Icy

22, she/her (MDNI; this is an 18+ blog)

[icyblogs]

Hello, here's a humble little intro post/dictionary! Updated 09/24/2024.

I'm Icy! She/her. 22 years old. Based in the US. (:

MDNI! 18+ only pls

Here's my AO3, and my fic list is below! Currently only writing for COD as that’s where my silly little brainworms are at.

My writing is uh?? like 50% dark i'd say (I think??), I try to tag thoughtfully but i'm very new at this so if you feel like something is not tagged correctly please reach out and lmk!

Anyways fics below the cut (:

DND AU

Flesh and Bone 1, 2 (DND!AU Ghoap x reader) dark fic! 

Fallout AU

Ghoul!Ghost x Vaulter!Reader

Raiders!141 x Vaulter!Reader thoughts

[553580]

it starts with a photograph.

someone drops it in your mail slot- no note, no envelope, nothing. just a printed picture on proper photo paper, a slightly out of focus candid picture of yourself, clearly taken from across the street and through your window, without your knowledge.

it's unnerving, and after texting your friends and family about it, decide to report it to the police. they are, per your expectations, less than helpful- but at least the incident is documented somewhere a bit more official than your groupchats.

but having a report sitting on a cop's computer doesn't do much to deter more photographs- none of them taken with your knowledge or consent, and each one seemingly getting closer and closer: you on a bus, you in the grocery store, you walking somewhere, you at work, you out with friends.

the last one makes your heart stop: you, curled up in bed, eyes closed and face tinged green from night vision technology, clearly taken from inside your room.

the cops are called, locks are changed, and security systems are installed- but all it does is buy you time. three weeks, in fact, before you come home to your apartment smelling like cigarette smoke, a full ashtray left on your nightstand along with a still-wrapped condom.

fuck calling the cops again- they're beyond useless at this point. your only option is to check into a cheap motel while you search for somewhere new to live. you order room service and hunker down, going through listings for both jobs and apartments with decent security.

you've got a good excel spreadsheet going of potential candidates when there's a knock at the door, a bassy voice announcing room service. it prompts you to your feet immediately, and when you swing open the door you're briefly greeted with the sight of a giant man in a ski mask- shoulders filling the doorframe, blocking out the light behind him- mere moments before he shoves you inside. his hand clamps down over your mouth with a strength that threatens to cut the inside of your lip against your own teeth as he bullies you towards the bed, wrestling you down to the mattress with a grunt.

the worst part of it is that by the time you'd registered that he was not, in fact, room service, you knew without hesitation exactly who it is. your mystery photographer, here in the flesh, settling his bulk down on your hips as he tugs at the fly of his trousers one-handed.

"love when you play hard to get. olways knew the best girl f'me would be a girl that's too smart t'want me- and you don't want me, do you, sweet'eart?" timidly, you shake your head, and he laughs, shaking his own head in mimicry of you as he pulls out the biggest, angriest looking cock you've ever seen. "nah, yeah, knew it. that's olright, love. might not want it, but you'll get it anyway. i'll teach you t'like it. you'll see."

[anneofgreengabagool]

while we were hunting rabbits

simon riley x reader au | 600 words

navigate to: masterlist

chapter 1

A hound is following you.

You never see it, you never catch a slip of it, but you feel it. It's a crawling sensation that sits on your skin like a film of fat. Not every day, but enough over the past few weeks that you've begun taking precautions.

You stop posting on social media, change up your walking routes, and you ask a security guard to escort you to your car if it's dark out after work. You keep your curtains closed, blocking out the last dregs of the October sun.

After awhile, you confide in your cousin, and they convince you that you're being haunted. They come over, serious and stocked with supplies, and cleanse your apartment. Perform some rituals you don't quite understand, but appreciate the symbolism of nonetheless.

It doesn't help.

There's nothing concrete you can even show as proof. It's a distant, watchful shadow that leaves no trace. No messages, nothing left behind on your doormat; it is a complete absence, robbing you of any rationale beneath your dread. You recall, distantly and vaguely, the familiarity and shape of being watched.

You ask your cousin's partner to come over and install a doorbell camera. It's connected to your phone, so you can watch it when you're away.

And you do, all the time. You have the live feed open on your phone all day now, even if it's minimized as a small window while you do other things. Laid in bed, watching neighbours pass the fish-eye lens in the long tunnel hallway.

This turns into note-taking.

Apt 510?? - Tall brunette + shorter redhead, G. shep dog Apt 508 - Older lady (cool hair), lives alone, gets dinner delivered Apt 5?? - Dad (grey hair, wears suit) + daughter (12-13?), ex-wife pick-up wknds

You learn the rough shapes of their schedules, their guests and visitors, anything that you can eliminate as unusual later on. Every guest you've seen is either escorted by the resident themselves, or goes and does what you expect them to.

The routine is monotonous and suffocating and soothing. Your friends slowly stop asking you to hang out; you don't like leaving your apartment anymore. Work doesn't care if you switch to remote.

This is unsustainable and you recognize it. You can see plainly that you are now the hant in your own life.

—

Halloween.

In your apartment complex, it's hit-or-miss each year. Some years, you get a handful of kids, and other times, you've run out of candy by 8 o'clock.

This year, you set out candy in a plastic bowl by your apartment door and watch the scattered clumps of kids come running through.

A few hours later, the last of the kids have come by. You stand up to retrieve the bowl when you see, in the fish eye lens, something dark at the far periphery.

The black toes of boots just peeking into frame from down the hallway. Boots facing your apartment. Unmoving.

You freeze behind the safety of your front door, unable to move.

The boots retreat, off-camera and out of sight.

You bring the bowl back in once morning comes, too terrified to move.

The boots return that night, still on the periphery of the camera's reach, stockstill as if it's a snapshot and not a live video.

You hover in place and realize that you're crying: there's a sliver of proof, finally. They're just dark boots but they're there, outside in your hallway, and they're for you. You're not crazy and you're not hallucinating.

For the first time in weeks, you sleep through the night.

When you wake in the morning, disoriented by the long uninterrupted sleep and drool dried around your lips, you check the camera feed: black. You double-tap the feed, jig around with the app, but it's still black.

"Goddammit," you mutter. "Piece of shit."

You open the door slowly. Peek your head out, check both ends: empty.

And where the camera was installed neatly, now just a single wire remains.

[anneofgreengabagool]

while we were hunting rabbits

simon riley x reader au | 600 words

navigate to: masterlist

chapter 1

A hound is following you.

You never see it, you never catch a slip of it, but you feel it. It's a crawling sensation that sits on your skin like a film of fat. Not every day, but enough over the past few weeks that you've begun taking precautions.

You stop posting on social media, change up your walking routes, and you ask a security guard to escort you to your car if it's dark out after work. You keep your curtains closed, blocking out the last dregs of the October sun.

After awhile, you confide in your cousin, and they convince you that you're being haunted. They come over, serious and stocked with supplies, and cleanse your apartment. Perform some rituals you don't quite understand, but appreciate the symbolism of nonetheless.

It doesn't help.

There's nothing concrete you can even show as proof. It's a distant, watchful shadow that leaves no trace. No messages, nothing left behind on your doormat; it is a complete absence, robbing you of any rationale beneath your dread. You recall, distantly and vaguely, the familiarity and shape of being watched.

You ask your cousin's partner to come over and install a doorbell camera. It's connected to your phone, so you can watch it when you're away.

And you do, all the time. You have the live feed open on your phone all day now, even if it's minimized as a small window while you do other things. Laid in bed, watching neighbours pass the fish-eye lens in the long tunnel hallway.

This turns into note-taking.

Apt 510?? - Tall brunette + shorter redhead, G. shep dog Apt 508 - Older lady (cool hair), lives alone, gets dinner delivered Apt 5?? - Dad (grey hair, wears suit) + daughter (12-13?), ex-wife pick-up wknds

You learn the rough shapes of their schedules, their guests and visitors, anything that you can eliminate as unusual later on. Every guest you've seen is either escorted by the resident themselves, or goes and does what you expect them to.

The routine is monotonous and suffocating and soothing. Your friends slowly stop asking you to hang out; you don't like leaving your apartment anymore. Work doesn't care if you switch to remote.

This is unsustainable and you recognize it. You can see plainly that you are now the hant in your own life.

—

Halloween.

In your apartment complex, it's hit-or-miss each year. Some years, you get a handful of kids, and other times, you've run out of candy by 8 o'clock.

This year, you set out candy in a plastic bowl by your apartment door and watch the scattered clumps of kids come running through.

A few hours later, the last of the kids have come by. You stand up to retrieve the bowl when you see, in the fish eye lens, something dark at the far periphery.

The black toes of boots just peeking into frame from down the hallway. Boots facing your apartment. Unmoving.

You freeze behind the safety of your front door, unable to move.

The boots retreat, off-camera and out of sight.

You bring the bowl back in once morning comes, too terrified to move.

The boots return that night, still on the periphery of the camera's reach, stockstill as if it's a snapshot and not a live video.

You hover in place and realize that you're crying: there's a sliver of proof, finally. They're just dark boots but they're there, outside in your hallway, and they're for you. You're not crazy and you're not hallucinating.

For the first time in weeks, you sleep through the night.

When you wake in the morning, disoriented by the long uninterrupted sleep and drool dried around your lips, you check the camera feed: black. You double-tap the feed, jig around with the app, but it's still black.

"Goddammit," you mutter. "Piece of shit."

You open the door slowly. Peek your head out, check both ends: empty.

And where the camera was installed neatly, now just a single wire remains.

[553580]

i might write a full thing out later, but, like, the brainworms are wriggling and i'm still unsure if it's anything

something something mob au where price suffers a blow to the head on a handoff gone wrong, and while he seems to be cognitively fine in all other ways, there's just one small problem:

he keeps demanding to see his wife- but he's never been married.

he talks about her all the time, tells the boys what she looks like, her name, how they met at a coffee shop she'd worked at- one that's not too far from where he keeps his office. it doesn't take them long to realize he's been harboring something of a crush on the barista at his local coffee place- and a solid thwack to the head with an improvised nightstick has convinced him that the two of you have been together for years.

were price not a) the head of organized crime in the city and b) growing increasingly upset and violent at being kept from his 'wife', they'd just ignore his demands, up his sedatives, and worst case scenario, hire a working girl to put on a wig and play the part for a night. easy peasy, no harm done.

instead, you're snatched up after a closing shift, your car left abandoned with the door half open as you're shoved into a van and given very clear instructions at gunpoint: you will play the role of mrs. price, you will allow him to do and say as he pleases, you will not cause a fuss, run away, or do anything to harm the old man.

you'll be made to play house, to be his perfect housewife under the threat of a bullet to the brain. you're to let him do whatever he likes and pretend it's absolutely fine and normal- groping, smacking, fucking, fingering, all of it. you are his little plaything, given a very specific role to act out. anything less than a completely convincing performance and you'll wind up in the river. or the rose garden. the man in the skull mask is still thinking it over.

it's hard to do anything but agree, especially when all you've been told is that the infamous 'bravo' who runs the 141 gang has asked for you, specifically, despite the fact that you have nothing to do with organized crime. it's terrifying- after all, you're just a barista, worried about picking up enough shifts to pay rent. the most contact with bravo and his gang is reading about the brutal deaths linked to him on the evening news. you couldn't pick him out of a lineup if you tried-

-or so you thought.

your entire world feels like it's caving in on you when you're led to a private room with armed guards at the door, only to see one of your favorite regulars being tended to in an ostentatiously large bed, his eyes lighting up as he bats the doctor's blood pressure cuff away as he reaches out for you as if you're long-lost lovers and not just a barista and the guy who recently switched from americano's to lapsang souchong.

something something it's a terribly confusing thing, after all, to be forced at gunpoint to play wife to someone who actually does make for a very loving and attentive husband- even if he is mafia.

[peachesofteal]

Keepsake previous - masterlist Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

You’ve found some footing outside your room.

In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.

It doesn’t work.

They’re everywhere.

Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.

“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”

“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”

“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”

It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.

The outside threat, or them.

Your pills aren’t working.

It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.

No relief. No numbness.

Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.

It’s taking a toll.

“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?

Simon says your name, but you ignore him.

Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?

A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.

Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.

“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”

“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-

Stop.

You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”

“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.

“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.

“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.

“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.

You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.

An infection.

They made you sick.

They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.

Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.

You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.

“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.

“If ye say so.”

You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.

It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.

You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.

Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.

The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.

There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.

The bedroom that’s too large, too open.

It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.

You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.

But it still doesn’t feel right.

That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.

You eye the lamp.

It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.

Better, but still not right.

Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.

Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.

You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.

It should work.

It should.

You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.

The closet catches your eye.

Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.

You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.

It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.

You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.

Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.

Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.

Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.

The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.

You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.

Simon.

Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.

His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this. 

No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.

“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.

“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.

Stop.

Stopstopstopstop please stop-

The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”

That snaps you out of it.

The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals down to their bones. 

You won't let that become who you are. You can't. 

You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.

“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.

“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.

“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.

“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.

“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.

You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.

It knows you’ll come crawling back before the night is over.

[553580]

living ghosts [part 9]

he's gone again when you wake up in the morning.

in some ways, it all feels like a bad dream. the memories of what you've done play on a loop in your mind, a private screening of a horror movie starring you as the crazed killer, blurring a little more with each replay. you're no idiot, you've seen macbeth before, it almost feels like an inevitability that your own thoughts will drive you slowly insane.

if the man- simon- was still here, you could distract yourself. make your mind too busy to think about how it felt when the gun kicked in your hand, the sounds of bodies hitting the floor, the ringing in your ears as the shot rang out in your hallway. but instead you're alone, with only your own mind to keep you company.

true to his word, simon cleaned up the place. there's no blood to be found, no dislodged photos, and the bullet holes have been located and patched with plaster sometime in the middle of the night. there's no note waiting for you, but you know already where he's gone- off to finish the 'job' he keeps talking about. he'll be back, it's a sureity- but there's no telling when.

logically, you know you have to keep busy. it's the only thing you've found aside from drinking yourself into oblivion that helps stave off the bad thoughts and sad memories- and you can't afford to drink right now. that fat wad of cash was put straight to the mortgage, although most of it was probably put towards interest. shit, you hope simon comes home from this job with some money, all you have left in your pantry is a paltry amount of bisquick and various ingredients that you don't have the energy or willpower to combine into a real meal.

cleaning is the only thing to do around the house when you're alone and broke, so that's exactly what you do. it only takes you a day to do your regular cleaning routine throughout the entire house, but when simon doesn't come back that night- or even the following morning- you decide to do an even deeper cleaning to keep yourself sane.

your plan, however well-intentioned, is a total failure. snippets of the past play like an unwelcome movie reel in your mind, undeterred by the way you're cleaning the tile in the bathroom with an old toothbrush. every memory feels like a frozen icepick being jammed up through your belly, stabbing your heart and lungs along with it- and the pain of it is enough to leave you sick and breathless as you listlessly wander through the house, rag in hand.

"sweetpea?" you can practically hear your dad's voice echoing in your mind as you scrub, his confusion and fear apparent in his voice. in your mind's eye you hurry down the stairs and into his room, where he'd stared at you from his bed, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"have you seen my daughter?" he'd asked, and even on your knees in the bathroom, you have to bite your life to stop it from shaking.

