hello! i’m cee, i go by she/her, i’m in my 20’s, and i’m a writer!
for all of my longer fics, i’ll always put the tags and any warnings if needed, for shorter fics if they’re mature i will put a content label.
if you’re interested, feel free to send me any requests and i’ll get to it as soon as possible! i’m quite busy throughout the week, so i can’t promise that i’ll respond super quick, but i’ll sure try!
i write:
nsfw, dark fics, and mainly 18+!
as of right now, i mainly write for call of duty but there’s a chance i’ll expand in the future.
there’s this little cottage that’s right in the Scottish countryside called the white laggan bothy, and it’s used for anyone hitchhiking
so cue my thoughts running rampant thinking about soap………
cw: pee (I’m sorry), mentions of religion
You decided to be adventurous and go hiking completely by yourself, even though there was this little voice in the back of your head that told you it wasn’t gonna be a good idea.
But what’s the worse that’ll happen? It’s a common trail that most people frequent, nothing wrong could go bad at all.
Your feet burned in your boots, already going on hour three when you come across the stone cottage that was enigmatically placed in the center of an ongoing field. The hiking trail still continued past it, though. Which meant the architecture was purposely placed where it was.
The sun was a mere shine beneath the horizon as it start to set, and you settled on just staying here tonight. You’ll continue your trek in the daylight.
The cottage looked lived in, to say the least, but there were still no locks on the door—deliberately built that way, to allow anyone to roam inside if they chose—which didn’t do too well to quell your unease. There was a wood-burning stove shoved in the corner, and a stiff looking bed.
You grimaced at the thought of lying in a bed that hundreds of others had lied in before you, covered in god-knows-what. You tried to ignore the bucket of a strange and putrid smelling liquid sitting right beside the bed, hoping it wasn’t from someone recent or still currently scoping around the area.
Alas, your heavy eyelids concluded that trying to figure something else out was just too much and you got comfortable on the bed; after laying your own sleeping bag on it, of course.
It only felt like mere seconds after shutting your eyes when you heard the unmistakable sound of leaves crunching underfoot circling outside. You jolted upwards, your heart racing from the abruptness of being woken up. You waited for your eyes to adjust to the darkness before slowly meandering your way out of the bed. If only you had a flashlight with you, maybe that would’ve helped you avoid the bucket of piss that was precariously placed beside the bed.
“Shit…” You growled under your breath, swallowing back the gag that tried so hard to fight its way out.
You placed your palm over your nose and mouth as to not allow the viscous smell to invade your nostrils. The bottom of your pants and your socks were now covered in a strangers urine, which left you no choice but to strip the fabric down your legs. You hopped over the puddle, throwing your soiled pants over the small stove—hopefully no one plans on using it anytime soon—and felt around as to not do anymore damage.
You felt your heart drop right out of your ass when you heard the footsteps stop right in front of the door, jiggling the old doorknob before finally getting the creaky door open.
You stared with your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide, and no pants on as the stranger filled the doorway. The stranger filled the doorway, the width of his shoulders almost large enough to prevent him from coming inside. The moonlight shining right behind him didn’t give you a clear view of his face, instead only seeing his silhouette.
Despite your blindness to seeing the man, you knew for a fact he could see you. As clear as day; if his devious chuckle wasn’t enough to give it away.
“Look at tha’, the universe sent me a bonnie lass,” He was clearly a local given his thick accent.
His blue eyes roved over your half-naked body, though, you couldn’t see that part. He slowly shut the door behind him, leaving both you and him completely alone.
“Seems you caught yerself in my mess, hen,” Saliva filled your mouth at the thought of the fucking piss bucket being his. As if this was his personal home.
You tried to bolt around him to the door, which was undoubtedly a stupid move. He didn’t even blink as his hand came out to block you, pushing you back but sending you tumbling onto your butt in front of him.
“Yer’ not goin’ nowhere, lass. Lord sent you to me,” He stepped closer.
