Imagine COD X The Backrooms (specifically Kane Parsons Backrooms)
The team, Captain Price, Johnny, Kyle, and Simon are on a mission, and the humvee literally falls into The Backrooms. They survive the crash (luckily the humvee wasnt going very fast when they fell) at first they believe they ran over a landmine but when they emerge from the wreckage they are shocked to see they are in some kind of building surrounded by yellow wallpaper. They gather their supplies and begin to move, knowing they have to find a way out.
Then, after many days of walking, they find you. More so, you find them in a panic. You run towards them, screaming and frantically motioning for them to follow you. Once they heard the bone-chilling roar of what could only be assumed to be a beast straight from hell, they followed quickly. You lead them to your safe house, an actual house that doesn't look right. The proportions are off, and once inside, it gets even weirder. There is a dining room chair that's as tall as the celing and a green stop sign protruding from the wall. You motion for the men to stay low, and eventually, the unseen monster leaves the area.
You let out a sigh of relief and offer the men a drink of water from your water bottle. When you fell into the Backrooms, you were hiking in the Appalachian Mountains with your friends. Luckily, you had a good amount of food and water stored in your backpack, but your supplies won't last forever.
The men all introduced themselves and were naturally curious about the place you all had found yourself in. The only information you could give was that you believed this place to be a type of purgatory, worse than hell and far from heaven. You didn't feel like you were dead, but you couldn't come up with any other explanation.
It was Price who knelt beside you and took your hand. "We are going to find away out of here, love. I promise you that."
You stared at the Captain, then Kyle, then Johnny. Finally, your eyes rest on Simon, who wore a black balaclava with a skull piece painted on it. They don't know the horrors you've seen. How this place twists reality to its will. These men, however, seem to have lived different types of horrors. You can see it in the coldness of their gaze.
They could be your key to survival that you've been missing. Plus, with their weapons, you might finally be able to get close enough to see what they tall black monster is guarding.
Hi everyone! Just wanted to update yall, sorry ive been away. I lost all energy to do anything I enjoy, but slowly, I've been gaining my spark back. I'm hoping to get back into writing again soon, I want to get new chapters out and start on my poll project. Everything takes time, of course.
Y'all take care and hope to get some new work out soon :)
I need Sheriff John Price saving his new bride from The Deep Ones awakening in the silver mines near town.
I need Outlaw and Bounty Hunter Kyle Garrick hunting cannibalistic vampires across the desert.
I need Miner Johnny MacTavish stumbling across a creature he believes is an angel but is something far more sinister.
I need Farmer Simon Riley going out to hunt, only to return months later to his beloved, asking to be invited in, bringing with him an unrelenting hunger.
Imagine if Simon Riley falls in love with his gorgeous neighbor and after months of attempts to get her attention he finally lands a date with her only to find out she is incredibly hyper independent.
He would give this woman the entire world if she asked only for her to be like, "im okay, but thanks."
He then goes on a mission to prove he doesn't want to control her but only be allowed space in her orbit.
She, however, really likes Simon for the gruff, handsome man he is but is scared to let anyone in. The things her abusive ex did to her still haunts her to this day. She vowed never to rely on anyone ever again.
Hes really sweet though. A little rough around the edges, but she can tell he has trauma of his own.
Maybe she could allow someone as special as Simon around in her orbit.
Being the handsome guy that he is, he’s always used his good looks to his advantage, but now, ironically, he’s with a partner who can’t see his good looks.
So, this guy loves to bring your hands to his face so you can feel his beautiful features. It doesn’t matter if you stroke his cheeks or playfully pinch the tip of his nose — you can do whatever you want, seriously.
Sometimes, when you’re hugging and just enjoying each other’s company, he loves to tell you how much he wishes you could see how beautiful you are and how you both make such a pretty couple.
Kyle Garrick hasn’t been jealous a day in his life.
He’s sure he doesn’t even know the feeling. Especially not with you. Even through the years, growing up with you he never had to be.
Not when you clung to his side everyday, the annoying younger kid on the block that followed him around. You always chose him, over anyone else.