"i'm sorry, she just stepped out. can i do anything for you?" you'd asked, voice wobbling with the tears you'd so valiantly held back. dad just shook his head silently, rolling over in bed, his back towards you, clearly uninterested in you.

it was the first time he'd forgotten who you were. it wouldn't be the last, or even the most painful- but you remember it as if it were yesterday, the way you'd hovered in the doorway, watching his silhouette blur as your eyes filled with tears that you wouldn't allow to fall until you'd closed the bedroom door behind you.

you tell yourself that your sniffling has to do with the ajax you're scrubbing into the grout, that your watery eyes are just from the chemicals and poor ventilation- but you know you're just lying to yourself. still, as the floors slowly get cleaned and the sting in your knees and eyes gets stronger and stronger, it helps you to focus on the pain so your mind doesn't wander off to dark corners again.

you think you're safe from your own thoughts until you start washing the walls, taking the photos down so you can run a rag over the aged wallpaper. the eyes of the long dead, very recently dead, and few months passed cling to your face uncomfortably like cling wrap over your mouth and nose, suffocating and disorienting. when you finish, you don't hang the photos back up, opting instead to leave them in a pile on the side table, all face-down as you fail to fight off further memories.

stepping out of your bedroom in the middle of the night for a glass of water, only to find dad, sitting at the kitchen table back in the old house, head in his hands, openly weeping. the thick carpet hid your footsteps, but as soon as your feet hit linoleum, the sound of bare feet on plastic startled him into looking up.

"dad?"

"sweetpea, i-" there were tears on his face, streaking his cheeks and catching in the stubble along his jaw. his mouth opened and closed, like the words just wouldn't come out, lower lip quivering as he sniffled, breaths shaking and rattling in and out. his eyes were wide- horrified, the most afraid and distraught you've ever seen him in your life.

it was scary, seeing your normally put-together, confident, brave father shaking and crying like that. you knew something was horribly, irreparably wrong, that nobody could fix it- not if he was sniffling and weeping like this.

he held his arms out for you to hold him, and to this day you hate yourself for hesitating, for being afraid of what it meant. you stood there, staring at him and that desperate, despondent, grief-stricken look on his face, watching him slowly curl in on himself as you stood there, stuck in place.

here he was- your rock, your pillar, the man who kept you safe from everything bad and terrible- having a complete breakdown. even in the moment, you knew things would never be the same after seeing him like that. no longer was he the seemingly perfect, unflappable, solid rock, the perfect patriarch with no weaknesses- practically a god in your childish mind.

from that point on, your dad was just a man, trying his best.

"please." he'd barely whispered. "please, sweetpea."

he sounded ruined. looked it, too, enough that it compelled your little feet forward, allowing him to swallow you up in the biggest, tightest hug he could without crushing you. you were so little then, and he was so big, still clinging to you like a drowning man might try to hold on to a buoy as a last-ditch attempt to keep from going under permanently.

"your mama's gone." he whispered against your hair, voice watery and weak. "she's gone, honey. i can't fix it. i don't know what to do."

the memory knocks you back to your knees, and you sob on the floor, next to a bare wall covered in bright little squares and ovals, the wallpaper having been sun bleached around where the framed photographs had been.

~

it takes an hour to stop crying and start reorganizing the pantry.

it's like all the grief you'd dammed up, tucked away and tried to forget has wriggled its way to the forefront of your mind, drowning you from the inside out, making you sluggish and weak. it's hard to concentrate on moving the older cans of beans to the front of the cabinets, or dusting the shelf liners, or checking expiration dates when you keep getting hit over and over again by waves of sadness that threaten to pull you under the tide.

"look, do whatever you want. doesn't matter to me if you put him in a home or hire a nurse or throw him in a fucking ditch- i've got enough goddamn problems of my own. i'm not handling this one." cam's voice said through the phone as you stared a hole through the worn-down kitchen floor in your old apartment. "figure it out or don't, i don't give a shit."

the memories continue to wash over you like a bitterly cold tide as you scrub out the sink. it's a pit you're in, one that's slowly caving in on all sides, threatening to crush you from every direction. you can't see a way out, can't seem to fight against the thoughts and images that bubble up unbidden, pulling your concentration away from cream of mushroom soup that expired a year ago and forcing you to confront a pain you'd thought you'd buried.

the sound of coughing through the closed bedroom door. it had been persistent at that point- but the doctor said he wasn't sick sick. it was just a side affect of his acid reflux, apparently. still- it sounded horrible, even muffled through the door.

"you good?" you called out from where you were in the kitchen, somewhat absent-mindedly. you already knew he wouldn't respond- it was before eight a.m., he wasn't typically very verbal until after he had breakfast at nine. if at all.

ten minutes later he stopped coughing. fifteen minutes after that, when you went to wake him for breakfast, you found him dead.

that one feels like a knife to the brain, sending you sinking to your knees. fuck the cleaning- you can't keep running anymore, can't keep distracting yourself with the dangerous man who moved into your guest room, can't drink the pain away- can't use any of your usual techniques to stave off the flood of agony that you've kept dammed up for so long.

the sobs roll through you like thunder, wringing tears from the core of you, making your ribs ache and lungs burn as you struggle to breathe through it. grief truly feels like drowning, that awful inescapable inability to take a ragged lungful of air without the fear of choking to death on it. all you can do is crawl across the kitchen on your hands and knees, slowly traversing to your bedroom as you brace for another wave.

"cam!" a stranger's voice called out on the ground floor, startling you damn near to death. it was bad enough having someone else barge into your home without permission, but you'd been in ghost's room,having mustered up the courage to go snooping around and looking for a pair of panties you would have sworn he'd swiped right from the hamper. for a half second you'd thought he'd come home, essentially busting you for prying where you knew in the marrow of your bones you shouldn't have been.

"get the fuck out here cam, i'm done playing games with you, you little shit!" a new voice barked, and your mind immediately decides you're in some serious fucking danger.

they're not going to believe you don't know where cam is, they're going to hurt you to try to find out, they're going to hate the truth when they force it out of you, a voice in your head whispered. there's a handgun just laying on one of your grandmother's doilies, and you grab it with shaking hands.

slowly, you opened the door, only to see a large man with a shotgun reaching the top of the stairs. you can remember almost in slow motion the moment that you knew he saw you. his eyes went wide with surprise, mouth dropping open, presumably to call for his companion.

panic is how you explain what happened next. it was panic that made you forget you had a gun, made you decide instead to rush him, shoving the barrel of his gun away as you used your weight to shove him over the railing, sending him crashing to the ground. panic is what made you stare at his unmoving body until his partner screamed at you and pulled you out of your stupor. panic is what made you swing the gun up and start firing at the partner until he stopped moving.

but when you slowly went down the stairs, gun still drawn- albeit shaking in your hands- and looking over the bodies you'd made? when you'd grabbed them by the ankles and drug them out back? when you'd put an extra bullet in each of their heads just to be safe?

that deliberate.

that was you.

you did that. and there's no taking back the calculated way you'd shut down your emotions for a bit so you could clean up after yourself, doing your best to cover up what you'd done. you can scrub and scrub and scrub, lady macbeth, but you know your sins.

so you count them, all of them, begging god or whoever else is listening for mercy and forgiveness as you crawl into bed and pull your covers over your head. starting at all the times you were late getting dad breakfast and working your way to allowing the man who killed your brother to finger you on the front porch. the demons in your head come out to play, jabbing you with their pitchforks and pen knives as all of your shame and guilt continues to flow freely through you. you've been making so many mistakes lately, allowing your grief and loneliness to transform you into someone completely different than who you are.

a voice in your head begins to whisper-

maybe you don't really love simon. maybe it's all just in your head. maybe you're just lonely broken, and he's taking advantage.

it plays on a loop, over and over, a slight distraction from your other memories as you focus on every interaction with simon, every look, every touch, every conversation. it's hard to say if he's actually good for you, or if he's pushing you into a delusion that allows him to easily take what he wants from you.

he'd showed you how easy it is to kill, and now you're a killer. that has to be his influence, right?

you analyze what you know about simon to the point of exhaustion, wearing yourself down mentally to tire you enough for sleep.

it's hard to say how long you rot in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom before flopping back down in your nest of pillows and blankets. the buzzing in your head is so overwhelming that you don't hear the front door open, let alone the slow, heavy footsteps down the hallway.

it's not even until you feel the mattress dip behind you that you even know someone's there.

"oh, mama. i left too soon, didn't i?" simon's crooning voice cuts through the fog like the lantern of a lighthouse. "had too much time to think and made yourself sick, eh?"

"you're home." you croak, throat dry. when was the last time you had water? or food? it's hard to remember. his presence feels like a light in the dark, helping you realize the state in. you're hungry, sweaty, and your throat is dry to the point of pain. how did you not notice it getting so bad?

"i am." he says simply. "job's done."

"oh." you know what that means- and what expectations he has.

"was gonna fuck you nasty oll over the bloody house t'celebrate, but i think that's not wot either of us needs right now, hm?" that's when you notice it- a bandage wrapped around his middle, a dark red stain seeping through it- and it snaps you out of your malaise like having cold water dumped on you.

"you're hurt!" you sit up quick, and simon just waves his hand in front of his nose.

"and you stink, love. get your arse in the shower while i change the sheets and my bandages." much as it pains you to admit, he's right. you catch a waft of yourself and realize not only are you going to need to shower, but to change the sheets as well.

"but-"

"don't argue. off you pop." he instructs, throwing your blanket off of you. it wafts the ripe, spicy smell of body odor over both of you, and he coughs. melodramatic, you think to yourself.

"you're sure i can't help?" you ask, eyeing his bandage warily.

"shower." he orders, not unkindly. "then make us somethin' t'eat."

every sideways thought you'd had about your relationship and attraction to simon evaporates completely in the light of his return. you have a job to do again, tasks to distract you from your internal conflict. with him right in front of you, your brain stops spinning in circles, focused on accomplishing the tasks set before you. it seems that, like a shark, if you stop moving, you'll die-

so you move.

first to the shower- where you thoroughly wash yourself until the hot water is nearly all gone, scrubbing the soapy washcloth with a ferocity that would remove rust from an old truck bumper- then to the kitchen to make some instant mashed potatoes and meatballs. easy and quick enough to make, while still immensely filling.

simon joins you just as you begin plating, wearing fresh clothes with no visible blood or mud on them.

"smells good, mama. m'starvin'." he says, pressing himself against your back and nuzzling a bit at your neck, inhaling audibly and exhaling on a sigh. "shampoo smells nice. missed that."

the way his voice rumbles, low and deep and right in your ear, gives you a little shiver down your spine. if he felt it, he says nothing- and lets you go with a pat to your hip, dropping down in his seat and loudly digging into his plate. something about the sight of this comically large man eating up your cooking like a starving dog settles something inside of you, quelling the storm that's been raging in your head for god-knows-how-long. he was right, you did overthink yourself to illness, and it seems like simon's presence is the only cure.

your eyes drop to his side, fresh bandages hidden under a clean shirt.

"are you okay?" you ask as you pick up your fork, gesturing towards where his wound is.

"s'just grazed is oll. need a few days t'take it easy and not rip out my stitches, but it won't kill me. no need t'fuss." he says around a mouthful of food. he stops to swallow. "and you?"

ah, yeah, suppose there's no hiding how bad you've been lately, what with the pitiful state he found you in, nestled in your cocoon of blankets and stink.

"i don't know." you say honestly, and he hums in response. "i think i- i've changed-"

"course you have. it's what people do when shit goes bad. be mental if you hadn't." he points his fork at your still-full plate. "eat. you can't fix none of it, no use starvin' over it."

he just makes it sound so simple, like this is the sort of thing that should be easy to move on from. the fork feels heavy in your hand as you eat, small bites over a longer period than normal. simon's helped himself to seconds and polished them off long before you ever finish, but you see him watching you carefully even as he wolfs down his meal and polishes off any hope of leftovers.

his foot hooks behind yours as he sits back to watch you peck at the rest of your dinner.

"used t'be that death was everywhere. not just the old- young people, children, babies. came from oll sorts o'things, war, disease, famine, or just an ill-timed kick from a mule. just a part o'life, innit? brigands would sooner kill you outright than deal with witnesses to their doin's. sometimes food that was just a bit off would take out a while family- or maybe a winter that was a bit colder than usual. i once saw a man die fallin' off his cart and onto a rock. people died oll the time, for no reason at oll. or stupid ones.

this world is still a hard place, sure, but it's grown softer over the years. cleaner deaths. longer lives. healthier babies. osha. o'course a soft thing like you, born into this world, isn't used to death like i am- but it's still the same now as it was then. oll just a part of nature, innit? you did what needed done and paid the price for your freedom. thassoll. no need t'wring your hands about it.

men like that- if it weren't you puttin' 'em down, someone else would've. might've been your brother's wife, or someone she'd hired. or another person they tracked. or their boss. or the police. or even the bloody state. it's just the way of it. don't get your knickers in a twist over a couple dead bellends- police bloody wouldn't."

he doesn't seem to even assume you killed them out of some form of self defense- and what's more, he doesn't seem to care. it feels stupid to be shocked by that, if you're honest. this is the man who killed cam and then helped you dispose of two bodies without hesitation. of course he doesn't care.

"i- i just-" you swallow and put your fork down, trying to find the right words. "i'm not used to being- like that. how i had to be. i hated it- hate myself for being that way."

"what way?" he says, as if he isn't currently the living, breathing incarnation of the very sensation you're trying to describe.

"cold." you settle on. "it was just- handling business. i- i even- i mean, when i took them out back. what i did. in the head."

you can't make yourself say it, and his responding grin sends a chill down your spine. a flashbang of a memory hits you; figures laid out against the snow in the dim evening light, muzzle flashes briefly illuminating their faces a milisecond before the bodies jerk and dark liquid pools behind their skulls, night-black against the blueish snow.

"i saw. i was proud." his foot rubs up and down the back of your ankle affectionately. "still am. my soft girl, takin' care o'business f'me while i'm away. didn't expect that from you- but i like it oll the same."

it soothes your frayed nerves, but only a little. your appetite is still shot, and you can feel the worry creeping back into the corners of your mind.

"what if more people come?" you ask nervously. simon shrugs, unbothered.

"we'll handle it." he says simply, as if talking about shoveling the snow from the driveway and not taking human lives.

"it's really that easy?" you ask, bewildered, and his grin softens.

"freedom is leased, not owned, mama. gotta keep payin' for it, over and over- and i will. f'both of us." he smirks, looking deeply pleased. "coz it's me n'you forever, innit?"

something about the way he's looking at you like a prize he's won paired with his declaration of forever opens something in you, like popping the cork from a barrel and letting the wine drain free.

it doesn't even matter to you if he's taking advantage of you somehow, or if he's turning you into someone else. simon's presence- his guidance- makes you feel whole again. when he's around, you're a person, not a mass of feelings all writhing against one another like a pit of eels. when he's home, you're someone who's capable, smart, and can handle tough jobs- like being lookout when bodies are being disposed of.

