I like military men unga bunga

Hi I'm sam, this is a cod/ghoap blog for my thirsty 24 yo ass brain. awooga. chronic reblogger. NSFW stuff is tagged with #nsfw.

[gravesaholic]

Introductory post?

I’m not new to tumblr but I am new to sharing my art and stories so bear with me while I learn how to do all that.

Anyways, hi. I’m Anissa. 22, from Arizona now living in the south. I’m also like super obsessed with Phillip Graves. I’ve joined the club. I’ve been posting my art on TikTok for a bit but I want to be able to post without the fear of judgement. Anyways, I figured it was time for me to actually find a place for me to post freely about him, my art and my stories. So here I am :)

****

I drew this mid may, my technique has improved since then and I’ll continue to share more of it with yall. I’m also working on a selfship fic, I’d like to get more of it finished before I decide to start posting it. BUT I SWEAR I’M A GOOD WRITER!

****

All that to say, I’m just excited to share my work with you all. Whoever is reading this lol.

[tojisteddy]

SIMON WITH A FULL SLEEVES, I KNEW IT I KNEW ITTT

[ghostedink]

YES GOD 🙌🙌🙌🙌

[reviarie]

moment in history

[buttpoems]

[rawme-price]

Imagine being the waypoint operator for the 141s comms, in charge of directing their chatter to the correct channels when needed, right?

Your station acts as an added layer of security, encrypting the route the channels take in the event they are hacked. Sure, you work with other teams but the 141 are your main group.

One...small caveat of being in charge of their comms, is that you have to actually listen to their conversations in case they request a patch to someone.

Which leads to you hearing...way more than you'd like.

Gaz: sir. Stop poking it. Soap's waitin'

Ghost: think he had health issues. Look at his femur, odd texture.

Gaz: oh shit, really? Let me see—

Followed by far too graphic descriptions of the poor blokes leg. You had to skip lunch that day. You do most days they have missions, gross fuckers act like you can't hear all the shit they say.

Meaning, of course, that you hear too damn much about their sex lives or lack thereof due to missions. It's nothing new, and given you know what they look like, it doesn't paint a bad picture.

But this time? You're shocked by the subject of conversation.

Soap: ahm tellin' you, it's been too damn long. The poor lass is crying for attention!

Gaz: why not the guy from IT? He's eager enough.

Soap: no. Not really feeling that right now. Actually, you know who sounds nice?

There's that characteristic smirk in soaps voice you've long since learned to identify. You absently hear ghost prompt him to continue, wondering how the hell price tunes them out so well—

Soap: our waypoint.

You choke, splutter. Your own coughing making it impossible to hear gaz and ghosts reactions, but when you tune back in soap is viciously defending himself

Soap: no, no! Listen! Have you heard that voice?? Christ, just that and I could get a better wank than I've had all month! C'mon, ghost, I know you agree—

Ghost: you know they can hear you right now, johnny? Got anything to say?

Gaz: *chuckles* besides asking to get his dick wet? Maybe beg for a moan or something?

....silence

Soap: ....hey waypoint? You there?"

You shouldn't. Christ you shouldn't respond.

All comms are recorded, and waypoints should only talk when absolutely necessary but— but the 141 comms are wiped every 24 hours and...

You lean close to your mic, voice weaker than you'd like.

"Yes, soap?"

[fuckit-meme-time]

We know Phillip likes to be in control of himself, his actions, be aware of everything. So I doubt he'd get drunk enough to be loose and wild. Buuuuuuut what about a dental procedure that's much needed (he took a beating on an OP) and results in him being... A little woozy. Much woozy. Or if there's any other scenario you might prefer? Or just being drunk? lmao I just want to see him act like a goof once and we get to take care of him and listen to him babble

Immediately this sparked so many ideas in my head. I will definitely be circluing around to writing a "Phillip gets drunk at a friend's bachelor party and you need to come pick his country ass up before he gets kicked from the club" but for now here's this...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The call comes just after midnight. The name “Osmond Ryan” flashes, making you squint at the bright light as it burns into your eyes.

You know it is bad before you answer. Nobody from Shadow Company calls you after midnight with good news.

“Mrs. Graves?”

You are already sitting up.

“Oz?”

“Phillip’s alive,” he says first.

For a second, that is the only thing in the room.

Phillip’s alive.

Not fine. Not okay. Alive.

“What happened?”