So he’s not sure why now seeing you sat with his lieutenant makes an ugly feeling claw it’s way up his throat. Why watching you accept the drink he’s bought you with a soft dimpled smile you reserve for him makes the tension in his temples tight.
It’s not the first time you’ve met the 141, but it is the first time you’re not wrapped around his arm drunkenly giggling into his side. You’re just friends, childhood friends, that’s what he tells you at least. And it was never a problem.
His jaws set, teeth clenched together so tight it hurts when Ghost brushes your elbow and you bloody lean in to him. He stomps over with red in his vision and mission to strangle his lieutenant or bend you over the table right then and there.
You smile so sweetly up at him when he stops at your side.
“Hi Kyl—“
His hand grips your jaw, digging a little harshly for something he usually protects, and stamps a wet, claiming kiss to your lips. You make a surprised noise, lips parting just enough for his tongue to slide into the corners of your mouth.
You struggle to catch up to him, lips falling just behind his possessive movements, little room to breathe as he forces you to take it. It goes on a little longer than it probably should, but the anger’s still pumping under his skin, making his reasoning unstable.
When he pulls away, there’s a wet glob of spit connecting the both of you, your eyes wide and chest heaving.
Simon’s voice breaks through his bubble, “Took ya long enough.”
Ghost with demons!
TF 141 with dogs🐶
It's been a while painting full rendered pieces, enjoyed a lot!
Inspired from awesome @yourfaithfulauthor's request.
The thing about Simon Riley is he knows what dying sounds like.
He’s heard it in twelve languages. Heard it gargled through blood and whispered through teeth and screamed into dirt. He knows the sounds a human body makes when it’s done pretending to be anything but an animal.
So he should know better.
He should… but you’re laughing, and it’s not the kind of laugh that belongs in a body that small. It’s unhinged. Gutted open. The sound of a woman who has been pushed past the last clean line inside herself and found something feral on the other side, something with teeth, and it’s…
Christ.
It’s the most deranged thing he’s heard in years.
“Say it again.” You’re not yelling. That’s the part that gets him. You’re smiling, and there’s a nine inch blade in your hand- his knife, actually, swiped right off the counter- and you’re pointing it at is femoral artery. “Go on, Riley. One more fucking time. I dare you.”
He’d called you dead weight.
Twice.
The first time you’d gone quiet. Swallowed it. Walked out of the briefing room with your shoulders tight and your chin up and he’d thought good, she’ll be easier to manage now because that’s what Simon does. He finds the seam. Pushes. Watches people fold along the lines he chose for them.
The second time- ten minutes ago, in front of Soap and Gaz, loud enough to carry- you hadn’t folded.
You’d cracked.
And now you’re standing in the narrow kitchen of the safehouse with his blade in your fist and that laugh still caught between your teeth like you can’t stop it, like it’s leaking, and the overhead fluorescent is buzzing and you’re advancing on him one slow step at a time and he-
He doesn’t move.
Not because he can’t. He could disarm you in two seconds. Wrist, twist, pin. Muscle memory. He’s done it a hundred times to people twice your size.
He doesn’t move because something low in his gut just dropped straight through the floor.
“You think I won’t?” you say, and the knife dips, aimed right at his belt line, the sharp tip hovering dangerously close his crotch. “You think I’m scared of you?”
Youre not.
That’s the thing. That’s the whole goddamn thing. You’re not scared of him. You’re standing five-foot-nothing in front of a man who has killed people in rooms smaller than this one and you are not afraid. Your hand isn’t shaking. Your pupils are blown but your breathing’s steady and you’re looking at him- not at the mask, not at the space above his shoulder, at him.
And Simon’s brain does something it has never done before
It stutters.
Because the laugh is still ringing in his skull and your eyes are bright and terrible and you smell like gunoil and the coffee you spilled when you grabbed the knife and there is…
There is…
Absolutely no reason for his cock to be rock hard right now.
None.
He is a grown man. A special forces operator. He has looked down the barrel of a gun and felt less throbbing in his pulse than he currently feels south of his waistband, and that is.. that’s a problem. That’s a clinical, operational, catastrophic problem, because you are holding a blade at dick height and your eyes just flicked down and-
You stop laughing.