"yeah." you breathe, feeling lighter. it really feels like it's going to be okay somehow. simon was right, there is no fixing what's already happened, you just have to keep going and try to do better- and what's more, the burden of consequence won't land on you alone. simon will help you through whatever's next. forever.

"finish that up. you'll need your strength f'when my stitches oll heal up." he teases with a glint in his eye, chuckling to himself as he stands to take his place at the sink.

heh, heh, heh.

you watch simon wash the dishes as you slowly peck at your dinner. broad shoulders work under a tight black t-shirt, stretching the fabric taut as he moves. he's really quite the specimen- not just tall but big, with arms so large you can see the little cuts he had to make on the inside of his sleeves just to get them over his biceps.

you're barely cleared your plate before simon sweeps it away, setting it in the sink and silently urging you to your feet, big hands pulling at your arms until you're standing and in his arms, his broad chest pressed against your back.

"let's go to bed, yeah? need t'just hold my girl for a bit. been away too long." he murmurs against your temple, and you nod silently, ecstatic to feel his body heat leech through your shirt as he holds you close. he doesn't let you go so you can walk to the bedroom- instead opting to keep your back pressed to his chest tightly as he marches you forward, practically bullying you into bed, positioning you exactly how he wants before he crawls onto the mattress behind you.

a thick thigh shoves its way between your legs and a strong forearm hooks around your waist, broad body plastered up against yours with a deep and contented sigh- the kind an old dog makes while laying in a sunbeam after a good long walk.

"tomorrow mornin' you're gonna make me pancakes. naked, with my cum leakin' from your cunt." he whispers in your ear, rocking his hips forward ever so slightly. "s'oll i've been dreamin' of, love. you n'me, left alone at last t'do as we please."

"do you think we'll really get that?" you whisper back. "does 'happily ever after' really exist?"

he aspirates a laugh against your neck.

"fuck no." he chuckles in the dark. "but it don't mean we can't have somethin' nice between the shitshows, eh?"

it's a blend of realistic and hopeful that you've never experienced before. if what little he's told you about himself is anywhere near true, simon's lived a entirely un-sheltered life. if anyone knows the ways of the world and navigating it, it's probably him.

"true." you murmur, shifting slightly to burrow a little deeper into your pillow. you're not tired, per se, but there's something about the way simon's presence makes you relax that makes sleep seem inevitable. it's as if his proximity is the permission your body needs to release the tension that's been plaguing you this entire time. and that loosening of tension feels incredible.

the two of you lay there together, legs entwined, bodies warming fresh sheets, your ass pressed to his hips, your breathing growing slower as sleep creeps up on you, pulling your mind into unconsciousness right as simon murmurs something so lowly against your shoulder that you almost miss it.

"s'good t'be home, mama."

[peachesofteal]

Keepsake previous - masterlist Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

Your phone is missing.

You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.

You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.

You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.

But you know you had it.

Which means…

You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.

The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.

“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.

“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”

“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.

These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.

It’s torture, being here.

And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.

Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.

A craving that can never be satisfied.

It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.

That you can’t find.

You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.

And in order to do that-

you need your phone.

Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.

It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.

You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”

Stop.

What are you doing?

“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.

“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”

“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.

You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.

“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.

“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.

He says none of those things.

“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.

“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.

“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”

“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”

“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?

“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.

“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”

You hate him.

He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.

You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.

“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.

“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.

“Yes.”

“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.

He moves.

It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.

Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.

Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.

You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.

“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.

Subharmonics.

It almost brings you to your knees.

“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”

Alpha.

You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.

He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.

You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.

No, that is what you mean.

You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.

“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.

Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.

Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,

“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.

“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.

It’s not fair.

“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.

Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.

The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.

He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.

“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.

“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.

“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.

“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.

“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”

“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.

Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.

It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.

It’s late when the knock comes.

“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.

You don’t answer. He sighs.

“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.

But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.

He knocks again.

You meet it with silence.

Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.

[basementcoffee]

the 141 and you

price isn't a religious man. he rejects the notion that there's a detached yet benevolent hand arranging things beyond human understanding. but sometimes he looks at you and wonders what else he's supposed to call it. providence, maybe, but reward feels more apt. he's spent his entire life doing what was asked of him and more. the blood on his hands mortared into his lifelines. he never wasted much energy lamenting the absence of love and romance. it's not like those things are required for him to sate his needs. and then you appear, and suddenly he's forced to reconsider his beliefs or lack thereof.

someone, somewhere, decided that he finally earned this. earned you. you can resist if you'd like. in fact, he expects it. but if you're a good girl, he'll give you time and a loose leash on which to pace about, indulge the illusion of choice. but from his perspective, the matter was settled the moment he clapped eyes on you. there is no question of whether you're right for each other. the universe already rendered its verdict. you were placed in his path with all the care of a gift set upon a doorstep. now it's simply a matter of you making peace with that fact on your own, or him helping you hands-on.

similarly, ghost doesn't care whether it was luck or blind chance. things happen, doors open, doors close, you play the hand you're dealt. meaning is something people invent after the fact to make themselves feel better about circumstances beyond their control. still, out of everyone he could've crossed paths with, it's you. out of all the places you could've gone, you ended up here, right in front of him. he doesn't believe in destiny. he simply knows how to recognize an opportunity when it presents itself. and for whatever reason, the universe saw fit to place this one, this one lovely opportunity, directly in front of him. convenient, at least for him.

gaz doesn't see the point in forcing things. people either like him or they don't. at least that's what he tells himself. in reality, he knows you just need time to realize you enjoy having him around. he is very good at giving people time, and with people like you, he knows the power of a few honeyed words and patience goes a long way. he studies and learns and remembers the details nobody else does. makes you feel seen. he shows up when he's needed and always manages to make it seem accidental.

you tell yourself he's just a friendly and reliable man. you don't consciously realize how thoroughly he's embedded himself into your life to the point where he's load-bearing. and it doesn't feel like it's because he cornered you or forced your hand, but like you silently extended an open invitation, and you'd never think to rescind it. and well, if for whatever reason his meticulous planning falls through, or you see through him, he knows that given the proper motivations, you'll come around.

soap doesn't understand why you keep making things so complicated. you call it bad timing, incompatibility, or, flat-out, that you're just not interested. that he's reading too much into little things and that he needs to let it and you go. but soap is a bloodhound that will not be dissuaded from its quarry. he's seen and read those subtle tells of yours. the cues you keep sending his way. it's obvious you're playing hard to get. so what if you run away? prey runs. that's nothing new to him. so what if you tell him no? people get cold feet all the time. to him, the cure for fear is to plunge headfirst into the deep end. he'll toss you in and chase after. sooner or later, you will give up the fight. he's just got to wear you down first.

[loverifle]

new MW4A trailer. No Gaz. First soap now him. What else can infinityward take from me.

[553580]

[part 8]

simon's never had a pet before.

back when he was just a lad, any animal you caught, you killed and ate in order not to starve. squirrels, birds, lice, worms- anything to keep your belly full enough to live to see another day. the idea of owning an animal for work- to till, to haul, to guard- seemed like a luxury. having a pet just for companionship was just an ostentatious display of privilege and money, the likes of which only kings and princes could afford.

but now here's simon, a couple centuries and one miserable boat ride later, with a warm place to stay and a pretty soft pet who dotes on him. he doesn't believe in miracles, but finding the woman he calls 'mama' almost feels like one. any other person would've called the police upon finding him in their home- but mama was just the right blend of lonely, depressed, and needy. a household pet abandoned, left as a stray, desperate for a new family to love and please- and simon was more than happy to provide.

the most delicious part is how much she wants it. she's not letting him play house and fingerfuck her on the porch because she's scared, after all. he's moved in with plenty of scared people before, and all of them run for help at the first opportunity- but mama hasn't. won't. he's beyond confident in that. he might make her nervous at times, sure, but she's more curious, lonely, and eager to please than she is afraid. it's why she'll stick with him, increase his standard of living, and once this stupid bloody job is done, let him fuck her like the dog he is.

tonight he's been watching her sleep again, sat at her little desk with her father's dog-eared book, watching the slow rise and fall of her body as she breathes. it's hard to see her in the dark, but he just barely makes out her serene expression, untouched by worry or embarrassment or nervousness. she's so pretty like this, unbothered and soft, the folds on her blanket accentuating her curves, fabric bunching up between the hills of her silhouette.

any other woman at any other time and he'dve left her to clean up yet another bloody mess he'd made- but now he can't bear the thought. she's his perfect plaything, wonderfully subservient and accomodating, and desperate in a way that keeps her deferential and sweet. she's clay in his hands, waiting patiently to see what shape he'll mold her into- and it makes him feel like a god. he'd rather face police himself than hand her over to the likes of those pigs.

simon watches the silver morning light start to stream through her curtains and knows it's time to go. once he puts that two-timing backstabber in the ground, he'll be able to collect the rest of his pay and fuck off back here to bend mama over every flat surface in the house.

the drive is a long one, far enough east that the sun makes it's trajectory over the wide open skies, a long easy slide like a pad of butter on a hot pan. rejoining the rest of the world reminds him what a little sanctuary mama's house really is. in there, he's king of the bloody castle- doted upon, cleaned up after, cooked for, all by a soft and eager girl who consistently looks relieved when she sees him. it's as if her only fear is that he'll leave her alone, like he's the air she needs in order to breathe. it's a heady, powerful feeling, and not something he's ever experienced before, but fuck if he's ever going to give it up.

outside of mama's walls the waitresses avoid eye contact, bartenders serve him without a word, and these midwest-mannered police officers keep stopping him for a 'friendly chat' about his collection of scars, his accent, the big fuckoff knives he openly keeps strapped to his belt and tucked in his boot. outside of their shared home, he's assessed as a threat, a menace, something to be kept under silent observation and treated with suspicion- which makes mama's devotion all the sweeter.

he waits at a truck stop, watching for his last loose end to ride in on a busted up peterbilt. these jobs are not as simple as they used to be. before, if a man wanted another man dead, he'd pay a man to hit him in the head with a stone or stick him with a spear and walk away before anyone saw what had happened. done and dusted, simple as that. but now? he has to account for dna, fingerprints, nosy neighbors, and bloody fuckin' doorbells, which now apparently have bloody fuckin' cameras in them.

but as the saying goes, adapt or die- and since he cannot die, he is forced to adapt. that means a silencer on his pistol, stolen plates on his truck, and a gifted skull-print balaclava pulled over his face as he watches the rigs pull in one by one. the sooner he pops philip fuckin' graves and fills up his fuckin' grave, the sooner he can turn this shitbox ford around and head back home and start a quieter, somewhat more domestic chapter of his life.

it's been a good while since simon's felt impatient like this. he'd estimate that it was back around when ole rømer died that he stopped feeling the need to rush- after all, he's got forever, and the quarry he's waiting on doesn't. technically no matter what he does he'll outlive phil graves, but this time it's different. this time, it's her clock he's going off of. mama doesn't have forever like simon does, and he knows he needs to get as much time as he can with her until she's gone.

his phone chimes with a text from an unsaved (but not unknown) number.

>>call me.

nikolai picks up halfway through the first ring.

"ghost, the car you sent with gaz had a tracker on it. found it after we had some visitors today asking about the old owner." nik says in lieu of a hello. "high tech shit, too- but not government. just someone well-funded."

"fargo?" if simon has to deal with that big deaf cowboy again he's going to scream. nemesis feels too personal for what he is to simon, but it's a damn near thing.

"maybe, maybe not. hard to say." nikolai says. "but if gaz is right about the hardware, they can look up where he's been, retrace his steps looking for him."

simon's not an idiot, he knows what nik's not saying- that they can find where the car was parked for several hours before gaz came to pick it up. that they might be at mama's doorstep right bloody now.

"heard." simon grunts before disconnecting the call and starting up his engine. fuck phil, that tosser can catch a bullet in his perfect yankee teeth later, right now there's more pressing matters to attend. he peels out like a bat out of hell, and some ten miles down the road, simon tosses his phone out the window and into the snowbank- whether it's compromised by nik's call or not, he won't take the risk. not when so much is at stake already.

the world whips past him as he focuses on the narrow patch of snowy road illuminated by his foggy, yellowed headlights, falling into almost a trancelike state as he hurries to make it back home. god, just thinking of that place as home has something cracked open and bleeding under his ribs, a long-dormant feeling he hasn't had since long before he left his soggy little island- and the experience of it pushes his foot further down on the accelerator.

simon took that miserable trip across the sea only a few years after that wretched night in caerphilly castle, hoping to outrun his newfound sins and the curse they brought with them. there was no one to blame but himself for accepting the trade- he knew what he was doing, and couldn't afford to pass up the offer of a free meal and full forgiveness of his family's considerable debts.

the mesmerizing pattern of snowfall against headlights in the black of night helps him visualize that night once more- the crackle of the fireplace in a large stone hearth, the heat of it a relief against simon's cold, rain-dampened face. the corpse laid in a coffin, dressed in clothes nicer than simon had ever seen, presented to the gentry that milled about in their equally expensive fineries. the stares he received from the noble lords and ladies, the unconcealed conversations about his appearance, his smell, his purpose for being there- the sting of it rings clearly in his memories.

it's been too long for him to recall the exact words the priest spoke over the old lord, but he remembers the way the plate of food looked sitting on the dead man's chest, the way the steam curled in the firelight, how it was the most incredible thing simon had ever been promised- despite the circumstance.

one of the lords sons had explained it to simon- all he had to do was consume the food that had been allowed to soak up the lord's sins, thus ensuring his father's entrance into heaven, all in exchange for debt forgiveness and a hot meal.

it all sounded simple enough, but simon wasn't fool enough to think there wouldn't be a catch. despite his ambivilence towards god, he knew there would be consequences, that this wasn't a fair or equitable trade- but when one is starving and living under the constant threat of their family being thrown into debtors prison, what choice is there?

he remembers the way the rich food first slaked his hunger and thirst, before gradually turning to bitter ash in his mouth. how the priest had forced the wine cup against his lips, the way the lord's sons watched intently as simon swallowed down the lord's sins. the disgust and horror on the face of the crowd as he stalked back towards the exit. how, after he'd departed the castle and wandered into the night, rest would not come. nor the next night. nor the one after that. how he'd watched his family succumb to the plague from afar- too shamed by what he'd become to taint them with further association with him.

a sin eater.

so now here he is, thousands of miles from that wretched bloody castle, centuries after the last of that miserable lords heirs had died out, rushing back to the first comfort he's felt since he was a child eating warm bread stolen directly from the baker's ovens.

after all, she's a dream come true after centuries in the making. in his mind's eye, simon can envision mama as one of the broad-hipped tavern girls he used to like so much. in another life, she would've been there serving drinks and giving him that soft look he sees her make sometiimes. she'dve snuck him food from the kitchen, and maybe he'dve helped himself to a mouthful of cunt in the shadows around the back of the house. he would never have gotten into debt, never been made to eat that dead lord's sins, never been cursed to an exhaustingly long life of numbness, pain, and solitude.