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | one shot/drabble
you have something that belongs to simon. something he wants back.
cw: intoxication, dub-con to non-con, force masc, afab and fem presenting reader, misgendering
It's been three years since Simon watched Johnny's body crumble to the ground—brains scattered on cement, blood soaking into stone, blue eyes rolling behind eyelids he'll never watch flutter again—so he's a bit taken aback when he sees him at the pub.
He's younger. Stubble hardly even noticeable along his jaw and lips, skin softer with less worry lines. That scar that used to bisect his eyebrow is even gone. Smoothed out. Fully covered and wrinkling as he smiles. It's so tangible Simon can almost smell him. Sour gun powder coated in the mint gum he always chewed on deployments. A tick. Not a nervous one. Johnny was always thrumming with life, with the need for movement, a desire to do something with his hands.
Then, you look over your shoulder at him.
You slap your wallet shut, smothering the image of Johnny behind faux patterned leather before shoving it into your pocket. The glare on your face is challenging. A silent spitting at his feet as you look him up and down, drinking in the height and broadness of him like the mere size of him is a challenge. A threat.
"Can I help you?" Short. Cutting. You don't trust him, and he doesn't blame you. A stranger in a pub with his chest nearly up against your back as you try to order a drink after a long week of work.
"Maybe."
Your distaste at his lack of tactfulness screws the features on your face until your fingers are curling. Simon's not sure why, but he wouldn't mind the taste of your knuckles against his cheek, bone pushing flesh into his teeth until the blood floods his mouth to wash down the aftertaste of you.
"How do you know 'im?" Simon questions, chin tilting up as his words die down.
"The fuck are you talking about?" you bite.
"Johnny. MacTavish."
Recognition freezes over your features until your fingers are tracing over the thickness in your pocket where his old teammate (No, something more, someone more. An importance he doesn't know how to utter but something that burns through him all the same) resides like an urn upon a mantle.
"Do you know him?" You answer his question with another one. Simon refuses to speak until you're breaking, eyes falling to the floor, teeth catching between your lips. "He was my donor."
Your response only stirs up more confusion in Simon's mind. "Donor?"
"Yeah, like…" You awkwardly glance around the area before your fingers move up to the collar of your shirt and then gently pull down. You're not showing much that he cares to look at, except the scar. It's long. Vanishing beyond where you refuse to show, it spans the length of your sternum. A straight line, still puffy. Still healing. "My heart donor."
Everything makes sense. Why he's drawn to you. Why you have a picture of Johnny in your wallet. It's so fitting of him to give up the best parts of himself. That man gave you a gilded heart so you could continue to draw breath all while his stopped deep in that tunnel, too far from the Scottish highlands he always spoke so fondly of. Now, his Johnny resides within you—so deep he's not sure he can dig him out.
"Let me buy you a drink," Simon offers, fingers twitching. "I can tell you everythin' you wanna know 'bout 'im."
You fold easy. Tissue paper caught in the rain, dissolving at the mere touch of his fingers against your arm, leading you towards a private booth once you've both got a proper pint in your hands. He tells you everything. The pristine details of it, anyway.
Johnny's a hero. A good man. Died fighting for what he believed in, and apparently continued to save lives even after his death. You got to taste the fruit of his labor. You taste it every day in the blood running through your veins, pooling on your tongue, warm and tangy. Simon wonders, if he shoved his mouth onto yours, would he be able to taste him? The essence of the man he loved to get lost in?
A few more pints later, and you share your side of the story. It was a birth defect that got you like this. Sick your whole childhood, it wasn't caught until it was nearly too late for you. Hospital stays, missed school days, the loss of friendships and events that should have been special but were tainted by medication and needles. Johnny's heart isn't your first. In fact, it's your third. Complication after complication—a body that rejects all the help that's shoved inside of it.