“Riley,” you say, and your voice is different now. Low. Velvet. “Are you fucking serious right now.”
It’s not a question.
His cock twitches under the fabric, straining, the thick outline unmistakable now. He can feel the wet bead of pre cum already soaking through.
He should say something. He should disarm you. He should leave the room and never speak of this moment for the rest of his natural life, which at this rate is going to be about thirty more seconds.
“Yeah,” he says instead, because apparently the last thread of self preservation in his body just snapped clean through. His voice comes out like gravel. Wrecked. “Yeah, I think I am.”
You stare at him.
He watches the knife.
He watches your hand, the tendons shifting under skin, the white knuckle grip going loose, not dropping it, just… recalibration. You’re recalibrating. Reading the room the same way he would, the same way an operator does, and some sick, broken part of him catalogs that too. Files it. Wants it.
“You’re insane,” you whisper.
“Probably.”
“I was going to stab you.”
“Probably,” he says again, and his hand are trembling at his sides. Because that fractured laugh is still ringing in his skull, and he’s never wanted to hear a sound again more than the way he wants to hear you make it while he’s buried inside you.
You laugh again, step closer. The knife lowers another inch until the flat of the cold blade rests lightly against the throbbing heat of his bulge and makes his hips jerk forward involuntarily, pressing himself against the steel like a desperate animal.
“You’re a bastard,” you say. “You know that?”
“Yeah.”
“And if you ever call me dead weight again I will finish what I started.”
“Yeah,” he says, seemingly only able to say the one word, because his vocabulary has apparently been reduced to a single syllable by a woman with a stolen knife and a laugh like a house fire. “I know.”
His hands finally move, big, rough palms sliding to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling your body flush against his so you can feel every thick, aching inch of what you’ve done to him.
“I might just let you cut me,” he murmurs, voice low, “if you let me fuck that pretty rage out of you right here against the counter.”
He watches your pupils blow for an entirely different reason now.
It's your wedding day, and everything has been perfect. The light drizzle of rain has stopped, leaving the fresh, earthy scent of wet moss and pine lingering in the air. The forest, touched with droplets that sparkle on every leaf, looks stunning beneath the soft afternoon light. The laughter and soft chatter of your loved ones float through the clearing, muffled slightly by the thick canopy overhead. You stand at the altar with your love, Johnny, feeling the warmth of his hand in yours, your nerves settled by the gentle press of his palm. The delicate rustle of your dress against your skin and the faint hum of distant birdsong lull you into an almost dreamlike stillness. Excited to be the new addition to the MacTavish clan, you savor the taste of cool, fresh air as you let your gaze roam over the faces beaming at you. It is just as the final words of the ceremony fade that you first notice a shift in the air, more a prickle on the back of your neck than anything you can define. You look around to see everyone happy for you, too, except one person.
Johnny's best man, Simon Riley.
It was subtle at first; his expression was bare, neither a smile nor a frown, but his eyes told a story of pain. When you danced with Johnny, you could feel Simon's gaze like a weight at the edge of the room. It unsettled you, a flicker of guilt sparking in your chest even though you're standing exactly where you are meant to be. When you ate the first piece of cake, you caught Simon standing quietly, the flicker of his eyes never quite meeting yours. Your laughter grew softer, the sweetness clinging to the roof of your mouth, and you found yourself squeezing Johnny's hand tighter, grounding yourself in the comfort he gave. Finally, at the end of the night, everyone made their rounds to say goodbye except Simon. You hesitated for a moment over whether to seek him out, your heart quickening with uncertainty.
You watch Simon and Johnny quietly. When Johnny finds him, Simon’s soft smile and lingering embrace reveal his struggle to let go.
You knew Simon and Johnny had a long history. A friendship forged in blood and survival, but you could see in Simon's eyes he wasn't jealous; he was heartbroken.