“He took a hard fall during an operation. Fractured a few ribs, had some internal bleeding they wanted to get ahead of. They took him into surgery, and it went well. He’s stable. He’s awake.”

Your hand tightens around the phone.

“Surgery?”

“He’s okay,” Oz says. His voice stays even, but there is something gentler under it. “High as hell, mean as a snake, and asking why nobody called his wife.”

Your eyes close.

Of course he is.

Of course Phillip Graves can wake up after surgery and immediately start making demands.

“Technically,” Oz adds, “he asked why the hell nobody had called his wife yet, tried to sit up, and they had to sedate him a little more.”

A laugh almost comes out of you. It catches somewhere behind your ribs instead.

“Oh my god.”

“He’s all right,” Oz says. “But you should come before they gotta knock him out completely.”

You are already climbing out of bed, grabbing a pair of leggings off the floor one-handed.

“I’m coming.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

You barely remember the drive. You remember cold hands, red lights, and your heartbeat thudding so hard it feels like it might bruise you from the inside. By the time you reach the hospital, your t-shirt is on inside out, you have no bra on, and your hair is a mess, but you do not care.

Oz is waiting near the entrance.

He looks tired, but composed, all broad shoulders and quiet authority, firm mouth set in a line behind his thick beard. When he sees you, his expression softens just slightly.

“You okay?” he asks, awkwardly placing a large hand on your shoulder.

You let out a humorless little laugh.

“Do I look okay?”

“No, ma’am,” he says, honest and quiet.

That might be funny any other night.

Tonight, all you can think about is Phillip.

Oz gestures down the hall.

“He’s been giving the nurses hell.”

“Good,” you say, because difficult means alive.

You hear Phillip before you see him.

Not clearly at first. Just a low, irritated drawl through the cracked door, thicker than usual and rough around the edges.

“I don’t need another blanket. I need my damn phone.”

A nurse says something too quiet for you to catch. Then Phillip again, offended and groggy.

“No, ma’am, I am not agitated. I am-”

Oz pauses with his hand on the door, grimacing.

You look at him.

He looks back at you.

Then he opens it.

Phillip is propped against the pillows, pale and bruised under the hospital lights, with a hospital gown pulled awkwardly over his chest and bandages disappearing beneath it. His hair is cowlicked, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth set in an irritated line.

For one second, the whole room narrows down to the bruise on his cheek, the bandages under his gown, and the rise and fall of his chest.

He looks awful.

He looks alive.

He looks high out of his damn mind.

“Ryan,” he says, accent thick and slow, “you tell this woman I need my phone.”

Oz steps aside so you can enter.

Phillip’s gaze slides toward you.

The change is instant.

The irritation falls right off his face.

“Well, thank God,” he breathes. “There she is.”

And just like that, you can breathe again.

“Hey, honey.”

His eyes move over you with open, drugged affection. No subtlety. No polish. Just Phillip staring at you like you have personally saved the entire evening by walking into the room.

“That’s my wife,” he tells the nurse, like the whole night has been wrong until you walked through the door.

The nurse smiles and chuckles while she works around his IV. “Yes, sir. She is.”

You walk to the bed and take Phillip’s hand before he can try to gesture and hurt himself.

“I’m here,” you say softly.

His fingers wrap around yours.

“Damn right.”

“He’s been asking for you,” the nurse says. “Frequently.”

Phillip looks up at her, very serious.

“Ain’t she pretty?”

Your eyes widen.

“Phillip.”

“What?” he asks, blinking at you like he has no idea why you would interrupt something so obvious. “You are.”

Oz gives the wall a very professional amount of attention.

Phillip catches it anyway.

“Oz.”

“Yes, sir?”

Phillip tips his head toward you with the lazy pride of a man showing off something priceless.

“Look at her. Isn’t she stunning?”

You cover your face with your free hand, cheeks burning.

“Oh my god, Phillip, stop talking.”

“Why?” His drawl drags warm and syrupy through the room. “Man’s gotta appreciate a fox when he sees one.”

The nurse laughs under her breath. Oz looks like he would rather be shot at.

Phillip, apparently not finished making everyone’s life worse, squints at him.

“Right, Ryan?”

There is no correct answer. You can see Oz realize that in real time.

He clears his throat.

“Mrs. Graves is a very lovely woman, sir.”

Phillip studies him for one slow, suspicious second, then seems to decide that was respectful enough.