it's a nice enough daydream, but simon can only suppose that all the pain, blood, horror, and erosion of his soul is worth it to eventually have what he has now. he's been beaten, starved, buried alive, shot, stabbed, thrown from planes, trains, and automobiles. he doesn't sleep, doesn't age, doesn't dream, and has been subjected to every misery that mortal men could possibly experience. and yet, the pain of it all is wiped clean away by a big, soft woman's shy smile- like etchings in the sand when the tide washes over it.

on top of that, her cooking somehow has found a way to fill his eternal, gnawing hunger, and slake his everlasting thirst. he'd nearly moaned out loud when he'd tasted the jam on toast she'd offered him, the shock of it rendering him nearly speechless. it's a marvel how the flavor of food doesn't dissapate or curdle on his tongue anymore. he can find satisfaction in mama's kitchen, sat at her table, eating the meals she's lovingly prepared for him- and while he couldn't say why that is, he's still not going to let anything take away this precious gift that the universe has somehow seen fit to provide him.

simon doesn't even have to pull all the way into the long driveway to know something's wrong. it snaps his attention back to the present, pinpointing his focus like a lazerbeam. there's an unknown van parked out front, and if the last time has taught simon anything, it's that strange vehicles at mama's place means his hands are going to have to get dirty again.

he cuts his headlights upon approach, slowly pulling up as quietly and covertly as he can. there's no movement that he can see from behind the gauzy curtains, and it only increases rage. someone is here, potentially to take away the one good thing he's had in hundreds of years- and it makes him feel absolutely furious to think about.

his handgun finds its way into his grip, leading the charge as he quietly enters the house, boots rocking heel-to-toe in silent, fluid steps as he follows the barrel into the house and down the hall. something behind his ribs grows tight as he observes the signs of a struggle- throw rug bunched up on the floor, pictures knocked askew on the wall, phone knocked off its cradle-

-and deep crimson blood splattered everywhere at the end of the hall.

time stops. the air in his lungs freezes. his heart stills mid-beat.

not now. not yet. not like this.

he takes a long, deep inhale through his nose- iron and gunpowder. not an unfamiliar smell, but under the circumstances, it's almost enough to make him sick.

it's hard to swallow, to blink, to move- all simon can do is stare at the blood, how it looks thick and half-dried, like it was spilled some time ago. he wonders if she suffered, if she cursed him with her final breaths, if she thought of him at all as she died in her father's home, the last of her family to perish on this land.

this has become a job now, a silent contract made with himself to find whoever did this and make them pay. he'll hunt them down, one by one, making them suffer for what they did to her. whatever pain or fear or torment she faced, they will have wrought upon them tenfold. he'll smite them where they stand, and then wipe out everyone they ever loved-

he suddenly hears movement in the kitchen, and feels all of his senses hone in on that direction as he slowly closes in, gun raised and ready to fire. the only sound he can pick up isn't conversation or even the movement of feet on the linoleum, but rather the repetitive swish of something being brushed or swept. quietly stepping over the squeaky floorboard, he peers into the kitchen- nearly losing his breath at the sight of a big fat arse bent over as mama scrubs blood from the floors.

the mental contract he made dissolves into the ether as he tries to gather himself back together. he'd expected loss without even considering that his big soft girl would be alright, and the shock and emotional whiplash is enough to make his eyes water- although he bites at the inside of his cheek to prevent tears from actually being shed.

"quite the mess, mama." he says, sounding far more casual than he feels, and he can't suppress the amused smirk on his face as she nearly jumps out of her skin, gasping and flailing as she spins around. there's pink soapy water absolutely everywhere, as well as a pile of soiled towels- evidence that she was trying to hide a mess.

"simon." her voice cracks as she calls to him, face screwing up and sobs rolling up and out of her like boiling pea soup. she holds her arms open, a silent plea for him to hold her, and to his own surprise, simon drops to one knee and holds her tight.

"s'olright, love. s'ok." he murmurs, kissing her temple as the knee of his trousers soaks up the bloody water. "tell me what happened."

"they- they came for cam. they knew he was here, but i don't- i don't-" a sob bubbles up at a memory, and simon holds her tighter, eyes scanning the floor over her shoulder. there's bloody drag marks leading out the back door, where he imagines 'they' are lying dead. asking her to fully recount what happened is proving too difficult for her, and he figures it's best to stick to asking questions she can answer simply.

"how many were there, love?"

"two." she sniffles against his shoulder.

"they're out back?"

"y-yeah." she hiccups. "i'm sorry."

"f'what?" he coos, nuzzling against the hinge of her jaw.

"i made such a mess." simon can't help the laugh that bubbles up out of him. she's not wrong, the floor is still pink and red with blood and soap, but it's nothing that can't be fixed with some bleach and a mop.

"s'olright, love. now, on your feet, sweetheart. c'mon." he helps her stand and leads her to the living room, where there's not a speck of blood or a toppled photograph to be seen. it's still status quo in here, far less distressing than the mess in the hall and kitchen. poor thing, she's already done the hardest part of dealing with these interlopers, he'll take over from here.

"deep breaths, mama. in and out, nice and slow." he watches her try, poor girl, but the tears keep bubbling up, contorting her face in fear and despair as she hyperventilates. simon pulls her in again, hand resting on the back of her head as she wets the shoulder of his jacket with her tears.

"shh, s'olright, sweetheart. 'm here now. i'll clean up y'mess, don't you worry 'bout that." he assures her, relishing in the way she clings to him like a life raft, like she'll drown in this without his help. he knows he's sick for hit, but god forgive him, he can't get enough of how badly she seems to need him.

"i- they surprised me." she murmurs into his jacket, sniffing loudly. "i w-was upstairs, i heard them ca-calling for cam, it scared me so much, i- they-"

another wet sob breaks up her train of thought, and the anticipation is damn near killing simon. he's hungry to know how all that blood got everywhere, what it is his soft little plaything had to do to survive. he's already getting hard at the memory of her bent over the blood, trying her best to scrub it off the floors, the way her big fat ass got even rounder as she knelt over the pink, soapy puddle in front of her.

"they had guns." she whispers, hiccuping a little as she tries to continue. "big ones. they just- they just barged in here, and i saw them, but they didn't see me, and- and-"

"what did you do, mama?" simon presses, hoping she doesn't feel the way his cock twitches against the softness of her body. his big, soft sweetheart, who is less helpless than she appears, surprising him in the best of ways, body heat leaking through her clothes to warm him as they hold each other close. it's dizzying how fast the blood in his head is rushing south.

"i went into your room." she confesses, sounding guilty. "you- you left a gun on the night stand, and i- i- i-"

another sob tears through her body, a rolling wave of horror, despair, and disgust. he can't picture it, can't envision her with the universal service pistol he'd left behind in her hands, can't fully imagine her taking someone's life- but knowing it happened is enough for him to get him fully hard, cock practically throbbing in his trousers.

"i- i killed them." her voice is thin and reedy, emotions threatening to choke her. simon pulls back a bit to look her in the eye, grip on her shoulders tightening.

"don't you ever say that shite to anyone ever again." he tells her seriously, eyes locked on hers. "this never happened. nobody came 'round lookin' f'anyone. you spent the night in front of the telly and went t'bed, yeah?"

"yeah." she still sounds unsure, like a small child still wondering if they'll get in trouble for breaking a rule. he almost forgot what a good girl she is, killing has got to be harder on her than it is for him.

god knows she doesn't have the practice he does.

he pulls her close again, waiting for her shaking to subside and crying to peter off into small sniffles, running his hands over her body as he coos his praise into her ear.

"listen to me: i'm so bloody proud, mama. my good fuckin' girl, takin' care of business f'me while i'm gone. stayin' safe no matter what. got me so bloody hard, watchin' you clean up your mess. my strong, capable girl." he purrs into her ear, grinding his hard, leaking cock against her soft thigh, his arms locked around her waist. "s'my turn now, innit? my turn to take over and set things right again."

"you will?" she sounds so hopeful, so trusting- it makes simon feel like a genie or a god, an immortal being capable of granting her wish.

"swear it, mama. i'll make it oll better, don't you worry." he assures her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"did-" she bites her lip and drops her gaze, and he already knows from experience that she's embarrassed. it's delicious, watching her squirm under his gaze, and he doesn't even have to do anything.

"go on." he urges, hoping she'll start to hunch in on herself, shoulders raised to her ears whenever she's unsure. simon's a big man- always has been- and it's brought him a consistent sadistic joy to watch others cower in front of him. it's nice that he can watch mama do it too, but without fear that she'll resent or loathe him. it's her own head that's doing it to her, after all. simon's just a giddy witness to her private humiliation.

"did you finish the job?" she asks, voice small and embarrassed, and it pulls a wicked grin across simon's face.

"not yet. heard you were in trouble an' came back soon as i could, didn't i?" he grabs her by the chin, forcing her to look him in the eye again. "why? were you hopin' i'd fuck you?"

she tries to drop her gaze, but a rough shake of the jaw still in his hand brings her eyes back up to his face.

"look at me." his smile is a snarl, pleased and predatory in equal measure. "you want my cock? is that what you think will make you feel better?"

"please." it's barely a whisper, breathless and light, but the sound of it will echo in simon's head forever. he knows what it is she really wants- not an orgasm, but proof that he'll take care of her, that he's on her side, that she pleases him enough to be worth the trouble.

easy enough.

"pull your dress up." he orders, and can't help the satisfied grin as she complies immediately. "thassa good girl, you just keep it raised like that, i'll make ya feel better."

her panties are barely visible, framed by a big, soft belly and thick thighs, but he can still see the triangle of pink gingham print peeking out and wrapping around her wide hips. he kneels in front of her, hooking his fingers in her pantyline and pulling them halfway down her thighs.

she's so cute, standing there with the hem of her house dress in her hands, exposing her soft cunt to him with wide, nervous eyes. she has no idea what he has planned for her, and is choosing to trust him anyways. nobody's had that kind of faith in him in a very long time, and it's what compells him to press the bridge of his bent and battered nose to her skin and take a long, audible inhale of her cunt before getting back to his feet.

"perfect girl with a perfect pussy." he murmurs to her, pulling his cock free and watching the way he mouth drops open at the sight of it. seizing his opportunity, he dives in for a kiss, shoving his tongue into her mouth as he slots himself at the apex to two soft, warm thighs.

her gasp of surprise is exhaled back into his mouth with a soft moan as he rocks his hips, sliding his cock in that perfect epicenter of wet softness. she's so wet already, coating the soft skin of her inner thighs as he ruts between them, doing his best to make sure her clit gets some friction- and he must be nailing it, given how she's squirming and panting, pinned against the wall as he rocks his hips, chasing his own orgasm.

fuck, she's perfect. there's nothing like a pussyjob from a girl with a needy wet cunt and big soft thighs. his grip digs into her hips, small hills of soft skin forming between his fingers as he dips his head to suck at the tender skin of her neck. one day soon he'll be able to lay her out and fuck her properly, but he has to admit- it's fun to tease her like this, to watch her try to contend with her desperation when what they both really want is so nearly in reach.

"oh my fuh-huh-ha-" she pants into his ear, and he can feel her rolling her hips to meet him, ass bouncing off the wall with soft thuds. she's solid and soft all at once, knuckles blanching where she holds up the hem of her dress for him. she's more than he ever would have imagined he could ever have, and he won't give her up for fucking anything. she may not know it, but mama is going to spend the rest of her life with him- it's completely non-negotiable, in simon's mind.

"knees tight together, thassit, come on, yeah- fuck- thassmy girl." he grunts as she squeezes her thighs around his fat cock. god, she makes him feel like a fucking king in this little house in the middle of nowhere. his word is obeyed without question, complaint, or hesitation. he can act with impunity in this self-styled castle of theirs, doing as he pleases and when he pleases, answering to no-one.

"oh, oh, oh-" she chants like a mantra, and it does simon's head in hearing how much she likes his big grubby paws and fat ugly cock all over her.

"m'gonna nut." he grits out, fingers flexing in the fat of her hip. poor thing, her teeth are dug into her lip, brows furrowed, the snap of her own hips growing frantic and desperate. she's close too, he can feel it in how her thighs are starting to shake. she nods her head in breathless acknowledgement of his words, keening when simon leans back in to suck at her neck.

"you n'me forever, yeah?" he hisses through grit teeth. he can feel himself getting closer to the edge, just a little more, he's nearly there-

"forever." she pants in his ear, nodding wildly, and it sets him off like a rocket. fireworks go off behind his eyes as he growls against her shoulder, coating the inside of her thighs with cum. she's a right bloody sight, cum smeared over her cunt and thighs- his perfect little mess.

"pull your panties back up, love. we still have work t'do." simon rumbles, kissing her cheek as he tucks his cock back in his trousers, chuckling at the anxious look on mama's face. he doesn't even wait for her to follow orders, opting to pull her messy panties back up, securing his cum's place snug against her cunt. she'll wear his mess as long as he wants her to, marked as his in the most primal, animalistic way he can.

in all honesty, this outcome was better than he ever could have imagined when nik had called. for him, taking a life is nothing- he's done it for centuries, both for pay and out of necessity. but this soft, sweet woman in front of him doesn't have lifetimes worth of violence in her past- this is a real weight on her soul, a dark and heavy secret that binds her to simon forever. there's a power he has as witness to what she's said she's done, leverage he'll never wield as a weapon, but rather as a tie that binds much more permanently and neatly than a wedding band ever would.

he'd already had her loyalty and affection locked down, but this? helping her hide away her sins, disposing of the evidence, keeping her secret safe? it all means that she's his, til death do they part. it's that thought that makes him laugh to himself, chuckling in the dark as they load bloodied bodies into his truckbed and drive off together into the night. all the while, mama doesn't say anything, just looks anxiously between simon's face and the corpses in the truck bed, her face illuminated by the blue light of the dashboard.

they roll to a stop by the edge of a lake- some small, forgotten pond without a single fishing hut or paved road nearby. the ice is already settled in, only moaning slightly when taking the weight of simon's bulk, an augur, and a corpse. mama waits in the truck per his instructions, watching for other cars, hand on the switch, ready to kill the headlights that illuminate the lake at the first sign of a passerby.

long shadows are thrown over white ice as the roar of the augur's engine disrupts the still silence of the night, circular blades spinning as he presses down, down, down onto the ice, drilling a wide hole until he breaks through to the frigid water beneath. he imagines to himself what mama's face must be doing as he hoists the corpse over the hole, letting it drop into the water with a splash. he'll bet anything she gasped, hand on her chest and sweet mouth shaped in a perfect 'o'.

he can't tell what she's doing as he squints into the headlights, making his way back for the second body. she's shrouded in darkness, undetectable to him in the cab of the truck, and a realization strikes him- she could be in the driver's seat right now, ready to run him down and kill off the witness to her crime. it's what he'dve considered, anyways- but he has no real fear of her actually doing that. she's not like him, thank fuck. she'd never consider it. a couple corpses to her name and she's still sweet as pie, untainted by the blood on her hands.

instead of going for the sexond body, simon pulls the passenger door open and ducks his head in for a kiss. mama doesn't gasp or wriggle- instead she melts into it, molding herself against him, becoming somehow even softer in his hands.

she's his. completely. he'd known it before, but bloody fuckin' hell if it doesn't feel good to have the proof right there under his frozen hands.