"It's been almost three years since the transplant, and I've never felt better," you admit, speech slurred, eyes shining with the tears you've been fighting back the whole conversation. "I've tried to meet his family, but either he doesn't have any, or they want nothing to do with me. I guess I can't blame them. I get to live because he died. How fucked is that?" You wash a sniffle down with a gulp of beer before you wipe your mouth. "You don't know how nice it is to meet you, Simon. I can't thank you enough for this. For letting me know more about Johnny."
He likes the way you say his name. He likes how it sounds like him saying it. Cotton swirls in Simon's head as heat flushes throughout his body, superheating his loins until his hips are rolling in his seat.
If you note the change in his demeanor, you don't say anything. Your ignorance only makes the space in his pants tighter.
"How 'bout we take this back to my place, yeah?" Simon prompts. He would shove his fingers in your mouth at the way you nod at him—glassy-eyed and slow—if there weren't so many people around. "Good boy."
It's easy getting you on his bed. Your clothes slide off of your body as if the very weaving of the fabric comes undone at the hungry prodding of his fingers. When you're undressed, he can't help but trace the path along your sternum to feel the raised skin that slices through you. An old war wound. A roughness he recognizes like stubble on the inside of his neck. Johnny's heart jumps out at him like he's kissing him. Trying to break free. Trying to return to where he should be.
Simon stares down his nose at you while he unfastens his trousers, pulling himself free, hot and eager. His thighs knock against the edge of the mattress as he beckons you forward with two fingers. "C'mon, you know what you gotta do. 'Nless you want it to tear."
He can see how your head spins in the way your eyes are unable to lock onto one place for longer than half a second, and it only worsens as you crawl towards him. Your mouth is on him quick. Tongue lapping along the underside of his cock as you bob your head and hum at the sourness of his skin.
If he closes his eyes and leans his head back, Simon can almost pretend your mouth is Johnny's. You're a bit softer around the edges than he was, and he wishes you'd use more teeth, but the fantasy alone is enough to get the tension building in his abdomen as his thighs begin to shake. It's been a long time. Too long. He feels the end arriving before he's even had the time to enjoy this.
Rigid fingers curl into the back of your neck as Simon pulls out of your mouth. You cough and spit drips down your chin as you stare up at him, trying to catch your breath. A smile breaks over your lips as his fingers gather the mess before he's digging in the back of your throat. He goes until you choke. Until you gag. He yanks his fingers out with a content chuckle.
"Atta boy."
Your brows draw together. "I'm not a-"
Your protest is silenced with his cock in your mouth again. This time, he doesn't allow you to bob your head, but rather forces himself until he's reaching the back of your throat and then holds himself there as his still wet hand reaches for your rump. You try to squeal as his fingers prod the tight ring of your ass. There's little give to you, but Simon's always been good with breaking things in.
"Not a what now?" Simon asks facetiously as he manages to stretch you out on one, lonely finger. "Not a boy? Got a boy's heart in ya, yeah? My boy's heart. I already know everythin' 'bout ya, handsome."
It's easy to spin you around when you're already intoxicated. Body stumbling, crumpling on your stomach, hands desperately attempting to claw at your mouth as you suck in as much air as your lungs will allow. Simon's weight dips down on either side of you once he's managed to shuck his trousers off. Hairy thighs pressing your own together as he paws at your ass until your hole is exposed enough for him to butt up against. There's no amount of wiggling that you can do that will knock him off course.
"W-Wait, not there, please," you beg. You squeeze so tight around him that it's difficult for Simon to get the head in. He grunts as he pushes through despite your whimpering. "I can't, not there."
"Just shut up 'n let me have this, yeah?" Simon grunts, now halfway in. "I'll give your cock all the attention it wants afterwards."
Your moans are animalistic. Grunting, teeth biting into the bedding, fingers curling until your nails pierce flesh—primal. Just like him. As Simon begins to piston into you, it's all he can imagine. Him. His boy. His Johnny.