“Damn right she is.”

You look at him through your fingers.

“You are very high right now, and you should stop talking.”

“Can’t,” he says, pleased and stubborn. “My wife’s here.”

The nurse finishes checking him over and excuses herself, still smiling. Once she is gone, Oz steps closer to the bed and reaches for the phone on the bedside table.

“I’m going to hold onto this for the rest of the night, sir.”

Phillip’s face sours immediately.

“No, you ain’t.”

“Yes, I am.”

Phillip’s eyes narrow through the fog.

“Ryan, if you touch my phone, I’m dockin’ your pay.”

Oz picks it up anyway.

“You can dock me when you’re sober.”

Phillip looks betrayed. You laugh before you can stop yourself.

His head turns back to you, and the betrayal vanishes as quickly as it came.

“There,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“There’s my girl.”

Your stomach flips stupidly.

Oz pauses at the door, phone in hand.

“I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Phillip lifts his chin slightly, eyes narrowed through the medication.

“And don’t flirt with my wife.”

You groan. “Phillip, shut up.”

Oz stops. The room goes painfully silent for half a second.

Then Oz says, very evenly, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Commander Graves.”

Phillip hums, satisfied, and closes his eyes. 

The door shuts. You stare at your husband.

He opens one eye.

“What?”

“You are so mean to him.”

“Mm. He can take it.”

“You are going to owe that man an apology.”

He blinks slowly, and some of the smugness eases out of his face. His thumb rubs over your wedding ring in a clumsy little pass, back and forth, like he needs to feel it there.

“Sorry he had to wake you,” he says.

Your chest softens.

“It’s okay.”

“Did he scare you?”

“No.” You brush your thumb over his knuckles. “Oz doesn’t scare me.”

Phillip frowns faintly.

“No?”

“No. Precious little scares me.” You swallow, looking over the bruises on his face, the bandages, the IV. “You not waking up from surgery scares me.”

That reaches him.

Even through the medication, it reaches him. His face changes, all that goofy pride quieting into something more tender.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, shuffling in bed. “Smart too. Mean sometimes, but that’s all right. I kinda like it.”

You roll your eyes and chuckle softly.

“Thank you, I think.”

“Any man’d be lucky to have you.”

Your amusement softens.

“Phillip.”

He frowns, like this is important and he needs you to keep up.

“No, I mean it. You coulda married somebody normal.”

“I didn’t want somebody normal.”

“Coulda had a doctor.”

“I have enough doctors tonight.”

“Lawyer, maybe.”

“No, thank you.”

“Somebody with a safe job.”

You look down at his hand in yours, at the wedding ring he keeps touching like a compass point. Then you smile at him softly.

“I wanted you.”

He stares at you with such open wonder that it nearly undoes you.

The heart monitor beside him picks up.

Beep.

Beep.

Beepbeepbeep.

You look at it. Phillip looks at it too.

Then, with deep offense, he mutters, “Tattle-tale machine.”

You laugh again, covering your mouth with your free hand. He looks pleased with himself for making you do it.

“Like seein’ you smile,” he says, tugging weakly at your hand. “Come here.”

You smile. “How close do you want me?”

His eyes dip to your mouth.

“Kiss close.”

Your pulse jumps.

“You just had surgery.”

“My mouth didn’t.”

“You are heavily medicated.”

“Still married.”

“You are impossible.”

“And still handsome.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean in anyway, careful of the wires, careful of his ribs, careful of everything fragile about him that he would deny being.

You kiss him softly.

Just once.

The heart monitor picks up immediately.

Beep.

Beep.

Beepbeepbeep.

You pull back, startled.

Phillip looks at the monitor, then back at you, slow and pleased.

“Well,” he drawls.

“Oh my god.”

“That thing’s a snitch.”

“You need to behave.”

His smile turns lazy and dangerous, though the effect is softened by how glassy his eyes are.

“Baby,” he drawls, looking far too pleased with himself for a man attached to a heart monitor, “if these ribs weren’t busted all to hell, you’d already be in this bed, in my lap with my-.”

Your mouth falls open and you shush him quickly, voice quiet and harsh, “Phillip Graves, you are in a hospital.”

“Private room,” he says in a matched whisper, like that settles it.

“You are recovering from surgery.”

“And?”

“And you can be sweet, not sexy right now.”

That makes him go quiet. His face changes in that soft, helpless way again, like the word has landed somewhere he does not know how to protect.

