#abrasive but caring Simon

[ceilidho]

going crazy thinking about Simon coming across a girl when she's recently been kicked out or evicted and has nowhere to go (no family, friends are just not helping at all or can't because they don't have a couch for her to sleep on) somehow through happenstance and he takes her back to his place even though she's apprehensive and puts up a fuss about it :(( makes her sleep in his huge bed while he takes the couch and feeds her. he's not much of a conversationalist but when she offers to cook, he barks at her to go sit on the couch and watch a show.

[lovelyghst]

ex-boyfriend simon riley making you admit you still love him if you wanna cum <3

he can be such a jerk sometimes! calling you up one evening, claiming he was just wanting to check in on you and how you know how overbearing protective he can be sometimes, acting surprised when you snapped at him barely after his greeting.

“what has you so frustrated, hm, dove?… christ, can practically feel you seethin’ through the screen.”

you bit your tongue and gave him the truth over the phone; how he shouldn’t be calling you without warning like this considering you’ve broken up, and it’s inappropriate to be labeling you those sweet pet names you unfortunately and unknowingly still adore deep down.

how you don’t appreciate his abrasive bluntness, then again, he should know very well that you never have liked that part about him.

you told him the truth, though you couldn’t be entirely honest with him, in the sense of how fucking needy you’ve become with his absence. for touch and care, proximity and security, and all that.

but you are over him, undoubtedly, and you let him know that.

“yeah, baby, whatever you say…

…bet you rub that little cunt raw every night thinkin’ve me.”

and that shut you up quick.

he hummed in understanding, like your silence was readable.

“poor girl prob’ly hasn’t had any proper attention since i’ve been gone… shame such a pretty thing has to be so neglected, eh?”

butterflies invaded your tummy at the compliment, and you cursed yourself for your hasty, blind acceptance of it. but you can't blame yourself; what girl wouldn’t at least begin to crumble at that voice?

“i’m right, yeah?” he taunted, and it almost made you sick when you caught yourself rubbing your thighs together at his meanness.

“c’mon, sweetheart… you know you can be honest wi’ me.”

and god, was his cocky tone so infuriating; you wanted to reach through the phone and slap his smug face straight for overstepping your relationship’s boundaries so blatantly, and with such a deeply rooted nonchalance in his voice that always had you heated and wet.

“say the word, ‘nd i’ll come over and fuck you right now.”

…which is why you had eventually asked him oh, so nicely:

“please..?”

you could practically hear the shit-eating grin on his face, followed by the faint noises of boots hitting hardwood floor and then the clicking of a door’s lock, the obnoxious ringing of keys clanging together.

“just give me ten minutes, doll.”

and now, as he bullies and buries his cock deep in your warm cunt, reaching all those sweet spots you or another man could never even come close to, you can’t really think much of his misbehavior.

truthfully, you can’t think much of anything at all, at the moment.

he had teased you prior to finally managing his way inside you, for god knows how long. his mouth, his fingers, his cockhead; all had brought you to the edge rather quickly, over and over after each other, but he was yet to give you that final push.

he puts his full body’s weight on you, strong pecs pressed up against your heaving, sensitive tits, and his stubble tickling your neck unceasingly. you can’t stop squirming and writhing beneath him, and his hot groans right up against your skin aren’t helping, either.

it’s always been a feat taking his cock, being crammed in your precious cunt almost every night when you two were together, but now it’s been weeks, and you nearly forgot just how big he was.

you missed it, admittedly. all of it; the veins and ridges, the unforgiving stretch. the slight twinge of pain he always hushed with his fingertips pressing your swollen, little clit, or a calloused thumb shoved between your puffy lips to suck on and drool over to distract yourself.

you missed his stamina, his libido. most striking of all, his selflessness in the entire act. he’s a soldier, he serves you right. most times.

“fuckin’ christ, sweetheart… missed this tight, messy thing wrapped ‘round my cock… practically stranglin’ me ‘n with no remorse, eh?”

shit, and you missed his dirty talk most of all.

“gonna fill this pretty, little pussy… keep ‘er happy all night, make up for lost time with my girl.” he wraps his hand gently around your jaw, making your eyes meet his. “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

you nod frantically, swallow as best you can, before sucking in a breath. “yeah— yes, please, si… i-i want it really bad… please.”

he kisses your lips with a smile, and then all over the side of your face, up to your forehead. he just can’t seem to stop kissing you.

“tell me, sweetheart. y’wanna cum, too?”