"Missed you so fuckin' much," he hisses through his teeth, fingers curling deep enough into your hips to dent the bone. "What'd I always tell ya, huh? Gonna find ya in every life. Not gettin' away from me."
Simon comes without warning. It shudders through your body until he's spilling into you with no care for the weak cries that wet your nose. He can hardly keep himself up, and when you collapse underneath the weight of him, he follows not too far after you. Body curling over yours, head resting between your scapulas as he tries to catch his breath. Dull teeth nip at you in places you can't reach yourself, but you don't say anything as he continues to mutter words you wish you could cut from his vocabulary.
My boy, good boy, did so well. Don't worry, I found ya, here to take care of ya again. Can't do much without me, huh?
The two of you lie there long enough for your cries to die down as you quietly mourn the ache of your body instead. Content with the silence, Simon stays where he is, ear pressed against your body, listening to each heartbeat reverberate through you.
With each lub-dub, lub-dub that hits the side of his face, he can only hear:
picturing being a tourist on vacation, and you come across a masked soldier (similar to the king's guard) that can't move from his station, nor acknowledge if you try talking to him.
you've been on a pub crawl all day, you're feeling sauced and bold. you whisper the filthiest things you can conjure into this big ass man's ear, watching his eyes for any reaction whatsoever; nothing.
you feel sorry for being gross to a stranger doing his job.
but that's ok. simon learned enough about you in the few minutes you spent with your hot mouth pressed by his ear. your friends calling you by name; a mention of a hotel; you're here for another four days. it's enough for a man like him.
it's cute that you thought you were being so dirty. he'll teach you loads more by the time he's had you for a solid 24 hours. have you on your back, on all fours, taking his cock so deep you don't have any words left at all. no teasing left in your sweet voice; just the most pitiful sobs and whimpers for him instead.
it's even cuter that you think you're leaving to go back home.
coworker!Soap sending "us ❤️" texts to his coworker and it's a mix of cutesy animal pics and genuinely concerning kidnapping fetish content. HR has spoken to him about it twice but he keeps getting away from it because he's a family friend of the CEO.
Painfully shy reader getting absolutely obliterated drunk at the pub, losing all sense of timidity, and telling Gaz and Soap "I bet the reason Ghost actually hides his face is 'cause he knows everybody'd wanna sit on it".
Ghost overhearing, leaning over your shoulder, and letting you know "I'm just keeping your seat clean until you're ready to sit on it, love".
Obviously Simon fucks the embarrassment out of you the next day, but only after making sure you get your reserved seat nice and wet.
At random moments throughout your week, an unregistered phone number will text you a photo of roadkill.
You know it's ghost sending them, his shadow looming over the thing twisted on the side of the road. Sometimes you get a single "rabbit." Or "duck." When he thinks you won't be able to identify the animal. You asked him about them exactly once, stood under the awning of some shitty bar and on your second smoke.
"Reminds me o' you." He huffed, eyes searing into the side of your skull when you refused to look at him.
To this day, you have no idea what he meant. If you're meant to be the carcass or the one making them. A threat, or some fucked up attempt at courting. Maybe both. Maybe he just wants to be friends.
The most recent one caught the wrapper of his sandwich in the frame, eating while he observed.
cw: dubcon (i’m serious. this is just a snippet, but it gets worse)
The next time you woke up was in a dimly lit room that smelt a little moldy and stale, the humidity in the enclosed space nearly having a presence from how thick it was. There was a dreadful pounding hiding behind your eyes, and making you see spots despite how dark the room was. You tried bringing your hand up to rub your forehead, but were met with resistance that nearly pulled you back down and a loud clanking sound rang through your ears.
You glanced over to your side, squinting to adjust to the shadowiness and noticing a singular handcuff wrapped around your wrist. The other end of the cuff was attached to an old space heater that had paint peeling right off it. If you weren’t more concerned with the prospect of you being in a foreign environment, you might’ve been concerned with the idea of the paint possibly containing lead or asbestos. You yanked your hand towards you again, almost testing the flimsiness of the cuffs. They were strong, to say the least. Certainly no costume handcuffs, but something way more heavy duty.