“Sweet,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

He glances toward the door, then back at you.

“Don’t tell nobody.”

“I won’t.”

He seems satisfied with that, settling deeper into the pillows while you sit back down beside him. His hand stays wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing slow, uneven circles over your ring.

For a while, he just looks at you. Not smoothly. Not with his usual controlled charm. He is too drugged for that. His gaze drifts over your face, down to your hand, back to your mouth, then up again like he keeps remembering he is allowed to stare.

“You know,” he says eventually, voice low and thick, “I don’t know how I snagged you.”

“You were very convincing.” You chuckle, smiling at the memory.

“I’m charming,” he purrs, laying back against the pillows with a sigh. 

“You still are.”

“Lucky bastard,” he murmurs.

Your heart gives an embarrassing little flutter.

“Who?”

“Me.” His eyes close for a second, but his mouth stays curved faintly. “Got the girl. Got her my ring. The house. I am a lucky bastard,” he toys with one of the monitors on his hand mindlessly before continuing, “just need a few little babies now to go the full nine yards.” 

You have to look away because the smile on your face is getting ridiculous.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Hey.”

You look back. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern. 

“Don’t hide.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You’re being very sweet to me.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Been thinkin’ it.” His eyes open halfway. “Sayin’ it wrong most days.”

Your chest aches.

“You say it fine.”

He seems to consider that. Then he shakes his head slightly against the pillow.

“Not enough.”

You lean closer and brush his hair back from his forehead. His eyes close immediately, a quiet breath leaving him.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

“Does that hurt?”

“No.” His face softens under your hand. “Feels real nice, Darlin’.”

“You like when I fuss over you?”

“Mhm.”

“You usually complain.”

“Supposed to.”

“Why?”

“Principle.”

You smile. “What principle?”

“Can’t let my wife know she can do whatever the hell she wants to me and I’ll still say thank you.”

You freeze.

He opens one eye, slow and smug.

Then the damn heart rate monitor betrays him again.

Beepbeepbeepbeep.

You laugh so hard you have to press your forehead to the edge of the railing of the bed. Phillip smiles in triumph, as if making you laugh is the most successful operation of his life.

“I like bein’ yours.”

The laughter leaves you gently. Because that one is not a joke.

Not really.

He says it soft, almost sleepy, but there is nothing careless about it.

You look at him, and for once, he does not look away. Even high, even half-asleep, he seems to know what he has said.

“You do, huh?”

He nods faintly.

“Yeah.”

You kiss his hand. Then his knuckles. Then his wrist.

The monitor beeps faster.

Phillip does not even open his eyes.

“Snitch,” he mutters.

You laugh against his skin.

“Go to sleep, baby.”

His eyes fly open, “Stay?”

“I’m staying.”

“Wife-close?”

“As wife-close as I can get without hurting you.”

“Romantic.”

“Extremely.”

His fingers tighten around yours.

For a little while, the room is quiet. The fear from the phone call still sits somewhere inside you, but it has softened now, crowded out by the warmth of his hand and the ridiculous little smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.

Every time he drifts, his hand tightens around yours like some part of him is still checking that you stayed.

He is hurt. He is high. He is going to be impossible once he is clear-headed enough to remember he has lost custody of his phone.

But he is alive.

And, apparently, completely incapable of being normal about his wife.

Just when you think he has finally fallen asleep, he murmurs, “Ain’t she something?”

You look around.

There is no one else in the room.

You bite your lip, smiling so hard your cheeks ache.

“Yeah, Phillip.”

His mouth curves, proud even in sleep.

“Damn right.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist :

@larrytheberry2 @phillygraves @kathrynwilmot @vused

[druap]

old strawpage request

[vozart]

Part 1 of a little comic for mershark soap and pirate ghost :)

Ghost thought sharks didn't make noise so he's really shocked when the one he's stuck with (hes not really stuck hes keeping it around cause he feels bad and the mer is handsome) starts crying loudly...

[stinglesswasp]

Day in the life - afternoon 🌇

[redacted-redd]

(We apologized to the parents and they found it hilarious so it’s all good! I felt so bad bcs the park was empty and I didn’t notice them walking by!)