“i do, si—! i really, really do- fuck, please?” you beg and beg, and as much as it turns him on, digs at his heart to just give in, he sticks to his guns and merely adds:

“then say the words, pretty girl,” he coos, making you whimper in frustration. “that’s it, y’know what i wanna hear.”

you huff a whine in response, albeit your breath is strangled when he doesn’t halt his movements for even a second.

you really, really don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

he’s nearly panting himself, big chest and even bigger shoulders rolling upwards with every thrust. “y’ain’t cummin’ til i hear you say it, baby. c’mon, now. jus' admit it, that you still love me.”

he buries his cock to the very hilt, taking your slackened jaw tighter in his hand as he watches your eyes grow even hazier from his pelvis rubbing up against your vulnerable, needy clit. the stern look he gives you tells you he's serious about his last statement, but you'll later swear you sensed a bit of sadness, even despair in his expression.

“i love—” you choke on your own breath, desperate to sputter out the words. “i love you, si…”

and he practically has hearts in his eyes. “you mean it?”

“yes—! yes i do, i promise i still love you, please,” you spill, sounding closer to a temper tantrum than anything. “just lemme cum, please, si… really need it, please, i-i’ve been good...”

he hums lowly, contented, satisfied for once. as if those three words themselves — i love you — are the ones actually stroking his fucking cock. his ego maybe, you’d think, but jesus.

if you knew just how badly off he was beforehand, you never would’ve let him get this cocky and in control.

“love you too, sweetheart.” he kisses your puffed out lips, wipes a tear you hadn’t even noticed was trickling down your cheekbone. “always been my good, patient girl, haven’t ya?”

you nod once more, pinched brows and bleary eyes doubling in severity at his soft tone. simon praising you and being so, so uncharacteristically sweet has always made you fawn after more, even now. especially now.

“tha’s right, baby, you’re my good girl… now do me a favor and cum on my cock for me, yeah? lemme feel every last bit of ya.”

he ultimately resumes moving inside you, and it makes you wonder when he ever even stopped. your brain shuts off when he snakes a hand between your bodies, smoothing over your tummy before his middle and ring fingers quickly find your tortured, little bud. pressing hard, making you writhe with oversensitivity.

he works you over the edge diligently, and embarrassingly fast on your part, taking into account just how long he had edged you for. the sight and sweet noises you make are a dream; a reality he awfully missed, and something no other girl could compete with.

"that's it... easy, sweetheart," he coos softly.

he gives you a moment to come down from your high, softly palming your throbbing cunt to assist in grounding you, but you're barely able to finish catching your breath before he's doing it all over again! resuming flicking at your clit, rubbing you harshly and overstimming you enough to make you fruitlessly jolt and cry out beneath him.

he frowns down at you, damn-near condescending. "again, for me?"

you twitch and moan relentlessly as he gradually coaxes another orgasm from your tuckered body, his cockhead hitting that part deep enough inside you to make you see stars, his hard abdomen pressed against your tummy making the pressure of it all skyrocket tenfold.

the sensation of you finishing around his length once more has him barreling into his own orgasm, and soon fucking his pent up cum deep into your cunt with a few hard thrusts and a grumbled, broken groan right at your temple.

endless praises spill from his lips as everything becomes a blur for you; from the moment he's pulling out of your used cunt—crawling down and giving it and your pretty tits a couple sloppy kisses before briskly redressing himself—to being coddled in bed and squished between his muscular arms and torso.

he holds you so close to him that it makes you wonder why, or even how you could ever turn your back to it. he truly makes you feel like a spoiled doll in this sort of space. a doll with shaky legs, ruined makeup, and half a conscious.

"remind me why we broke up again?" he chimes.

you groan aloud, burying your face somehow further in his chest. "shut up, simon."

he laughs softly, pestering you with even more quick kisses, one after another to the crown of your skull. large hands rubbing up and down your back, moving to knead at your ass and thighs for a short moment. he just loves touching you so much.

“c’mon, pretty girl. let’s go get you cleaned up,” he mutters with an exhale. "how's a hot bath sound?"

you have no time to interject, other than a displeased pout and shake of your head, before you’re being hoisted up on your wobbly legs, then swept up and carried to your restroom when you couldn’t even make it three steps before your knees began to buckle on you.

you’re dizzy, utterly dazed and half asleep as he bathes you. making sure you don’t lift a finger as he works, treating you as nothing less than a princess. your loosened muscles somehow melt even more with his precise touch and strength, and you remember just how much you love being turned utterly numb and dependent on him.

you’re pretty sure you fell asleep the moment you were wrapped in a warm towel, pulled into the strong embrace of his meaty arms, but something he said moments beforehand had stuck with you.