Your heart began racing again as the predicament of your situation finally sank in, your hand now rapidly tugging at the handcuffs in hopes you’d be set free. Tears of frustration and fear pooled along your lashline, threatening to fall at any second.
The sound of your struggling must’ve alerted someone, and you stopped right in your tracks at the sound of heavy footfalls descending rickety wooden stairs. You were in a basement, was your assumption now. Your vision was suddenly flooded by light–which was a small and singular bulb hanging from the ceiling–that made you squeeze your eyes shut, the suddenness of it being so bright signalled a sharp pain in your head that traveled all the way to your occipital lobe.
You couldn’t help the helpless whimper that sounded quietly in the back of your throat, slowly opening your eyes to little slits. Despite the blurry vision, you were able to see the hulking stature of a man standing right in front of where you laid. You nearly had to tilt your head all the way back to get a good look at him, and even that wasn’t enough. Tall was an understatement, and he was almost too wide to fit in your peripheral.
The tank he had on was just hardly holding on, stretching taut over his chest, and covered in dubious stains from god-knows-what. Your eyes slowly made their way up his body, and then finally landing on his face; he surely wasn’t the conventionally attractive type, but he was pretty in a sort of fucked up way. Scars littered every inch of his face, and his hair sat flat on his head like it was overdue for a wash. But the eyes… the eyes are what made you remember. They were dark and piercing, like he could see right through your soul and set it on fire.
Your eyes opened up wider when they met his, and the realization slowly began to set in. You did the only thing you could even think to conjure up at this moment.
“Help! Someone heeelp meee!”
The screaming made your migraine worse, but it definitely was enough to make the man’s head hurt probably worse. You had a set of lungs on you, that was for sure.
He stepped forward with a heavy breath, almost as if you were inconveniencing him even though he fucking abducted you.
“Christ, shut your fockin’ mouth.” He stepped close enough to where you were eye level with his crotch, and he shoved two of his fingers right down your throat to keep you quiet. You gagged at the sudden intrusion and the taste of his hands. He tasted like dirt and metal, and something that was indescribable. He then had the nerve to let out a rough chuckle, the sound similar to stepping on glass shards.
“No one will even hear ya’ down here, birdie,” His other hand came up to hold your jaw tight, still keeping his fingers down your throat.
“Keep doin’ tha’ and I’ll put somethin’ else in your mouth to keep you quiet.”
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
Captain John price who feels a little insecure with his much younger girlfriend. It’s been so long since he’s been intimate with anyone and perhaps he didn’t have the same amount of “spring” as the younger folk.
So he goes to his most trusted lieutenant, asking for help.
That’s how ghost ends up holding your back against his chest while your boyfriend John is settled in between your legs.
“Look, see that Captain?” Ghosts fingers barely brush your clit, pulling the hood back. “You’re gonna need to show this part some extra love. Kiss it, suck it, lick it, hell, even spit on it.”
Price stares at your pussy with infatuation, drooling at the sight of you being so shy in his best man’s arms. He can feel your legs trembling as they drape over his shoulders.
You immediately let out a soft gasp as prices lips tenderly suck your aching clit.
Now price is a quick learner, and it doesn’t take him long to find just what makes you tick- you make it so easy with your adorable reactions after all.
You’re squirming, panting, whining- “shh shhh shhh,” muses ghost from behind, muscular arms holding you back. “Don’t make it harder for the man.”
He sets you straight with a decent slap to your right tit. You yelp, earning a low chuckle from the man. “Sorry, doll. Force of habit.”
Ghosts eyes trail down your body to where his captain is vigorously working his mouth like a starved man. “Doing well, sir. She’s ‘boutta cum.”