Picnic-phael below the cut:

[ugh-my-back]

prettyprettyprettyprtyy

[07x1x4x1]

You have a question for your teammates.

cw: 18+ | fem!Reader; cussing; sexism; implied teammates to lovers; humor; suggestive

It’s loud on the makeshift base in the field, right in the middle of buttfuck Estonia. You’ve been stuck here on a training exercise for the past three days now, along with different squads from other branches and international armies.

Large tents are lining up the vast field, each one housing a number of soldiers. Naturally, Price put you with the men despite you being the only woman. Where’s the logic in putting you in a single bunk if that luxury doesn’t exist behind enemy lines in a bloody safe house?

“Hello!” you chirp as you approach the half-circle your squadmates are sitting outside the marquee.

They look up from their MRE’s. Kyle’s nose is scrunched up as he pokes around the flavourless rice, veggies and chicken while Johnny eats his dessert biscuit first, and Simon shovels spoonful of anything into his mouth without looking, balaclava tucked up over his nose.

“’ello, doll,” Johnny greets you first, wiping crumbs off his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “Hi, princess,” Kyle follows, with Simon merely grunting with his mouth full.

Taking the empty seat in the circle, you sit down on hard ground and dry grass, criss-crossing your legs as you take out your water canteen.

“I have a question,” you announce.

“Awh, and ‘ere we go–” Simon rolls his eyes and you throw a pebble at him. “Hey, it’s important!”

Kyle chuckles. “What’s your question?” Johnny smacks his lips, reaches for his main meal after devouring the biscuit. “Aye, shoot.”

Once you’re sure that they’re all listening, you speak the question that has been burning on your tongue since seeking them out.

“What’s spit roasting?” you ask almost innocently.

Their reactions are immediate yet similar: Kyle sputters around the rim of his own canteen, water spilling as he coughs. Johnny’s bright blue eyes widen before he lets out a bark of laughter so loud, nearby soldiers turn around curiously. And Simon nearly chokes on his food, grabbing at his throat before smacking his own chest.

Needless to say, they’re all clearly shocked—and you still don’t know why.

It’s Johnny who catches his breath first: “Steamin’ Jesus, doll. Where’d ye hear that?”

Suddenly, you feel flustered, warmth creeping up your cheeks as you admit: “Some fellow officers asked me if I’ve ever gotten spit roasted by my teammates, and,” you shrug bashfully, “I assumed it means like... when someone insults you in a kinky and funny way?”

The three men share a glance that you can’t quite read before Kyle speaks up next:

“And what did you say, princess?”

There’s no backing down now, so you take a deep breath, bracing yourself for the humiliation before answering.

“I joked and said: yeah, every day, and that’s when they started laughing before telling me that that’s exactly what they thought.”

Johnny bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt not to laugh at your expense again, and Kyle just scoffs as he shakes his head. Meanwhile, Simon’s expression darkens at the audacity of those officers itself, his grip on his utensils tightening.

“Tha’s whot they said to ya?” Simon enquires gruffly, side-eyeing your appearance with a protective glint in his tawny eyes, clearly holding back a frown with the lower half of his face exposed.

Still oblivious, you nod. “Uh–huh, yeah.” Your eyes flit to look at each of their faces, gauging their reactions. “So, what does it really mean? Did I ever get spit roasted by any one of you?”

“Ugh, Ah wish.” Johnny smacks a hand over his face, groaning a curse into his palm and earning a kick with his boot to the shin from Kyle.

“Oi, stop that right now, Tav!” The older Sergeant chides, brows furrowing sternly while the Scot snorts and snickers behind his hand, rubbing his leg with the other.

Suddenly, Simon pats his spoon against your knee, grabbing your attention.

“If I tell you whot it means, you’ll be a good girl and show us those officers, right? Say yes.”

You nod obediently, flashing a little smile as you try to ignore the way your cunt flutters at the cooed pet name.

“Yes, sir.”

“Atta girl.” Simon grumbles before leaning in conspiratorially while Johnny and Kyle keep bickering in the background. Instinctively, you lean in as well, heart thudding faster in anticipation.

“Means two blokes are fuckin’ ya simultaneously. One in yer pretty mouth–” He points his spoon at your face, holding eye-contact. “The other fuckin’ yer sweet cunt.” He shrugs his broad shoulders and his black fatigues stretch taut over bulging muscle before he adds just as crudely: “Or arse.”

Your mouth is agape as you peer up at him, lips parted as your eyes have widened with every word from him. And then Simon smirks, nudges his spoon under your chin to close your mouth. It all makes so much more sense now.