"who takes care of you?" he asks against her lips.

"you do." she whispers back immediately, words soft and earnest and full of determined affection.

"too bloody right i do." he murmurs before going for another, deeper kiss, relishing in her taste, touch, and sounds.

it's at that moment that he decides he'll gladly eat her sins when the time comes. he's already decided he'll spend the rest of her life by her side, the least he can do is wipe her slate clean of all the wretchedness he's forced her into before she ventures towards the afterlife.

simon reckons she deserves eternal heaven for her tater tot cassarole alone- but even aside from that, she's dealt with his intrusion and introduction of violent chaos into her life with more grace than the average person would, and still managed to show him love and affection despite everything he's ruined and destroyed.

when he breaks the kiss, the scant moonlight illuminates her pretty face, the decision is finalized. simon isn't sure if this is love, or if he's even capable of such a thing anymore, but he knows devotion. she's earned his, every bit of it, simply by being herself. in exchange for that, and for giving him everything he's ever chased and thought impossible, he'll damn himself for a second time to sleepless, hungry centuries alone.

god knows she's certainly more deserving of it than the lord of caerphilly ever was.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Aid request, for those willing and able.

I have resisted asking for help, outright, for a long time, but I think it's about that time.

My partner and I are Black US Americans who have left the United States and live as immigrants in LATAM. I work in healthcare in the US, remotely, supporting marginalized communities, especially Black and LGBTQIA+ folks. My husband used to work supporting the Headstart Program in the US as a sub-contractor, but lost his job in Feb 2025 due to the DOGE cuts. He hasn't been able to find another job since, partly due to the fact that most remote jobs are not global remote, partly because the job market is so oversaturated, and partly because, as immigrants with temporary residency, getting a work visa where we are is a complicated process.

SO! If you are aware of a fully remote position (Full or part time, or even a temporary contract) for an experienced IT Support, Instructional Design, and/or Customer Satisfaction Project Manager, I would love if you could reach out and let me know. (Mr Dragon, over my shoulder, says: "Resume available on request!") We both appreciate any leads, wherever those might be.

We are extremely lucky that my job is enough to pay most of our bills where we live, and do not take that for granted. We still have outstanding medical and credit card bills in the US, and my business is growing, but it's not enough to support us fully. We are not in the most dire of straits, but we could use a boost to help us stay on track and get things to a sustainable level.

If you have the capacity, I would appreciate any donations to my Kofi, and I'm very proud of Augmentations over on Patreon if you'd like to hop over there to read it and consider subscribing. And even if that's not something you're in the position to do, I appreciate you taking the time to read this!

[boolger]

The Horrors Of Your Magic: A Being With No Name🪄 4

<-last chapter 🪄 AO3 🪄 Masterlist🪄 next chapter->

Taskforce 141+Nikolai x f!reader

tags: Taskforce 141 + Nikolai x reader, poly!141, dead dove don’t eat, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Lovecraftian Vibes, Alternate Universe - Dark, alternative universe - magicians, Fake Character Death, Angst, Fangirl Reader, Stalking, magicians task force 141, Magic (but not in a "wizards and witches are normal" kind of way), Worship, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, horror, violence, blood, threats of violence, loss of virginity, breeding kink, human sacrifice, animal sacrifice, loss of limbs, loss of parents, grief, Car Accidents, rough sex, semi-public sex, forced relationship, manipulation, dom/sub, unsafe sex, non-consensual touching, non-consensual spanking, mind manipulation, god-like creature, touring

A/N: I got sad and distracted but here we go <3 Tw for blood, violence and cuts in this one. 

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

“-ave enough candl–”

“-- perfect pal–” 

“- then we can s–”

You felt like the entire world was spinning, so you kept your eyes closed as you slowly felt yourself wake up. Every second you became more aware, you felt the pain blooming throughout spots in your body, reminding you that you were still very much alive.

“-- will be pleased an–”

You groaned, unable to keep silent, the low voices immediately stopping as you writhed a bit and rubbed your eyes. 

“-not give ’er enough drugs, you-” you heard a gruff voice complain before a ringing noise filled your head for  a moment, cutting off the rest of the sentence. 

“-- need her awake, da?”

“‘suppose.”

It wasn’t until you stopped rubbing your eyes that you realized that you weren’t cuffed anymore, making you sit up; instant regret spread throughout your body, a pained groan leaving you, the entire world becoming blurry. You swayed from side to side, despite the bus being parked, watching the group of men standing close to each other, a mere couple of steps away from you.

Drugs… Not giving your enough drugs, what did - the water. Right. There was still a weird aftertaste in your mouth, even if you suspected that hours had passed.

“Please,” you heard yourself say, though you weren’t sure what exactly you were asking for. Mercy? Painkillers? Help? Perhaps all of them. Some sort of sympathy from the men you had idolized for years; followed and applauded - dreamt of meeting. 

You closed your eyes again. The memory of Price closing the box flashed before your eyes - the moment of darkness before you were somewhere else… Then when the car that hit your own car, how your hands had desperately gripped onto the steering wheel, trying to keep your car on the road, only to be forced down in the ditch and… The hand suddenly on your forehead after the impact.

A tsk’ing sound filled the room of the bus, ripping you from your thoughts. Footsteps.

“Nae givin’ up yet, are ye, pet?” one of the shapes asked, colors mixing together as he stepped closer to you; you didn’t even need to see him properly to know who he was, having become familiar with Johnny’s voice through your parasocial relationship to him.  Not that you actually knew him, this entire experience was proof of that. The entire team was a bunch of people whom you thought you knew, whom you had created an imaginary connection with. A one-sided connection… almost.

Hadn’t Price said they had been watching you, the first time you were… inside whatever the fuck it was that they had created.

“I know, I know, it’s scary. It’s okay, we’ve been watching you, we knew you would be a great volunteer for us.”

The words were so vague - you were still unsure what he meant. Watching you? When? for how long? Johnny was gentle as he cupped your swollen cheek, smiling sweetly at you. 

“Couple’a moments and et will be all over, kay?”

“Over?” you repeated, unable to speak more than a whisper, your voice a little nasal because of your broken nose “what - what do you–”

“Sssh, dinnae fash, pet, et’ll aaaall be okay.”

You strongly doubted his words, but as he caressed your cheek, watching you with a look in his eyes that you couldn’t describe, you remained silent. Your entire body burned and as he let go of you, you watched the other men for a short second; they watched you similarly, like you were something important… Yet you had a growing feeling that it wasn’t in a good way.

It’ll all be okay. You pulled a little further back on the couch you had been laying on, pressing yourself against the plastic wall, trying to make yourself as small as possible. They pretended to ignore you as they scattered to do different tasks, but you had no doubt that any wrong movement would result in a swift punishment.

Et’ll all be okay. 

An unspoken “as long as you behave” hung heavy in the air. 

This was all a bad dream. Yeah, a bad dream. Maybe you were just in a coma - weird things happened to people’s mind when they were in comas, right? Or a breakdown of some sort - yeah, there was a logical explanation to all of this.

They had redressed you while you had been drugged, something you tried not to think too much about. Your underwear and bra were still the same at least, but you wore a pair of soft shorts that wasn’t yours and a sleeveless shirt that clearly weren’t made for someone with tits, the fabric stretching a bit.

“Where are we?”

None of them answered as Nikolai merely tugged you out the bus, barely keeping you from falling down the stairs and slamming your face into the dirt road. You looked around, stumbling after the big man who almost seemed excited, humming loudly.

In the middle of fucking nowhere, that was where you were; darkness cuddled close, only the moon lighting up as all the lights of the bus turned off, leaving a cold shine to most things. You were unable to see any proof of life besides The Great One-Four-One, who walked in front of you all to a spot further out in the field, which was lit up a little.

Nikolai’s hand was curled around your wrist, the grip tight, the many rings pressing against your skin - perhaps he was expecting you to run, perhaps he didn’t have the patience for letting you walk at your own pace, you weren’t sure. His hand looked giant when holding around your wrist, so being able to just casually rip yourself loose seemed unrealistic. Besides, you weren’t wearing any shoes, merely a pair of socks. They might have been white, but as he tugged you along towards the spot on the field where the other was, the dirt darkened them. As your feet sank into the soft soil with every shaking step, you were reminded of the bottom of the water in there; of the sludge that had hidden whatever had attempted to grab onto you, while the reeds had curled close.

In there. Where. Whatever it was - wherever it was - 

“I’m scared,” you heard yourself tell Nikolai, shaking from the pain and cold going through your body, perhaps naively hoping he would soften up or let you go, maybe give you an opportunity to tug yourself free, “Nikolai–”

“Don’t worry, little one,” he didn’t stop walking, didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t even look at you, “Nothing to be scared off. We are here, da?”

You weren’t sure if that was supposed to comfort you, but right now it didn’t - far from it in fact. So far they had bought you nothing but pain and confusion, so you didn’t see how you should find any safety in them. With every step you felt stitches tug around your different wounds, your mouth opening a bit more to drag in more air to keep yourself from passing out. A part of you wanted to simply lay down. You were cold, in pain and scared, you had been through too much already. Ribs ached as you walked, every step reminding you where there had been a glass shard stuck in you. The little clothes you were wearing did nothing to shield you from the damp coldness of the night either, the mud trying to crawl further up to find your wounds.

When you finally got close enough to what the men had been making, you did what you should probably have done the second you had stepped out of the bus:

You screamed.

While you screamed help like crazy, tugging against Nikolai who cursed and pulled you closer to him, you wondered if they had expected you to just accept the sight and stay quiet. 

As if the sight of a circle on the wet soil, created with lit candles, bleached bones and skulls - both human and animal - and daggers in their hands, wouldn’t be just a tiny bit upsetting to you. 

You didn’t stop screaming for help despite Nikolai’s other hand slapping over your mouth. You kept screaming against the dirty palm, trying to pull it away and get free of his grip.

A gust of wind teased their candles for a second, threatening to kill them off, like a weak attempt from mother earth to save you. 

What had you even done with your life? did any of it matter - did you?

None of the warning words that left the other men mattered, no weak attempt at calming you, no gentle or rough touch - nothing made you stop trashing as Nikolai pulled you into the middle of the damn circle. You did not want to die by the dirty hands of some insane men, who believed in satan or something like that, no – too much, everything was too much! The wind, the cold, their words that cut into your already pained skin, as they forced you to the correct spot.

It was only when your back hit the wet ground that the world stopped; surrounded by the men who all pressed a palm against your bare skin, the raised daggers glinting in the moonlight, their eyes white and –

Silence.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

Price felt it beneath his finger nails. Forcing its way deeper and deeper, filling him with that wonderful bliss that he had craved for months. He groaned. A tired sound coming from deep within, his old body remembering its moments of youth for a moment.

Along his veins and muscles, inside his mouth.

The taste of raw power, of the ability to trick reality. The taste of their destiny, heavy on his tongue; filled with sin and death, with an energy even the stars envied. 

They were more and now, with you as a sacrifice like the dreams had shown, the relationship would only increase and — 

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

For once you weren’t walking in the water; instead you were floating, dragging in ragged breaths, relieved that Nikolai’s hand was no longer covering your mouth.

As you carefully looked around, there was no pain in your neck or spine and you saw nothing but the dim glimmering of stars far away. The sound of your own breathing. 

Had you finally died this time? 

You had expected death to feel different than this. That the prize of getting through a life wasn’t to return to the world that the men had forced you into a couple of times already. Was it not supposed to cradle you like a baby and relieve you from any worries? To pull you away from your mind, your body and…

You weren’t alone.

You felt it before you saw it; perhaps you had felt the presence of it long before without realising, scratching at the back of your skull and along your spine. Something otherworldly, even in here, kissing the borders of reality not quite fitting in. As you slowly turned around, you were met by the sight of … 

It.

Had It been here all along?

Though the dull galaxies that surrounded you seemed never ending, it still seemed like It couldn’t quite fit - at the same time, there still remained room for It to grow. Too much yet not enough, too grand for your simple mind to comprehend. 

There were human elements to it, yet there was nothing human about it. 

It knew where you were despite its many eyes being closed, reaching for you with its many arms that had too many fingers, that few into new arms - a wreath of fingers with claw-like nails ready to catch you.

As you tried to move in a weak attempt at escaping, you realised that you barely moved. Its touch was an unavoidable destiny and as you tried to speak, no words came out.

It was floating just like you, though you weren’t sure if there was something other than arms and what you assumed to be Its face; it blew out a strange smoke that seemed to be filled with more dimly lit galaxies, spreading and moving faster than its many hands.

This had to be a nightmare - it had to be - this was just a nightmare, it – it was just a nightmare again - it was –

There was no fight as the smoke slipped into your ears, nostrils and mouth, swallowing up your breath and hearing. You wanted to scream, but was unable to, eyes staring at the being in front of you, unable to close your eyes too; nothing in your body seemed to work, as if you were no longer the host of it.

Its claws almost touched you, promising you a painful death - making you wonder how this creature would devour you. Would it rip you apart and let your organs and blood mix with the dim stars - or would it swallow you whole, letting you feel its insides, crushed and killed by its organs?

Mere centimetres from your body, the many hands suddenly froze. 

Your eyes felt dry as the smoke pulled back from you, dragged back to the mouth of the beast, only to be blown out again. Your body was your own again, but you still felt unable to move from the fear. 

A deep, deep hum escaped the creature and you were sure you felt your bones tremble with the sound, but it seemed like It was pondering. Then the many hands retreated, only one staying in front of you, carefully moving to you. The claw slowly dragged along your cheek, then your soft jaw, only to rest beneath your chin.

Hesitation.

You swore you could see the eyes move beneath the eyelids that never rose. As if looking at you were beneath It. You were a mere part of the galaxy it spewed with each breath, unworthy of a single eye watching at you. 

Then It opened Its mouth and as It spoke, you heard all the voices of the men who had kidnapped you combined, echoing through your skull with a rattling ring.

“No.”

No.

No.

What did that mean? No? To what?

The claw moved to press against your chest, pushing you downwards as a small sound left you. 

The reeds and water greeted you like old friends and you only fought for a short second before the sludge enveloped you.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

You woke up with a gasp, sitting up straight, ignoring the pain shooting through your body.

Voices. Loud. Agressive. Upset.

You blinked slowly, getting used to the darkness of the night, the moon still there.

Them - they were all arguing. Voices almost overlapping like Its voice. 

You looked down, your body shaking like crazy. New-looking blood covered the shirt and shorts. Fresh wounds were slowly closing in front of your eyes; your wrists sliced open, the skin and meat slowly pushing back together, knitting together the wounds. A sound left you at the sight, but anything else was unable to leave you.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck

One second you were staring at the wounds, the next you were turning to the side and vomiting. It was a dark substance that left your mouth, spreading into the already dark soil, hitting your hands. 

Which only made you vomit once more, the substance also going through your broken nose from the pressure, making you cry out and cough. It burned in an unusual way, like it was hot to the touch.

“It IS her!” you heard Gaz snap at the others, “We ALL saw her - several times.”

“Then why the fuck would they refuse her?” Simon snarled back, “that usually doesn’t happen, Garrick!”