Prices tongue does a lovely flick over your clit before engulfing it whole again in his warm mouth. You can’t help yourself as you desperately roll your hips over his chin and beard, increasing the friction.
Ghost holds you tighter against him, hands resting on the underside of your chest as he whispers something only you can hear. “Cmon, baby. Cum for the captain why don’t ya? And after, we can get to the main event.”
You’re so caught up in the growing knot in your stomach that you miss the way ghost rolls his stiff dick into the curve of your ass from behind. “I like to lead by example y’know.”
i feel like i don’t see enough headcanons for gaz and it makes me :///
anyways.
gaz is tooootally the type to be a proper gentleman towards you on your first date—wooing you with flowers, showering you with endless compliments—just completely reeling you in with an invisible string.
but when you guys fuck for the first time? oh, this man is dirty.
he’d fuck you slow and hard just so you could feel every beautiful inch and vein of him, but he’d lean in so close to the point where you could just barely even get in a full breath. especially not with how hard he punches right into your cunt, leaving close kisses on your cervix each time.
he’d shove his thumb right into your mouth and just let his fingerprint rest there for a bit. basking in the warmth of your mouth for a couple of seconds before pushing your mouth open wider and spitting a glob of spit right on the center of your tongue and watching it for a moment before shutting your jaw and forcing you to swallow.
he enjoys being the one to make you blush, but he lives for being the one to make you fall apart.
Going out drinking with friends to celebrate with all the other fans, and meeting Johnny at a crowded divebar. An import from Scotland, he jokes: an' a big football fan.
He lays it on thick—
accent. charm. crooked, boyish grin. sweet words murmured into your ear—it's loud in the bar, crowded: he has to get close, doe, has to press against you, box you in against the back wall until you can't see anything else, anyone else, except him; the bracket of his arms, the solid press of his thigh; the rasp of his cheek, the scratch of stubble against your skin he leans down close to speak, lips peppering the shell of your ear. sweet things like you're so pretty, doe. prettiest thing in this whole town.
(he could just throw you over his shoulder, take you home to ma', and eat you up.)
—and despite yourself, it's working.
It's been a long time since you've felt this thrill—this need. Let yourself get pulled away from your friends in a crowded bar, pressed against cheap vinyl in a secluded corner as a man you barely know grabs your hips to keep you still, keep you tucked against him. Sloppy kisses beneath a framed picture of Elvis. Smearing. Wet. The scratch of stubble. The nip of teeth. A sting soothed with the lash of a soft, fleshy tongue. Fingers diving beneath the hem of your pants because he can't get enough. He's solid against you, warm—burning like a furnace. A heat you can feel, pulsing, between your hips.
You feel the buzz of alcohol a lot more, too. A potent thing in your veins—syrupy and thick; your head feels full of it, heavy and liquid. Your whole body is just that—liquid. A slow ooze. He's the only thing keeping you up, holding you steady. Without the press of his fingers, the nudging rolls of his hips, you'd melt into the sticky linoleum.
You thank him with a slurred murmur, a clumsy kiss, and he laughs it off. Tucks you tighter against him as he says to thank him later, when he brings you back to his hotel—
This isn't like you. You can't even remember his name—a laugh, and he whispers it again with an edge of teeth that feel like a reprimand; so you won't forget it this time—or how you got here, in this corner, with a man you vaguely remember offering to buy you a drink at the bar. His accent stood out, like it does now when he says come on, let's go, and just as suddenly as you ended up pressed against the wall, you're being pulled into his arms. Breathless and clumsy. Cute, he says, and it's a hazy, dimpled thing that tugs at the corner of his mouth.
You came here with friends. Know better than to leave without them, with a man you don't know—a man they don't know—but when you slur this into his chest, he peels away. Steps back. And that chasm makes you whine. Keening in the back of your throat because the space, the distance feels too big. Too wide. Your struck, suddenly, by thigmotaxis. A small, soft-bodied thing that's too vulnerable without the hard lines of his body propping you up. He fits like a corner for you to hide inside, and you miss that more than you should. Need it more than you can understand with your thoughts stuck in a gauzy web. In this state, the sheer size of him, the solid wall of skin-warmed muscle and meat, is anxiolytic.