You wondered if Johnny knew. If he did, he kept it quiet. A knot of guilt twisted in your stomach for Simon, for all the silent moments he must have carried with him. Part of you wished you could offer him comfort, but you held back, unsure if it would only deepen the ache. You envied the years he shared with Johnny, but that envy mingled with something softer, something close to gratitude. Simon's friendship with Johnny had been the foundation for so much laughter and strength, and you were grateful for all the ways he had watched over him, and, by extension, you too. You recognized the generosity in Simon's loyalty and the way he anchored those around him. Even as you clung to Johnny and felt grateful he was yours, a ripple of insecurity whispered that love always leaves someone out in the cold. You never told Simon, never opened that door, even though you sometimes wondered if you should.
"Forgive me, Simon Riley: Johnny was always yours, but on this day, he chose me instead."
The bar was bustling, the low clink of glasses and the rich aroma of whiskey floating above the crowd, while music thumped from a battered jukebox in the corner. Warm amber light glinted off bottles behind the bar, and the air was heavy with sweat, spilled beer, and the sharp tang of aftershave. Your team pressed close together at a sticky wooden table, laughter rising above the background hum as you all celebrated a well-earned victory. After weeks of grueling late-night stakeouts, greasy fast food eaten with numb fingers, and tense moments in the field, finally catching the evil bastard in charge of one of the most brutal terrorist rings in your career felt like a real win. The adrenaline of the successful op still hummed beneath your skin, but tonight, with every cheer and tight embrace, you all felt the weight lift together. The hiss of a popped bottle, the buzz of neon signage, the heat of bodies nearby—all of it grounded you in this bright, noisy relief. Yet, as laughter and cheers bubbled around you and the bass vibrated through your chest, your awareness kept circling back to Kyle, your handsome Sergeant. It was hard to ignore the way your pulse quickened when he was close, or the flutter in your stomach every time he looked at you with those bright eyes.
Your mind wandered to the moments that had built your friendship with Kyle over the years. Like the time last winter, stuck in the surveillance van for ten hours, trading stories to keep each other awake and laughing at his terrible American accent. Or when he had your back in Hamburg, covering for you during a comms failure, giving only his knowing half-smile. There was also the Madrid op, when you shared a pizza on the rooftop, talked until sunrise, let your guard down, and realized how easy it was to trust him. Even off-duty, you teamed up frequently: running emergency drills, laps around the base, or hosting a surprise birthday for the Captain. Little moments—Kyle carrying your gear after you sprained your ankle—and bigger ones—sitting with you after a mission went wrong, letting you cry it out—folded into this night. Shared memories made it impossible not to glance at him, longing just beneath your smile. After too many drinks, you and the others headed back. You carpooled with Kyle, grateful the drinks calmed your nerves, and alcohol mixed with hope.
"I had fun tonight," you say to him as you check your makeup in a small handheld mirror.
"Me too. It was well deserved," Kyle replies, turning to you. "You look very pretty tonight. I like your..." He gestures to his right eye and flicks his wrist.
"My eyeliner?" you interrupt, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, the wing part is really cool," Kyle says politely.
"Thank you, it took ages, but I'm glad it turned out well," you jest. "You look handsome yourself. Saw a few ladies staring—sorry to cockblock."
Kyle lets out a laugh. "Pfft, no worries, love. Tonight was about celebrating us, not getting laid," he says. Kyle pauses, then adds, "Even though I'm pretty sure I saw the Captain sneak away with a tall blonde."
You both laugh, and then a quiet pause falls between you.
“Kyle, can I share something with you?” Your tone turns more serious, a tremor in your voice giving you away. For a moment, you wonder why it is tonight of all nights that these words almost burst out: the victory, the drinks, and the warmth of celebration pressing up against that old ache inside you. The feeling had been building all evening, slipping underneath your laughter each time you caught sight of Kyle or watched your friends clink glasses together. It almost feels unfair how joy can illuminate the empty spaces inside your heart. Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline fading after the case, or the way Kyle's hand had lingered a second too long on your shoulder, but suddenly the loneliness you try to hide felt impossible to keep down. As you begin to speak, you catch a fleeting look in Kyle’s eyes, uncertainty flickering beneath his easy smile. His jaw tenses, and he glances down at his hands, fidgeting with his watch strap for a heartbeat before looking back at you, as if bracing himself for something important. “I don't want to be single forever. Sometimes I worry there is something wrong with me, or that I will just keep missing my chance because I'm too focused on work. I see people finding their person, and I pretend it doesn't bother me, but honestly, it gets lonely.”