You felt the world blur for a moment, then return as you attempted to take a proper breath. You had no idea what the fuck had just happened, but you had absolutely no urge to figure it out, especially not in the presence of the One-Four-One.

The image of the eerie being flashed before your eyes again. It was as if you could still feel the claw drag along your skin, see the many thin fingers create something that looked like wings, as if it was some sort of divine angelic creature. 

It took you a couple of seconds to realise you were hyperventilating as you were on your knees and hands, the black substance still dripping from your nose and lips. The wounds on your wrists were fully closed by now as you took a glance at them.

Your head swam as you managed to get on your legs, staggering a couple of steps forward, barely able to stay up on your legs. Like a newborn foal, born into a strange world that you didn’t know yet you took another few steps. You felt as if you could pass out any minute, not only from your hyperventilating but also from fear - but if there was something you didn’t want, then it was to stay near them. You could hear their angry voices and you merely hoped they were too busy to notice you staggering off into the dimly lit night, feet sinking into the wet earth in a desperate attempt to escape.

“Oh, for feck’s sake!” 

You didn’t stop, walking towards the forest in the distance. Even if you were to die, that would be a nice place to do so.

Maybe you would be found, maybe you wouldn’t. In case you did die, you hoped you would be covered by flowers and mushrooms in the future. That nature would reclaim your body; that a fox would steal one of your ribs, insects and worms would feast on your body, plants grow from your stomach and leaves cover your body. That you would have peace then. Had you not earned it by now? Maybe someone would find you out there – maybe nobody would and you could sleep undisturbed for years to come.

“Nah, come here, birdie,” a rough voice said and you could hear wet steps coming closer,  despite a slight ringing in your ear. One step more, then another. Closer to the forest even if it seemed to be millions of steps away.

A hand landed on your shoulder and a small whimper left you. 

“Back to the bus,” Simon told you as if you were a dog that would immediately follow his orders, “this a proper mess, innit?” 

That was truly one way of putting it. Since you didn’t immediately turn around like he had perhaps hoped, he instead took a hold of your arm, gripping it hard just above your elbow, tugging you backwards until you were forced to turn around and stagger after him.

“No,” you told him, as if it would truly make a difference to the mountain of a man, who didn’t even spare you a glance as you hit the arm holding onto you, “no no no no-”

Desperation hit you like a freight train and you locked your knees, leaning backwards with your entire weight, making him stop and turn around. The exact moment he did, you made your move.

You kicked him between his legs hard, ignoring the pain in your foot from the collision and the grip on your arm loosened as a loud grunt left him, just enough for you to be able to rip yourself free and you didn’t hesitate one second.

This time you bolted. You weren’t sure where the sudden spike of energy came from, but right now the last thing you actually wanted was to step inside that bus again. You could hear a mean laughter further away, no doubt one of the others finding your attack on Simon amusing. 

The forest in the distance was like a paradise. Just in front of you, yet so far away; reachable if you could stay long enough away from the monster, a devil chasing you through your own personal hell. 

Maybe it was minutes that passed - maybe it was mere seconds, yet you felt like you were so close to it, when a body collided with yours, slamming you into the wet ground.

You screamed; misery and pain overwhelmed you as you were turned around like a weightless doll, mud disturbing your view as you unsuccessfully attempted to hit his face.

He grabbed your wrists, moving to hold them in one of his hands like you were no danger to him, even shushing you. You were screaming in anger without having realised. Two pairs of zip ties appeared around your wrists. They appeared out of nowhere, almost like magic, which you found a bit tragicomic, as the hard plastic forced your wrists together.

“Hey hey - it’s okay, luv,” the big man spoke calmly, almost sweetly, like you were an upset animal while you fought him, slamming your bound hands against him, “I know, I know - it’s a lot, I know - don’t be silly.”

There was mud everywhere, in your hair and eyes, seeping into your clothes.

Simon hauled you over his shoulder, pain shooting through your ribs as he did so, making your sight disappear into a white glow for a couple of seconds, grabbing onto the man’s shirt so as not to fall down.

“There we go, lass,” he said demeaningly as he walked, giving your ass a couple of small pats, “let’s get inside.”

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

His large hands were back on you, pushing you down against the laminated floor of the shower, cooing at you in a mean voice as you fought. Price and Johnny were there as well, helping Nikolai in his mission, making the already small room feel crammed. There was ash on their hands, already washed off in the water, so their focus was fully on you.

They weren’t even attempting to be nice.

Price aimed the ice cold spray directly into your face, making you yelp and squirm, trying to get free of it - while Johnny was snickering behind the others, merely watching. 

They had undressed you; cutting off the clothes on your body with a knife that had made you freeze, scolding you over how you had ruined another set of clothing.

Being fully naked in front of them was humiliating enough as it was - being washed like you were a dog that was unable to do it yourself, felt just as bad.

“So dramatic, milaya,” Nikolai commented, pressing down on your ribs and stomach, not even trying to avoid your still zip tied hands hitting him wherever you could reach.

“Little minx,” Price added, squatting down in front of your head, reaching out to scrub away some mud from your cheek, not caring when you spluttered from the hard spray directly in your face, “proper little fighter, aren’t ya?”

There was ash in his face. There had been on everyone’s. You tried ignoring the clear erection in Price’s wet pants, mere centimetres from you.

Johnny leant over and a moment later a bunch of soap hit your face, then all over your body. Generously pouring out what seemed like an entire bottle of shampoo or bodywash or whatever it was. Snickering as you spat some out from your mouth.

“Dirty like a wee dog,” the scot commented, merely watching as Nikolai and PRice touched your body without your permission, getting off all of the mud, “dinnae fesh, pet, ye’ll get a proper treat afterwards.”

You would rather have the mud all over you than this but eventually you gave up a little, letting them scrub it off your skin and out of your hair, shaking from the cold water. You did try to slap them away whenever their hands got too close to your pussy and you also pushed them away from your tits, ignoring Johnny's snickers. You ignored their cooing and only cursed them out when they tried lifting you to stand, instead of letting you get up yourself.

You stood still while they washed the rest of you, merely watching the water turn from dirty to clean, disappearing down the drain. There were a few twigs, pebbles, strands of grass and leaves that collected around the metal grid, unable to disappear down into a tank.

“I can dry myself!” you snapped, pressing yourself against the corner of the shower as Johnny stepped closer with the towel spread in his arm. One of his pierced eyebrows rose as he grinned, clearly not looking convinced.

“Aw, ye behaved all nicely for Nik ‘nd Price and now ye’re gonna throw another fit?” he asked mockingly, “Not really fair, is et?”

“Fuck you,” you snapped back, pressing yourself even further into the laminated wall as he got closer, raising your bound hands. At this point you didn’t care if they stared at your tits or crotch, as long as they didn’t touch you.

Johnny just giggled like he was a hyena, his mohawk a little muddy too. 

“Nah, not right now, bird - maybe later, eh?”

You spat at him, hitting his ash covered cheek. Then you merely stared in horror and disgust as his pierced tongue stuck out to lick off the spit as it slit down. 

The fight was short. You were exhausted and any time you managed to hit him only seemed to spur the Scot on. As he pressed against your back, dNikolai has to hold you down while they wash the mud off you, cooing and mocking you. Promising they’ll figure out what to do with you. Drying off your front with a pleased hum, you felt his erection press against your ass and for a moment you wanted to throw up again.

“Hocus pocus,” he then declared after drying you off, a tad too much, your wounds reopening and slowly dripping, “Now ye’re all clean ‘nd dry again pet. A proper magic trick!”

Price helped you get your clothes on, the two others disappearing out into the bus to do whatever fuck they wanted to. He didn’t pull the zip ties off you until he truly needed to, making them disappear with a flicker of his hand. You were too tired to fight him as he put the shirt on you, making you stretch out your arms, as if you were unable to yourself.

Then he slid behind you with a hum and before you could stop him, he had a hold of you; one arm around your soft stomach, his other hand on your throat. His pointer tipped your head up a little, forcing you to look at the two of you in the mirror.

“Aaaaw, take a look at yourself, sweetheart.”

You did.

Your face was slightly swollen, making your face seem quite asymmetrical, your broken nose was tipped too much to the right, a cut in one of your eyebrows. A small drop of blood created a trail as it slid down from your nose. There was a thick, slightly swollen scar just above Price’s hand on your thrat… which meant they had cut your across your throat too earlier when they did their… thing. Ritual.. 

Your eyes were almost fully bloodshot, making you look even less like yourself. A shell of yourself, perhaps. Shaken and battered, with cracks and holes, yet still there. Still alive.

“Sweet little lamb, aren’t you?” Price asked softly in your ear, something darker in his voice as he pressed his face against your temple, taking a deep drag of your scent like an animal would do. You could feel the warmth from his body pressing against your own cold one, could feel his breath against your skin, sending shivers through you - as well as his hard cock, pressing against your back. A deep groan left him and as his grip tightened around you, you feared he would do more. But instead he turned his head, his gaze meeting yours.

“Dont worry, lamb,” he mused softly, “I promise we’ll figure out what to do with you. You’ve been brought to us for a reason.”

[ladykelsi]

rotten work: to-do list

summary: things that the Sergeants have no problem doing with you, for you and to you.

pairing: soapgaz x f!reader.

warnings: +18 smut (MDNI), mild angst, fluff.

notes: this is the revised version btw.

part of the [rotten work] series.

since it has come to your attention that Johnny and Kyle actually like hanging around you when you’re not doing bedroom activities, they have made it their life’s mission to be your affectionately annoying attendants when running errands.

especially when they caught wind of the new to-do list you’ve made and were about to complete for the weekend.

1. buy new sheets.

if either one or both of them volunteer to go to the corner store with you, there’s no changing their minds.

“that’s such a specific brand, love.” Kyle squints at the list you’ve made. “i mean, i don’t mind venturing out to find it for you but how have you survived this long with how rare and expensive it is?”

“it’s the softest i could find, okay?” your cheeks flush with heat as you speak. you feel stupid having to defend your spending habits. “the other ones feel way too scratchy. i have to save up for months just to get one of these.”

you fully expect them to convince you to get an alternative brand of bedsheets and call it a day so they can go to your place and fuck you like they’d planned to when they dropped by.

but it’s Johnny who chimes in as he pushes the shopping cart next to you.

“guess we’re goin’ hunting then.” he grins, nudging your side. “can’t have our bird not sleeping well after we fuck her all ways tae sunday, yes?”

you rolled your eyes and walked ahead of them while Kyle stifled a laugh behind his hand at the scandalized look on the old lady’s face who had the misfortune of catching that.

“fuck’s sake, Johnny.”

“what?” the man didn’t have the decency to pretend to look remotely bashful.

2. buying things for you.

“at least let us pay for them since we’re the reason your last set got ruined anyway.”

“aye.” Johnny adds, wiggling his brows. he’s all too gleeful about embarrassing you and Kyle with his nonsense today. “and we’ll be paying for the next set as well.”

Kyle plants his palm on Johnny’s face. “ignore him. he’s just being a dickhead.”

you bit the inside of your cheek to stop the smile the threatens to break out. “yeah, no doubt.”

you don’t mind the sexual jokes, really. they put you at ease more than anything. makes it easy to relax around when, even when you know you’re only in their presence for one job and one job only.

you just carry on with your errand, wondering when their interest will start to eventually wane. or when things will start to become worse for you that you’d want to leave.

alright, that one makes you laugh. you don’t actually have enough self respect and assertiveness to say something if you’re uncomfortable, considering that being uncomfortable has been your default state for as long as you remember.

“so.” Kyle moves up to walk next to you as you’re checking the list on your phone. he peers close to look at it. “what else do you need?”

3. grab jar of favourite pickles.

“why pickles?” Kyle asks as he shakes the bottle before putting it into the cart.

“for the midnight munchies.” you simply said as you shake the jar. you hope you’re not catfished into finding out that they’re squishy.

“yeah, but why pickles specifically? why not chocolates or chips?”

his line of questioning is fair. you’ve been asked this far too many times than you care to keep count. and when you were younger, pickles were a luxury. your parents would always refuse to buy a single jar no matter how much you begged.

now that you have your very own adult money? all bets have been off ever since.

“pickles have a…” you paused, pretending to contemplate your answer, though having memorized every word. “particular crunch that i’m fond of when i’m barely awake.”

he seemed to digest that information and nodded sagely. “noted.”

Johnny chimes in with a gleaming smile, “if tha’s the case, i ken somethin’ ye can munch on.”

“i swear to god, Soap, i will smack you with this bag of chips.”

4. doing errands for you without you having to ask.

“what are you doing?”

Kyle’s looks like a deer in the headlights when he catches the expression on your face halfway morphing into something between a scowl and absolute panic. he doesn’t immediately realize what’s wrong yet when he slowly replies with “sweeping the floor.”

“uh, no?” you said, your feet carrying you toward him faster than he’s even ready for. your hand reaches out to him. “please put that down.”

the broom in his hand.

ah. that’s what you’re worried about.

“but i’ll just be quick–”

“no. put the broom down.”

he tries to explain himself but you reach for the wooden handle. he’s quick to pull away just as quickly. it turns into a brief struggle of you trying to take over what was initially his chore that he volunteered for but he just won’t let you have your way.

“lovie.” he speaks softly, trying to coax you into relaxing. “it’s just a quick sweep.”

the softness of his voice does very little to ease your anxiety. your arms cross, a small pout jutting out your lip (he almost into the urge of kissing you right then and there).

“yeah, but i was gonna do it.” you said.

“i’m already on it.” he tells you. “now go sit down with Johnny.”

you don’t move, jaw clenching.

Kyle swears it’s Valentine’s Day all over again. you’re so difficult when it comes to letting go of the reigns. when will you learn that you’re not a burden to them?

“the less you argue, the faster i can get this done.” his cheeky grin earns a frustrated huff.

“fine.” you storm back to the living room, more so that you don’t have to bear the agony to letting him do anything around your place.

if only it stopped there. holding your bag for you when you showing the barest hint of getting tired. helping you find the most rare items for your pokemon collections (you don’t even want to ask the lengths they must’ve gone to). sending lunch at your workplace, even when you’re sure they don’t know you forgot to bring your own.

it starts to feel like they’re trying to desensitize you into letting you watch them do stuff for you.

5. fuck you six ways to sunday.

your tentative agreement to being bound and blindfolded was rewarded twicefold. since those two things weren’t amongst your boundaries, they took full advantage of making good use of silk ribbons. one to cover your eyes and another to tie your hands together.

“these new sheets are perfect for the occasion.” Kyle’s voice rumbles along your belly as he places kisses further down your skin.

“even if yer soaking them.” Johnny adds from between your legs.

he presses the vibrator a little harder on your clit, earning a sharp hiss from you.

back arching, your pussy flutters and tightens around him, unwilling to let go. your body is wrecked by shudders of pleasure. “fuck!”

you don’t even realize when you tuck your face into the crook of your elbow. nor that you try to shut your legs from the overwhelming heat that threatens to break you open.

“don’t hide from us, angel.” you feel your knees being pried apart and pinned to the bed. “don’t deny us the pleasure we came here for.”

the pleasure of seeing you come undone. you’re starting to think they want to end you. death by orgasm, you reckon. hell of a way to go with the way they’re so committed to it.

