I’m serious this time– it’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to them.”
You’re quiet for a moment before you turn around and look him in the eyes. “You mean it?”
“I swear, meimei.”
You let out a hum, pressing a kiss to his chest as your eyes flutter.
You’re surprised to find breakfast ready when you walk into the kitchen the next morning. Placing yourself in his lap, you smile softly as your thumb presses harshly against the bruises you left on his neck– pride filling your chest as his hips shift subtly underneath you.
“Do you think she noticed? Last night?” he mumbles, hands slowly snaking up your body.
You shrug, lips parted as he places a forkful of food between your lips. “Even if she did, she'll never believe herself again, not when it comes to this– they never do.”
Nodding, he brings a glass of water up to your mouth, watching as it spills down your cheek as you swallow.
He’s almost disappointed that you wipe it away before he can. “Why does it matter what she thinks?” The words are meant to be casual, but he knows what you need to hear.
“It doesn’t– not to me. I meant what I said last night, Mei Mei. I’m done pretending– no more excuses.”
such a good boyfriend. really, like, no man you've dated has ever come close to kyle. the former military stuff put you off, but lots of people fall for things they shouldn't.
let's go on holiday. yeah? deserve it, how hard you're workin.
you think you haven't been dating that long, but kyle offers to pay for it and even finds a place that his friend owns, so you don't have to do the resort thing. he figures out everything and you're so grateful, you let him fuck you without a condom and are shocked at how much that changes up sex.
the house is beachfront and sun-drenched, wide open doors and coloured tile floors. you joke that city kyle and beach kyle are completely different boyfriends; beach kyle is vibrant and radiant, sandy-soled, a bright gem at sea.
what's interesting is how his intensity ramps up. so chill and relaxed back home, and now it's like his teeth are on edge here. he's waking up with a hand wedged into your cunt, drowsily rubbing you, or spreading you out on the cold tiles to fuck you raw, wild-eyed, or slipping his hands under your dinner dress to finger you over the bathroom vanity until you come, smearing your makeup.
the trip is lush. boozy. slow wake-ups and then falling back asleep until noon when he wants to eat you out, tonguing you until you're hanging off the bed. you eat and swim and sleep and shower and doze and drink and fuck fuck fuck.
supposed to fly out the tuesday. monday night, you're wandering around the different rooms to locate scattered items to pack up. kyle's not helping. when you stride back into the bedroom, he's sprawled out on the bed, hand loose around his cock, dreamy tugs to match his dreamy smile.
a bit annoyed for the first time all trip. can you help me, please?
he gets harder, pulls at his cock in longer vigorous jerks, when you don't understand his explanation. he needed to know. needed to be sure you were the woman for him. a nice little trial run here, yeah? seeing what every day will be like. here.
fucking you with his forearms bent either side of your head, salty sweat dripping down on you, caging you in. no condom. don't need them anymore, yeah?
and lots of people fall for things they shouldn't. he really is a good boyfriend.
Ghost who starts dating you and almost immediately stops showing up to pub nights- a sacred ritual for the 141, and causes raised eyebrows by the third time he grunts “can’t” over the phone.
Soap corners him after the fifth time he cancelled, all crooked grin and too bright eyes, leaning into Ghost’s space. “Ye’re skippin’ again, LT. What’s the matter? Bird got ye on a curfew?”
Ghost doesn’t answer at first. Just shoulders his bag higher and keeps walking. But Soap follows, wheedling in that relentless way of his. “C’mon, Simon. Ye’ve not bought a round in weeks. Ye skint? Need a loan? Or is it her? Ye spendin’ all yer money on that pretty thing ye’ve been seein’?”
Ghost stops, turns just enough for Soap to see the flat line of his mouth beneath the mask. “Money’s tight.”
“Tight?” Soap barks a laugh, but it dies quick when he clocks the look in Ghost’s eyes. “You? The fuck’re ye spendin’ it on, then?”
Ghost doesn’t elaborate, just walks away. Soap watches him go, brow furrowed, and later- when it’s just the three of them and a half empty bottle- he tells the others what little he got.
“She’s drainin’ him,” Soap says. “He’s cuttin’ back on everythin’ else. Won’t even split a pizza. Says he’s savin’.”
Price swirls what’s left in his glass. “Seen it before. Good men go soft for the right pair of legs and a sweet smile. Ghost’s got discipline, aye, but he’s still a man. And men like that… they’ve got bank. No one to spend it on before. Makes ‘em easy marks.”
“Gold digger,” Gaz mutters, not quite under his breath, shaking his head at another brother lost. “Better men’ve fallen for less.”
They keep this to themselves, where Ghost can’t hear them. Wouldn’t matter if they did. He’s already gone- head, heart, and wallet- in a way none of them have ever seen. They think he’s blind to it. That he’s being played.
What they don’t see is the way Ghost’s cock twitches, thickening in the grey confines of his pants, every time he pushes his tongue past the sticky-sweet barrier of your sixty dollar lipstick until it smears, thumb dragging across your lower lip, deliberate, spreading the color onto your chin.
Doesn’t see how hard he gets until he’s dizzy with it, one fist buried tight in your blown out hair, gripping at the roots and ruining the careful- expensive- work the stylist did until damp strands stick to your skin.
Blunt head already drooling a thick pool of pre, balls aching as he watches the mascara run down your flushed cheeks, lashes clumping, while he feeds his cock into your perfect warm mouth until the flared head gags the back of your throat.
And maybe he is just a man- a weak, greedy, obsessed man- as he swipes his card on yet another several-hundred-dollar clothing purchase despite your soft protests, already half hard at the thought of how he’s going to rip those pretty new things off your body the second the door closes behind you both, bullying his cock into your cunt around the remains of yet another tattered pair of fifty dollar lacy panties.
You always say something about the cost, about how he can’t keep doing this, but Ghost just shakes his head once, sharp and final. “Can. Will. Shut up an’ let me see what I bought.”
The lads can think what they want. Let them whisper about gold diggers and better men falling. They don’t see how turned on Ghost gets spoiling you rotten, just so he can see you all soft and wrecked, expensive clothes twisted and stained, hair a mess, face streaked with him after he fucks you stupid.