He shushes you—more dimples. The edge of teeth. Steps back into place, and let's you melt against him, a safe nook, but his words rake across that part of you that knows this isn't normal, that this isn't like you. You've only had four drinks. Three of which he bought.
But when he says c'mon, doe, let's get outta here, all of the things you should say are damped by that ooze. That slick, sticky thing in the back of your head, cradled between your thighs. You nod, a slow, dizzy thing, and watch the shape of his maw shift up into a wide, sharp toothed grin.
It stays—a permanent etch across his too-handsome face; lingers in the spill of daylight when you wake up to something heavy, tight on your ring finger. There, pressed into the corners, all teeth and deep dimples, when the slow, steady drip of the night before comes back to you and you realise that instead of leading you back to his hotel, he took you to a sleazy, twenty-four church. The license signed—your messy, drunken scrawl on the paper confirming that you did, in fact, get married to a man you knew for less than an hour, with the bulk of that time being kissed senseless in a corner and told drink up, doe.
You slip out of the room when he's in the washroom, hurriedly running back to your apartment to scrub the night off in the shower—the phantom touch, the ghost of his words (am catholic, he'd said in the cab after telling the driver to head to the nearest, sleaziest church. cannae fuck before the ring, doe, no't' a good Catholic boy like me)—trying to find some fix for this mess you'd gotten yourself into. It can't be permanent. It can't be real.
The only place you feel safe is with your friends, family, but that charm he laid on so thick last night shows itself in a new light when you find him sitting at their table already. Oozing a sweetness that makes your teeth ache when you see the approval gleaming in their eyes as the story he tells is wrapped up in romance. In love at first sight. And the problem is that he's cunning. Too smart for his own good. He can see the vulnerability, the weakness in your family—in their penultimate dream for you: happiness, a family, one of your own—and he pounces. Convinces them that he's so good for you. That this spur of the moment decision wasn't as sudden as you keep telling them it was—chalking it up to embarrassment, of all things; that you were too shy to admit to having an online relationship with a man you'd never met before—and despite everything, they believe him.
Maybe it's wilful ignorance. Maybe he's just such a catch, a good guy, that they want this work out for you more than they want to see the cracks in a good man's veneer. Whatever the reason, it culminates in them welcoming him into the fold as your unexpected husband. Inviting him places as mean to get to know him—an opportunity for him to ooze as much charm as he needs to in order to sway them to his side. Spreading like a spore amongst your core group with the intention of sticking. Even going so far as to have your friends talk you out of a divorce, siding with him on the (manufactured) reasons why you two should stay together. Or—
give him a chance.
But it won't last long. Soap knows this. Eventually, the cracks will appear. Someone will look beyond what they wish you really had to see how unnerved by the situation you are—something he won't be able to chalk up to shyness or embarrassment for much longer. Not when you're so against this "sham" marriage.
Which is why he sneaks around to plan a "honeymoon" with your friends and family, getting them involved in a surprise trip back home with him.
Despite your misgivings about him, there is a brightside to this—a vacation you don't have to pay for. And what is the worst that could happen in a small cabin nestled in the Highlands, really.
Maybe you'll be able to convince him that divorce is the best choice while you're there.
simon riley laying low in a small coastal town after an OP x naive tourist having a port day who doesn’t realize that the boat will absolutely leave without you if you spend all afternoon canoodling with the big, brusque behemoth who won’t let you check the time on your phone when he has you spread out on his lap in some local tavern and grinding down on his thigh until the sweat on your upper lip drips down your neck and he licks it up. but he’s more than happy to let you spend the night in his hotel room until you’re able to catch a flight to the ship’s next destination
Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