You look down at your lap, twisting the strap of your bag between your fingers. For a moment, the air feels thick—a heavy pause stretches between you. Heat creeps up the back of your neck as you risk a quick glance at Kyle. He is quiet, eyes soft with concern, brows drawn together. He shifts ever so slightly toward you, his hand hovering as if wanting to reach out, then thinking better of it. The words hang between you, raw and exposed, and you feel suddenly naked having let them slip. Regret prickles inside you; maybe you’ve said too much, too soon.
You were always one to make light of serious topics, so your next idea comes quickly and naturally. “We have a lot in common—we care too much about our work, we're both stubborn and a bit bossy, but most of all, we're loyal to those we care about.”
Kyle stretches his body lightly as he ponders your words. "Alright, we are both a little drunk, so I'm not going to take offense at you calling me stubborn and bossy. So what are you proposing, love?"
"How about if we are still single at 35, we get married?" You mean it as a half-joke, letting a playful smirk lighten your words, but underneath there's a hint of something earnest. Your heart races, wondering if he’ll catch the hint or brush it off. It’s a ridiculous proposal—something out of a bad romantic comedy—, yet you realize how much you mean it. You picture a future with Kyle, not just as a joke, but as a wish you’re scared to name. The thought scares you—what if he laughs it off, or worse, agrees from pity? For a split second, Kyle's eyebrows shoot up, surprise in his eyes, before he looks away, fighting a grin. His fingers tap his thigh, and you notice a trace of longing that’s quickly masked with a laugh. If you could see inside his head, you’d catch a fleeting flash in his eyes—as if weighing something he wants to say—hesitating between humor and hope. You wonder how this promise might change things or bring you closer. Maybe he’s thought the same. Suddenly, the idea feels both silly and almost serious, and you search his face for what he truly thinks.
“Fuck it, let's do it.” He answers with a bright grin.
“Wait, really?” You sound surprised but excited. “Okay, um, so I won't forget, I’ll put it in my cellphone.” You pull out your phone at the same time Kyle does and open your calendar. “You're just a few months older than me, so how about an August wedding?”
“Ohh, good choice, do you want a Saturday?” Kyle asks as he types on his phone.
“Yes! My favorite day of the week.” You laugh. “And saved!”
“Yep. On mine as well.” Kyle holds up his phone so you can glance at it.
When you arrived back on base, the others had already gone to sleep. The quiet of the corridors was a stark contrast to the buzz of the bar earlier; only the soft hum of the heating system lingered in the air. As you stepped out into the night, the chill wrapped around you, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and engine oil. Both of you decided to also call it a night, moving side by side in comfortable silence, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you walked, those small touches sending a shiver of anticipation up your spine. When you reached your dorm, Kyle stood in front of your door, the yellow glow of the outdoor lights casting long shadows across the gravel path. His hands stayed tucked in his jacket pockets as if keeping himself from reaching out to you. In the quiet, you could hear his soft, steady breathing, close enough to feel his body heat radiating toward you. For a breathless moment, neither of you moved, the closeness between you charged with something unspoken and warm. The night air seemed to settle, holding its breath in the small space between you; the familiar ache low in your chest grew stronger, drawn taut by the way his gaze lingered on your lips before quickly flicking away.
“Goodnight, wifey.” Kyle jokes with a cheeky grin.
“Goodnight, my darling husband,” you respond as you smile up at him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Once Kyle had left and you flopped onto your twin bed, you fumbled with your charger cord until you plugged your phone in. Just before you went to sleep, you checked one last time in your calendar to make sure you weren't dreaming.
“Marry Kyle Garrick” was set on a Saturday in August.
Lying in the quiet darkness, you felt a smile linger on your lips as the glow of your phone faded. Maybe this promise was silly, but suddenly, it felt like hope—a small, shining thread stretching from tonight into the future. You let your eyes close, heart lighter than it had been in ages, wondering if sometimes all it took to change everything was the courage to say what you wanted out loud.