“Bloody hell, Lt.” Kyle utters across from you.

Johnny nods in approval and continues to eat as if nothing happened, speaking with his mouth full.

“Couldnae ‘ave said it better m’self, sir.”

Kyle hums, then shrugs and nods in quiet agreement.

“Now show us those bloody bastards who think they can mess with our girl.” He says, pulling his balaclava back into place.

“Olright, then,” the Lieutenant grunts, straightening up and cracking his neck from left to right before tidying up his tray. If on cue, both Kyle and Johnny start wrapping up, too.

Based on my real life experiences and obliviousness heh 🙂

READ NEXT PART HERE

[astheriiiart]

fantasy au 🔥🍃

[ilylovelyz]

simon sleeping next to you, only in his boxers. the pink fluffy blanket that drowns him only compliments his blonde hair and pale skin. you can't help but watch him sleep, admiring his features how a mother would map out her newborn's.

his pink and puckered scars, the history of his life written into his skin, at the tips of your fingers. you can make out he'd been stabbed here and shot there. the telling imprint of teeth on his shoulder, fully healed. faint pink and purple hickies that litter his strong jaw and sharp collarbones.

he's just so at peace when he sleeps. his face is relaxed, not a mere wrinkle of anger or concealed sadness within. in the beginning of him sleeping with you, he used to randomly scream and thrash from his intense nightmares, but now there's not even a snore from him. not a single twitch. just the gradual rise of his chest and the occasional flutter of his lashes.

you nuzzle closer to your precious man. he's asleep, but his body still seems to recognize you even when unconscious, his limbs accepting yours as you entangle yourself to him. and when you press your lips to his, just a faint kiss with the lightest amount of pressure against his, do his own press towards yours, firmly, still asleep.

yeah, he's your boy.

[frogs-crackcorner]

"You're not supposed to be here."

Simon's heart dropped and his blood began to boil. Not supposed to be here? This was the only place he was supposed to be. Lying in the warm grass, holding you in his arms. How could you not want him here?

He'd been to hell and back just to be with you again. How could you push him away like this?

You gently reached, caressing his cheek. "Simon, please. I need you to go back now. I promise I'll see you soon."

Tears welled in Simon's eyes. For the first time in a long time, he begged. "Please, please baby. Let me stay. Please, I need you. Please," he sobbed. "Don't do this to me. Please, I need you. Please, love."

"I love you, Simon Riley"

Simon slowly opened his eyes. Your voice was still ringing in his ears yet here he was, back in the bathroom. The bathroom of the house you used to share. The bathroom where he took all those pills. The pills instead of a bullet because he still wanted to look nice for you. You always said how much you loved seeing his face.

The pill bottle is still there. The dust he never bothered to clean is still there. The hollow, pressing weight in his chest is still there. But something was different. His cheek was warm, the same cheek you touched. He could almost feel your skin against his.

"I wish you would've let me stay," he breathed.

[oncosis]

back in the fucking building

[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, blood, killing of animals, graphic depictions of domestic violence, graphic depictions of violence, religious guilt, infidelity, please read at your own risk

ch. 7 | masterlist | ao3

──────────────

There’s blood everywhere. 

Crimson staining the concrete under you, and splattered on your husband’s sleeves. The juxtaposition of your husband and Simon solidifies itself then. Something that made your mouth water and heart race with desire when it came to Simon is repulsive on your husband. Something that lodges a lump deep in your throat, makes it difficult to swallow the tears running down your cheeks. 

Your hands shake as you reach out to the bunny lying there motionless. Fear runs through your body, raging anger, but the guilt is the heaviest. 

It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. 

The bunny was innocent. A sweet, pure thing that had nothing to do with you and Simon or your deceit. And still, your husband took his anger out on it, snapped its neck in two like it was the one coercing you to Simon's doorstep. The poisoned apple. 

He’s too narcissistic to realize it was him. Too much of a coward to confess he was the one who forced you down this dark and moldered path. One that made you lose your wedding ring somewhere in the backroom of Simon’s butcher shop when you left your dignity on your knees. 

Your husband had hardly noticed really, it’s not like he paid attention to detail when it came to you. You were shocked when he did notice, stuttering over your words, and you offered a weak apology, saying you had lost it while washing the dishes.

It was a lie, he knew it. A part of you thinks you didn’t try to convince him on purpose. That you lost it on purpose because you didn’t know how to end this any other way. It’d be easier if he was the one.