“ease up a little, Johnny.”

heaving breaths escape your lungs when the man does what he’s told. the pressure in your belly soon subsides once the vibrator is moved away from your aching cunt. your bleary eyes flutter in rapid blinks under the blindfold as you struggle to regain control of your limbs (the ones that aren’t bound, anyway).

“lovie?” Johnny’s softened voice brings you back to earth and you finally turn your head to where his voice came from. “what’s yer colour?”

the reprieve allows your thoughts to clear. the cloth over your eyes start to feel damp over as you inhale slowly. Johnny and Kyle patiently await your answer, both ready to stop at your command.

warmth bleeds into your chest at the sight before you. not a hint of worry. not a hint of shame. you’re safe here. more than you ever have been with anyone. the fact whispers to you as you spread your legs further.

“green.” comes your answer.

a palm settles over your belly. Kyle looms over you, lips grazing yours in a soft kiss. “yeah? good to go?”

“y–yes.” you nodded. “keep going–” you moan into the next kiss, lifting your head to follow his lips when he pulls away. “more– please…”

the vibrator is pressed to your clit again, along with two fingers slipping into your cunt, earning a powerless mewl. a mouth sinks over yours, teeth nipping your lip before his tongue sweeps over it. “good girl.”

the praise prickles your skin. ecstasy pours into you in hot waves, driving you closer to the edge than ever before. your hips rock against the fingers and the vibrations of the device in a desperate attempt to rush to that awaiting climax.

every fiber of your being trembles, on the cusp of devastation. you forget all rules and regulations when you don’t fight the overwhelming sensation. “fuck, i’m gonna cum–”

“go on, bonnie.” Johnny urges. “make a mess of yer new sheets.”

your cry breaks through the air as you descend. tremors seize every muscle in your body, your back arching as a breathless sound leaves your lungs. the fingers in your cunt don’t stop moving, drilling in and out along with the rhythm of your spasms while the vibrator buzzes rapidly on your pulsing bud.

the power behind this orgasm drains you in an instant. you lay back, heaving, boneless as Johnny and Kyle wash praises over you for making it through without a fuss. one of them pulls off your blindfold and kisses your cheek.

“you’re perfect, lovie.”

“aye.” Johnny added, kissing your knuckles with a softness that melts your heart. “did so well for us.”

your eyes flitter and shut while you mumble a quiet “thank you” through your tired breaths.

you were too tired to kick them out that night. and you think that might have been their intention as you drifted off to sleep.

it’s only when you wake to the feeling of someone’s mouth on your cunt that makes you realize that they intend to take their sweet time in your home.

6. bake cupcakes.

or at least, attempt to. impossible task with Johnny in the kitchen, insisting to take over and try his mum’s recipe.

“all it needs is a wee bit of cinnamon—”

you stood back with one arm cross over your stomach while your other hand covered your mouth, watching in quiet shock as he made a mess of everything.

“Johnny, i think there’s a bit of cupcake in your sugar.” you suggested, prompting a snort from Kyle.

that’s how the spent the afternoon in your kitchen after Johnny and Kyle had to beg you to stay over for the day because they missed you. mostly on the basis of spending as much time with you as possible because their next deployment was soon, so you agreed.

tentatively. reluctantly. through gritted teeth and trembling hands. you still didn’t trust them. had a hard time trying to extract yourself from their presence because they just wouldn’t let you, but they didn’t mind. they had all the time in the world to let you get used to them.

you seem to slowly unfurl little by little the more they help you around and that was their way in. Johnny’s stupid jokes and Kyle’s reassuring smile was enough to keep you steady. they treated your errands more like an adventure than a bunch of chores to get done, which, they could tell lightened the weight in your chest.

Kyle watches you try to do damage control with Johnny’s mess. adding more flower and other ingredients to balance out the excessive amount of cinnamon he put into the mixing bowl. you’re more in your element when you’re focused on the task, not minding how Johnny isn’t listening to a single thing you’re saying and more so admiring your intellect as you work around him.

later, Johnny secretly takes a video of you squirming when Kyle compliments the cupcakes that came out of the oven. you wouldn’t even look at him, forcing yourself to look at the floor in a bashful manner. it was so cute to watch. they were definitely going to watch that on replay when they were alone.

overall, today was fantastic. and they hoped that you’ll let them pry into your life more often.

i love sprinkling little bits of myself into this series🙃

banners by@cafekitsune and @vase-of-lilies

offer a coin to the picklejar

[main masterlist]

[rotten work]

[the-californicationist]

The Fifth Element [Masterlist]

COD/Fallout TF141/F!Reader Polyamory Chapterlist

You always knew Vault-Tec was planning this. Their war began in a terrible flash right in front of your eyes. As the bombs exploded in the city around you, you had no choice but to crawl into a cryotank and hope for the best. You'd wait for the reinforcements. For someone. Anyone. But, no one came. Centuries passed by in an awful, infinite blackness, and you were suspended somewhere between life and death. Until one day… you woke up.

Chapter 01: Hydrogen

Chapter 02: Helium

Chapter 03: Lithium

Chapter 04: Beryllium

Chapter 05: Boron

Chapter 06: Carbon

[boolger]

The Horrors Of Your Magic: The trick of disappearing🪄 2

<-last chapter 🪄 AO3 🪄 next chapter->

Taskforce 141+Nikolai x f!reader

tags: Taskforce 141 + Nikolai x reader, poly!141, dead dove don’t eat, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Lovecraftian Vibes, Alternate Universe - Dark, alternative universe - magicians, Fake Character Death, Angst, Fangirl Reader, Stalking, magicians task force 141, Magic (but not in a "wizards and witches are normal" kind of way), Worship, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, horror, violence, blood, threats of violence, loss of virginity, breeding kink, human sacrifice, animal sacrifice, loss of limbs, loss of parents, grief, Car Accidents, rough sex, semi-public sex, forced relationship, manipulation, dom/sub, unsafe sex, non-consensual touching, non-consensual spanking, mind manipulation, god-like creature, touring, are magicians this popular irl??? idk

A/N: ty for all the love recently. I'm gone most of this weekend to see a friend but ill be back next week<3 Consider supporting my coffee addiction on ko-fi, mwah

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

You got there over an hour before the doors opened and had to fight for a parking spot none the less. In the end you got one, having to walk for a solid ten minutes before reaching the stadium but ah, you would have walked even further if demanded.

The hours up to this had seemed neverending, most of your time spent excitedly chatting with your online friends about the upcoming show. You had taken today off, since you wouldn’t have been able to do any work anyways. Just like a lot of others who stood inside the lobby, waiting for the show to start, you wore merch. You were wearing the t-shirt with their face on, over your black dress. It was the t-shirt  from the last tour, the one that Beatrice had gotten you… but… you marched right up to the merch stand. One could never get too many t-shirts.

So, you bought another t-shirt, a keychain with their logo and a cup with them all on, probably way too overprized, but you didn’t mind falling into that trap. This brought you enjoyment and it was your own bloody money after all! You were the one to earn the money, you could spend it how you liked it. In truth, you did feel a bit like a child who was finally able to do what they wanted to. Bills, food and other adult responsibilities be damned.

Yes, you had to work tomorrow but you would willingly go after only 4 hours of sleep if that was the cost of this. You had followed them online for 4 years, if not more and you were finally going to see the show in person. Besides, you doubted a lot of people would notice if you didn’t do a lot tomorrow.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

Kyle knew where to find Simon. That bloody bastard was told the same thing every time, Kate threatened with all kinds of things, Nikolai kept an extra eye on him, but the same thing always happened. 

He found him at one of the backdoors, this time the one to the kitchen. He smiled at the different staff members but went right for his partner.

Simon was staring out at the ocean of cars that was collecting at the parking spaces, smoking a fucking cigarette, hidden in the shadows.

“Ya’ never learn, do you?” he asked, watching Simon’s exposed lower face as the man grunted, not looking away.

“Can’t teach an ol’ dog new tricks, eh?” Simon answered, the lack of the mask showing his grin.

“They’ll smell it on you.” 

“Heh.”

“Simon, you’re not supposed to smoke before th–”

“And I’ll do it anyways,” he reached out, pulling Kyle close to hide in shadow with him, “That's th’ problem, innit?”

Kyle pursed his lips. Simon blew smoke in his face and Kyle rolled his eyes.

“Section F,” he whispered then, tipping his head to the side a bit, watching how Simon took another drag of the cigarette, “Just came to remind you.”

“Section F, row 4, seat 13,” Simon mused back in a low voice, “I know, luv’.” 

God, Kyle wished he could fall on his knees, right here and right now, to show the bastard that he loved him, even when he was a proper dick and ignoring what he was told. Don’t smoke right before a show, it will mess up your voice, yet Simon would attempt any trick in the world to sneak out to get a drag of a cigarette. Kyle wasn’t the one who could receive a spanking, but still, he didn’t need everyone to be annoyed at each other right before a show.

“They’re asking for you.” he said instead, more softly this time too, giving Simon a pat on the chest, enjoying the sight of the leather harness up close. It was a way of reminding Simon to be good - that they had a job tonight and that they all needed to take it seriously. Sure, Price or Kate hadn’t specifically asked for Simon right now, but he couldn’t just stand out here and smoke all evening.

They had to play their cards right tonight. 

“Fuckin’ mint,” Simon grumbled, throwing the cigarette to the ground, stepping on it to make sure it was out, “let’s go then.”

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

The show so far was everything you had dreamt of. The energy in the room was high, you didn’t feel out of place as you joined the applause as they appeared, one after one! It was like a dream come true and for the first five minutes you felt like you were shaking with excitement.

You felt… alive. Perhaps a silly place to have that feeling and realise it, but with a life where every day copied the other, moments like this, when your mind could completely let go of office, laundry, issues, money, groceries, it just felt right. You felt like you were living in the present, not worrying about the past or future.

Happy. Excited. Entertained. You were all of that as you watched Soap look for a wand in his tophat, instead somehow making a dozen white doves appear that flew all over the audience, Price pretending to be annoyed and somehow made the birds all disappear with a snap of his fingers. Then Gaz reached into the tophat, muttering into his mic about doing everything himself, only to pull out a baseball bat with one hand… staring at it for a moment and then putting his other hand in, pulling out a bunny.

“I give up.”

You giggled together with everyone as you watched Gaz wander off with the rabbit, giving Ghost the baseball bat who dryly commented “Oh, I’ve been looking for this.”

“Bloody’ell, boys, you never behave,” Price smiled, before pulling out a real oldschool black and white wand from Soap’s ear, “Let’s get this started then, eh?”

Card tricks, appearing in the other end of the room, breaking out traps and then —

“For this next trick we will need… a volunteer!”

Sharp light directly at your face.

People screaming in delight around you.

You followed your instinct without hesitation - saying no while shaking your head, trying to get people to back up. But they didn’t, in fact the four magicians kept waving and grinning at you, the light never leaving your face. This was… surreal. Too much at once. 

They often chose somebody from the audience to pull a card in the front row or ask a question, anything like that - but they very, very rarely pulled volunteers up on the scene at all; you knew this for sure, you had seen so many of their shows, but the light was still pointing at you and – About seven-hundred people were cheering and yelling at you and one of your long-time heroes, Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick, had stepped off the scene, walking a few steps towards you, raising his hand towards you, encouraging  you to get up and take it.

With the surprise over what the fuck was happening, mixtured together with a great amount of peer pressure and a spark of bravery, you stood up, abandoning your handbag and the bag with merch at your seat. 

Gaz took your hand, giving you a wink as he declared that he loved your shirt, which only earned another happy applause from the audience.

This was like a fanfiction happening in real life, butterflies fluttering around in delight inside your body.

You were holding Gaz’s hand! Sure, he wore gloves but who the fuck cared, he was guiding you to the scene, The fabulous Kyle Gaz Garrick was holding your hand and smiling at you! You almost wanted to scream with glee, hadn’t you felt so under pressure from everyone looking at you.

The plastic figurines you had of these men on your office desk, was nothing compared to this.

A part of you wanted to point out that they had asked for a volunteer and that you had in fact, not volunteered, but at the same time, you were too busy being a fangirl and being too starstruck to say so.

You could barely speak at all as they explained what was going to happen to the rest of the audience; that they were going to make you disappear, Ghost making a sarcasting “ooooh, scary” which made everyone laugh. A part of you remembered Jack Dalton’s desperate screaming for Angus Macgyver. But - that wouldn’t happen, not with the One-Four-One! You trusted them with your life.

They asked for your name and then repeated it out loud, adding an amused, “just be a brave girl and step in here then, miss, thank you very much!”

The box looked simple, really. It was just a big box, metal edges, painted blue with yellow stars like a proper stage magician prop should be. You had seen it before, you realised as Pricee guided you inside. The prop - this box… it could be folded up when the person was inside because they were “gone”, but you had only ever seen one of them use it. 

The panic that spread through your body was different to the one that filled you a moment ago.

“Wait -" you started, wanting to warn your heroes that you had no fucking idea what was going on, "I don’t know–”

“Don’t worry, pet,” Price smiled at you as he closed the door, as if you were supposed to know something that nobody had informed you about, “you won't have to do a thing.”

He closed the door to the box without any more explanation, locking you in and locking all light out.

Full darkness for a mere second. No sound.

You blinked.

Then everything happened at once; you were in knee deep water, something touching your hands that made you flinch and the dark space exploded with light. As soon as you realise you’re standing in water, your stockings and the end of your dress soaked, then the tall reeds curl close to your body and you freaked out, taking a couple of steps in search of dry land, almost falling over –

what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what– 

You blinked again, suddenly not in the water anymore; the reeds were no longer caressing your skin, no longer begging you to stay, you were just…

Floating. The dark space around you was more dimmed now, but stars flickered in the distance. 

Nothing.

Just… nothing.

You were completely alone, yet you called out. As far as you knew you and could see, you were alone yet… you still felt watched. Floating felt weird and you patted your bag to take your phone and – right, you left the bag on your seat. 

“Hello?”

You could hear your own voice, but somehow it felt confined at the same time. Quiet - it was so oddly quiet that it almost hurt. Like a bubble pressing against your ears, muting everything around you. No matter where you turned your head, it was the same view. Darkness, with a few stars in the distance, but otherwise nothing.

What the fuck.

Was this some sort of mental breakdown? Were you drugged? Was it a joke? Had you died? Was this afterlife? A dark nothing in which you would float for all eternity? 

Though your pulse began to rise and you felt yourself pant for air, clawing at nothing, an eerie feeling crawled along your spine, slowly forcing its way into your bloodstream. Like a weighted blanket thrown over your body, keeping you quiet beneath it. 

“Hello?” you were screaming louder now, despite the weird feeling spreading throughout your body.

Were you alone? Was there – When his voice appeared, you flinched. It was like a light in this weird darkness, it was deep and soothing.

“Sssh, it’s okay, pet, you’re alright. You’re doing so well for us - just a bit more, then you’re done. I know, I know, it’s scary. It’s okay, we’ve been watching you, we knew you would be a great volunteer for us.”

You recognized Price’s voice, but you couldn’t see him, turning your head to one side, then another, but it was as if it echoed, coming from every angle and–

“Deep breath now.”