Everything else after that is black, a flurry of running after him as he storms to the backyard shed. You had screamed so loud when he picked the bunny up, the poor thing kicking its hind legs in the toughest fight it could muster. It looked so tiny in his palm, trapped in his confines.

“Been letting you feed this damn pest in my backyard and this is how you repay me?” He spat it out with fury, globs of saliva landing on your cheeks.

“Put it down, please." You spoke calmly, masking the way your chest was vibrating with anxiety. "I don't even know what you're talking about, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. There's that damn word you trickle in. A front. Appeasement of sorts to show you still care, that this is a marriage you want. 

“I should’ve known, marrying a whore like you.”

Whore. He says it so often you don't even bat an eye. Sweetheart, whore, the words have become analogous at this point.   

You were too late after that. The sound of its cracking neck came first. Its thrown limp body on the floor. Its head makes a thud as it lands hard on the gray cement at your feet, blood splashed underneath it.

It all happened so fast you didn't have time to react besides falling to your knees next to it. The worst part is you didn't even name it. A part of you afraid of the attachment you would've grown when you knew it would eventually lead to this. Afraid of what it would mean when he finally did.

You think you black out for a few seconds, coming to in short fuzzy bursts as reality dawns on you. It's funny the way raw meat did not affect you, not when Simon was the one meticulously handling it. Funny how you were willing to lie on the butcher block next to it all, be the sacrificial lamb instead, but this draws a vizierial reaction. 

You stay still, despite your quivering fingers, until the fog clears, until your hands stop and your heart calms. Everything clashes together then, morphing into this ugly, angry monster in your chest that takes over. Years of just burying it down, pretending you were okay, boil over and your pretty bow that sealed it all together unravels. Tears in two for the first time since you've laid eyes on your coward of a husband. 

You look up at him then, at the ugly figure that has the audacity to call himself a man. You won’t be too late this time.

“You’re right.” You stand, saying it with the same conviction he spat at you, except yours has reason, a deeper meaning than insecurity. "It’s the butcher. Had me on my knees last week.”

He storms across the distance then, an anger in his eyes you're not quite used to. You don't move though, not even a flinch when he wraps his hands around your throat and slams you against the wall of the shed. Your head throbs from the impact, a panging tightness radiating from your skull down your spine. Your hands find purchase on his forearm, dragging your nails along his skin until it draws blood, legs kicking out as the bunny had in his grasp too. 

“Right on top of the meat you eat for dinner every night.” You say it between your strangled breaths and stinging lash line with tears you try your best to hold back.

His fingers tighten around your neck after that and the edges of your vision go dark, hands losing their grip on him when you physically can't fill your lungs with air. You see your mom at the edges, the abuse she endured when you were young. When she wasn’t brave enough to do something about it and leave. When she put her faith above reality. Above you.

You think maybe you should be thinking about your faith instead of hers. Muttering a prayer you were forced to memorize growing up, but none of them come to mind. None of them could help you now. This God should’ve saved you years ago.

The rest is a blur, you don’t know what you grab, or how you even manage to, but it’s heavy, and you can barely wrap your fingers around it. All you know is it makes your husband’s hands fall from your throat, falling back after repeatedly bashing his head with it.

Your cross necklace follows him, silver jewelry ricocheting off the floor. You think it has to be a metaphor, a sign from this God. Being set free from the expectations of religion, set free of the shackles that weighed you down for so long. The cross scalded on your skin melted off.

There’s blood dripping from his forehead when you finally stop, and he’s looking at you in shock, fingers dabbing at the wound like he hadn't just had his hands around your jugular. It makes you laugh, a sound that comes out half broken from your strained throat. 

“We’re done.” It's raspy, but final.

You don't look back as you walk back inside the house you've lived in for years. Don't even give him a shred of acknowledgement when you pack a duffel bag. 

You find you don't have much of importance in this house besides Simon's jacket. 

You don't even realize you've got blood on your shirt and under your finger nails until you're outside Simon's door and he looks at you concerned.

You’re not even surprised when you see your ring glimmer out of the corner of your eye, pinned to the wall like a trophy he’s won.

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[ravaniacrescentia]

Morning light ☀️

My half of an exchange for one of the most inspiring and wonderful artists I know ♥ And thanks to everyone who helped me bring it to fruition through all my yelling and indecision. You all know who you are! Mwah