That was the only warning you got. At once you were ripped from the eerie silence back into the box as it opened to expose you; the stage lights blinded you, the roar of the audience and the applause.

It was Soap who took your hand, leading you out of the box and you smiled despite whatever the fuck had just happened, panic overwhelming you too much to not do so. He lead you towards the stairs so you could return to your seat, giving your hand a squeeze, but before you reached it, he pulled you closer.

“Thank ye for bein’ a good lass.” Then he pressed his lips against your cheek, but you were in a state of too much shock to even react before it was too late. A local staff member took over, leading you back to your seat as the One-Four-One took in the applause, before continuing to the next act.

Returning to your seat felt wrong; you felt like screaming, crying, demand an answer for what the fuck had just happened, yet you found yourself merely moving on autopilot. You had to tell the people around you on the nearby seats that no, you didn’t know what the fuck happened and you didn’t know how they did it and no, you weren’t an actor.

Your inner fangirl was screaming in delight, but she was held back by your logical self. You bent over a bit while staying in the seat, touching your leg just below your knee and the end of your dress.

Fully dry.

What. The. Fuck.

🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄🪄

You watched the cars leave, one after one, while sitting inside your own old car, keys in hand; it was as if your body refused to let you turn on your own, instead it just forced you to stay there, watching yet another car leave into the dark night.

The paper bag with merch you had bought before the show was haphazardly thrown onto the passenger seat next to you, completely forgotten. You didn’t even pull your phone out to text any of your online friends or to tell Beatrice that it was amazing.

You stared into nothing for a little while.

Your mind was stuck on what you had experienced; the water, the reeds, the floating, the eerie silence. The smoothness of Price’s voice that still echoed inside your head, replaying the words again and again.

"It’s okay, we’ve been watching you, we knew you would be a great volunteer for us.”

What did that even mean? What the fuck had happened? Was it just some sort of breakdown, did you have a psychosis or something? You weren’t even sure if that was how that stuff worked, you knew almost nothing about what triggered a psychosis, in fact, you were more declined to believe that they had also tricked you. Did they blindfold you without you knowing, did they have a secret room filled with screens - but that didn’t explain the floating, that… nothing made sense.

The longer you sat behind the wheel, still not doing anything, the more you wondered if you were properly impressed or just plain terrified. Perhaps a mixture of the two, you concluded while biting your lip; it was the feeling of something having happened that you couldn’t explain, the fact that they hadn’t warned you or offered any explanation afterwards, yet they had blown your mind with the trick. The parking lot was almost empty by the time you took a deep breath, focused on the real world and finally turned on your car, the motor purring in relief, as if it had waited for you to start it for hours and not just 30 minutes.

As you pulled out of the parking lot, you turned on the music, even though you didn’t listen to it. You didn’t want to be alone with your thoughts, you didn’t want it to be too quiet right now. You had a bit of a drive home and you felt like you were in a bit of a daze, so you had to make sure you didn’t fall asleep or anything like that.

As you drove you tried to only focus on the road, especially because it got darker the further you got from the city, yet you still felt unable to stop your thoughts from constantly racing towards the experience.

… how were you supposed to tell Beatrice about this? You couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even your friends online, they would all believe you were lying or had lost your mind. Would it be rude for you to just lie to Beatrice and say it was brilliant? Maybe not even mention that you were plucked out of the audience, like some sort of fangirl’s wet dream?

A car behind you turned on their full beams suddenly, filling your entire car with light.

“Fuckin’ shit,” you grumbled, squinting your eyes as you tried focusing on the road, “bloody bastards, you can just overtake, there is nobody –”

The car behind you gassed up and you assumed it was going to overtake you - but instead you felt the motherfucker graze your trunk and you immediately tried to drive further to the side to keep away from them.

“HEY YA’ ASSHOLE, WHAT–” 

The lights fully turned off, only confusing you more.

You barely managed to take a proper breath before you heard it gas up again and then it collided with your car again, this time making you swerve. Another hit and as your car went off the road, you realised, perhaps a little slow, that they were doing this on purpose. You screamed, ripping at the steering wheel but it was no help.

As the car collided with the ditch, the airbag went off.

The motor didn’t stop immediately despite everything and you could hear the vague sound of music over the sharp ringing in your ear. This entire evening had been proper shit. 

As you blinked, you saw stars, almost like the ones you had seen in the magic trick. Sparkling and winking, but never close enough. You took a shaky breath through your mouth. Then another. Another. It hurt to breathe out your nose you realised, which wasn’t a great sign.

You almost didn’t realise that you had begun to cry, loud whimpering sounds leaving you, as your head throbbed and your body burned.

The motor had died, killing the music with it. Footsteps - several. There was more than one person. 

“Help,” you cried out even though it felt like your mouth was filled with cotton, “help me. Please.”

A hand reached inside the car through the broken window and touched your face.

Darkness.

[softaestluv]

Eat You, Eat Me

Simon rescues you from your husband.

Butcher! Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader

tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, religious guilt, infidelity, oral sex, cunnilingus, fingering, multiple orgasms, crying, dubcon, use of ‘cunt’ a lot

Ch. 5 | masterlist | ao3

──────────────

You think every sin you’ve ever made has brought you here. Every question against God lead you to Simon. A testament to your faith if you listen to the word and not this horribly, icky feeling swarming in your gut.

Where is he? Where is he?

You don’t know. Why should it matter right now? Off with another woman? At home waiting to yell at you?

“We can’t do this.”

That should do it. You’re proud of that, even if it’s not a believable statement. Some weight of denial before it turns into something you can’t control anymore.

“When’s the last time he’s made you finish?”

But did you ever have control over this?

Your eyes flutter, breath flickering in your lungs for a split second. That man hasn’t wasted a second on your pleasure.

“Never.” It’s a whisper.

Simon’s hands curl tighter around your hips, fingers digging into your skin like he’s actually angry at the fact. “Poor cunt.”

Your inhale a sharp breath, embarrassingly so.

“Jus’ let me get a taste, yeah?”

His fingers slide under your shirt, resting at your rib cage. Thoughts of how he could snap each rib, one by one, flash into your mind. Maybe he’s counting them, slotting the feeling of each ridge into a file deep in his mind like every other animal he’s slaughtered and cut into pieces. Maybe he’s imaging how easy it would be too.

Your mouth salivates at the thought.

“Show you how a cunt should be treated.”

You finally look up at him. “We shouldn’t.”

“You don’t ‘ave to do anything. Jus’ gotta let me do all the work.” He slides you off the counter, feet stamping to the floor before he flips you around swiftly, back pressed to chest, ass pressed to hips. Goosebumps bloom from how quickly he was able to turn you around, how easy it was for him to move you as he pleased.

You don’t have to do anything.

You think he said that on purpose. Like he knows that your religious guilt would bury its talons in your skin until you ran out of his shop without a second look. As if he’s the one doing everything then you won’t have any blame in it.

Your religions talons don’t compare to the fangs pierced in your throat. A snake. A wolf. The devil’s teeth holding you in place. You hope it doesn’t leave a mark.

You think about your mom. At a time like this, it feels wrong, but you see her, standing with a cross and sending you off to private school because you snuck out once. You think about how she would view you now, bent over a table with your butcher practically begging for a taste.

Your leggings are at your ankles before you can even finish the thought.

“Poor cunt.” He cups your pussy through your underwear, and his palm is so big and so warm it makes you shiver. “Just wasting away, huh?”

When you feel his fingers hook into the seams you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hide from the way you instinctively part your legs wider when they reach your ankles. Face burning when you just get tangled in the fabric and Simon chuckles. You choose to ignore the way you feel your underwear snap against your skin once and the sound of fabric tearing next. That’s a problem for later.

He helps you then, nudging your legs open with his foot, your hands falling flat on the counter. Your pussy on display, spread wide open for him, becomes an after thought when his fingers meet your bare skin.

“Fuckin’ mess back ‘ere.”

You can’t even imagine the slick spread down your thighs or the way it probably clung to your underwear when he tore them in two.

“Sorry, I don’t know why—“

He laughs again, and you’re not sure why he’s laughing when he’s got his fingers on your pussy, when he swipes them along the length and it makes a wet sound echo in the walls.

You whine again, burying your face in your arms so you lay flat against the cold counter. Tears well in your lash line from sheer embarrassment, humiliation, something. Your husband hasn’t even gotten you close to this and Simon hasn’t done anything. He’s surely never spoken to you like this either.

“Jus’ my mouth an’ fingers, yeah? Treat ya the way you deserve?”

You’re not sure if you deserve this. You shouldn’t deserve this. Your husband tells you so.

Horrible wife. Whore. Cheater. Immoral.

Still, you nod against your arms.

“Please.”

He lifts you with a hand around your throat, fingers practically touching in the middle. “Need you to say it.”

You keep your eyes closed, as if to shield yourself from the reality of what you’re doing. You can’t turn back now.

“Your mouth and fingers, please, I want them.”

You don’t deserve them. Shouldn’t have them, but you’ve already decided you need them. And you can’t remember the last time you’ve done something for you, without the weight of your husband’s heavy hand and God's watchful gaze.

Your necklace presses to your chin, ring to your palm. You don’t have the strength to take them off. You let them stay while you go against every message they portray.

The feeling in your abdomen, deep in your chest, coiled around your throat, and heavy behind your eyes is a nasty one when he slips a finger in. A storm brews in your mind and spreads to your toes and fingertips, emotions so contradictory that you don’t know what the right answer is.

You’re trapped, stuck in white water rapids that make it impossible to breathe. Struggling to come up for air and fill your lungs with anything but sin. Your jaw aches where your teeth clench. Tears wet on your cheeks from guilt when another joins the first and you finally understand why any woman would consent to this.

The white in your eyes is blurry when he glides his fingers out so fucking slowly you feel every bone in his fingers. Slumping when he slides them shallowly and presses down once.

“Sweet fuckin’ cunt.”

You let yourself drown.

Arching your spine, and pressing your forehead against the counter, sinking into the cold water. The sound you make is gurgled, like you’re choking on water or maybe it’s tears, spreading your legs even wider as he continues.

He likes that. He hums approvingly.

“Atta girl.”

You hate the way it makes your knees buckle. Hate the way he laughs like you’re some clumsy prey in the palm of his hand. Like he thinks it’s cute. The counter edge digs into your hips that’ll surely bruise later, and Simon just places a hand on your tailbone, pushing you harder against it, keeping you firm in his grasp.

That’s when he dips deeper, as if he can finally give you what he wants now that you’ve succumbed. Now that the water is calm.

You feel his cock, fat and heavy, against your thigh. You’re taken aback with how hard he is, throbbing in his pants just from fingering you. As if he wants you as badly, something more than the way your husband uses you to get off.

And it shouldn’t happen this fast, the string weaved in your core shouldn’t already feel like snapping, but the threads are tearing at the seams. Desperately clinging to anything as he starts to pump his fingers in and out, in and out. Harsher, harder, deeper— deeper, deeper.

It takes everything in you not to break when his thumb stamps your clit. And he circles it slow, gently, soaked from your weeping cunt, but it’s still too much. Too much that you can feel his lips mapping out the curve of your ass, that his fingers have your legs shaking and knees knocking together, that you can feel his breath on your thighs.

On your cunt.

And suddenly it’s his tongue, one swipe replacing his thumb on your clit.

You jolt forward, head snapping back when you feel it. Wet and warm, licking through your folds like he has every intention to taste you whole. And you can’t remember if you showered this morning because everything’s a bit hazy, and you stormed over here, and you're sure you sweated on your way.

You attempt to push at his head, “Simon, wait—wait. I’m not clean.”

You feel him scoff against your pussy, sending vibrations against your thighs like he’s offended. “Your husband makes you shower before? Tastes the best part.”

“No,” You pause. “He’s never done this.”

His free hand curls around the back of your thigh tightly and he growls angrily. Angry that your husband’s never had his mouth around your clit or pressed to the inside of your gummy walls. Angry that he has you all to himself and he still wastes it all.

“Fuckin married a prick.”

Yeah.

You would voice your agreement, but then his tongue is flat against your pussy, fingers parting you just enough for his tongue to join and all you can manage is a shriek. Garbled words and breathless pants are all that make their way through your lips when he circles your clit. Sucking the bead between his lips harshly before smoothing figure 8’s over it again and again until your vision goes white.

You don’t last long, like some virgin. Breath caught in your lungs and abdomen tightening as you convulse. It washes over you like nothing before. It’s not the same by yourself or when you pretend with your husband.

This is overwhelming, pulse thrashing, and pussy quivering around his fingers before it finally calms. Pinpricks turn into soft tingles, soft buzzing under skin that makes you melt into the counter, falling into his touch like putty. You feel like warm honey, gooey and malleable, and so content for the first time in months.

You think this is the first time someone’s ever sought after you. The first time someone’s put your pleasure above theirs. The first time you felt more than just the broken cracks.

Did you think he was only going to give you one, bird?

You hear him, but it’s muffled, everything’s still hazy when his fingers slide out and his tongue takes their place. When you feel his tongue pressing against the inside of your walls and he’s fucking licking you clean.

God, it’s nasty.

Nothing could save you now. There’s not enough repentance in the world to make this god forgive you.

And then he’s going at it. Sucking like he’s fucking drinking a fresh coconut. Tongue wide and flat and so fucking obscene as he licks along your pussy. You scramble against the counter, moaning loudly, and rolling to your tippy toes to escape, but it’s too late for that.

He growls like a dog with a bone, hooking your knee onto the edge for a better angle. He laps like a dog, messy and so wrong, on his knees worshiping you like your pussys the altar. Eager. Voracious. Debauched.

You should hate it, blasphemy, but your second orgasm hits you like a truck and without warning, gushing on Simon’s tongue. Shaking and twitching frantically, lungs void of air as you struggle to catch your breath. Muscles tensing in your thighs sporadically, mindlessly rocking your hips back to meet his tongue until you physically can’t take anymore and whimper pathetically into your arms.

He catches you before you completely collapse.

“Easy, bird.”

He helps you turn around, helps you pull your leggings back up before he sits you on the counter. And you whine when he turns to leave your side.

He shushes you, sliding between your legs instead, big palms finding your hips, rubbing small circles into your skin. You blink at him lazily, eyes heavy and half lidded. He’s got a big smirk on his face that you can’t miss, lips glistening proudly with your cum.

You smile slowly, a huff of a laugh slipping from your lips as you look at him.

“Good?” He asks.

You nod with a giggle. “Even better.”

He leans down to kiss you, and you should push him away, be disgusted with tasting yourself on his tongue, but you don’t. Can’t be when he doesn’t care, when it’s an honor for him to have tasted you in the first place. Can’t care when two orgasms makes it impossible to be upset about anything.

You just lick into his mouth, deliriously, and he lets you, like you’re some animal lapping away. He only stops you when your hands trails where they shouldn’t.

“Let’s get you home, love.” You don’t want to go.

He helps you walk to his truck, kisses you goodbye a house down from yours, and sends you home with your underwear tucked into his back pocket and a pussy soaked with your cum and his saliva.

Reality floods your lungs when you see your husband.

──────────────

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