“hey,” he whispered, soapy hand turning you to face him. he leaned in and kissed the area between your brows. “i’ll be better this time.”

“you promise?” you mumbled. your head fell atop your knees, arms wrapped around your legs and keeping them close to your body.

your extended pinky finger made him chuckle a bit, and he quickly looped his own around yours. solidifying his words. “promise.”

[moondirti]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

[sweetnothingtm]

every man gets his wish // simon riley

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ "i learned how to make love from the movies" ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

pairing simon x fem!reader

content pure unadulterated smut, maybe a daddy kink?

summary the one where ghost is obsessed w a camgirl

note based off my drabble, thank you for the love ♡ lmk if you want a part twooo

There’s a special place in hell for people like Simon Riley.

He could’ve gone to heaven - but he won’t.

Simon has vices. He has anger issues, and he doesn’t like to share. He doesn’t take precautions, he’s cocky with his wallet and he most certainly doesn’t take orders from anyone.

He’s impulsive, abrasive, and most importantly - Simon Riley only thinks with his dick.

You’re the opposite of him. Careful, gentle and patient, you come across as bubbly and approachable. The sparkle in your eyes just never seemed to die, and an innocent smile is always playing at your lips. You seem to embody everything that Simon could never be.

Not that he would know - you’re just an eager camgirl with a big audience.

Every night, Simon Riley comes crawling to you like a stray dog. It wasn’t meant to be this way, so vile and naughty and delicious. He swore it would only happen once, and yet here he is, pining after the taste of you. He always finds himself with his cock in his hands, eyes rolling up to the ceiling and filthy curses slipping past his lips.

You’ve already started - much to his disappointment.

He’s usually so punctual. Never wasting your time. Always appreciative of the way your eyes sparkle with adoration when he joins the stream. Today was no different - he was just a little too eager and spent the last hour jerking off to the thought of you.

And he’s gonna do it again

The room is cast in a soft glow, your legs tucked beneath you and the soft hum of music playing in the background. Your soft skin is covered in red lingerie, pillowy tits covered by the lace that he bought.

It’s a damn shame - the way Simon can’t be there to take it off himself.

In contrast to the natural shine you give off, Simon is drowned out by the dark moonlight. His body casually leans back against the headboard, eyes trained on the illuminated screen that separates you from him. While he is adorned in shadows, you shine with the soft glow of your exposed skin.

Your lips, pulled into a little pout. Your delicate fingers, dipping between your plush thighs. The ebbs and flow of your body, curves and blemishes that he’s memorized like he owns you.

It’s quite pathetic, really - how infatuated he’s become with a camgirl. But he can’t help himself. He’s got all your videos saved in a folder that he opens at every opportunity.

He’s cum to you more times than he can count, always groaning as the hot ropes of white liquid splatter against his skin. He’d tip you relentlessly, always accompanied by a foreboding message that sent chills along your spine.

Missed you, princess. What a good girl. Finished so soon? What a beautiful little slut.

Your hands are wrapped around a little pink toy that you push between your thighs. It hums against your skin, causing Simon to angrily palm himself through his pants. The sickeningly sweet sound of your gasp has him reeling, cock already beginning to twitch and drip with precum.

His hand continues to palm at it, ignoring the little stain that starts to form on his pants as you continue to stimulate yourself. You gently part your thighs, hair framing your face as you give him - yes, him - a little preview of his deepest desires.

You’re already wet, and he curses himself for being late today. Simon is memorizing the little bow on your panties, the way you push the vibrator against the soft fabric and let your little plump lips part for a moan.

He’s got a toothy grin, rubbing at the tip of his cock and imagining that it’s your delicate hands struggling to wrap around him.

You’d blink up at him with full and eager eyes, lip pulled between your teeth. You’d gently unzip his pants, fingernails dragging against his skin and causing his dick to perk up. He’d rub the pad of his thumb against your cheek, a nasty smirk plastered across his face.

Simon imagines that your tongue would give gentle licks against his irritated tip, that you’d hollow out your cheeks and suck him off until his cum is coating your throat. He would continue to lazily fuck your mouth, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes as you hummed against his cock.

The sound of your little gasps pulls him from the daydream, eyes sharply trained on the screen as you pull your panties to the side and rub the vibrator against your clit. Your chest is pressed outwards, nipples hard against the red lace that separates him from you.

Before he can stop himself, with his cock twitching underneath his touch and thumb rubbing softly over his tip, he absently clicks on the keyboard. It’s a good thing he’s got his card number memorized.

$250 from Ghost_Stalker

-smile pretty for me, princess.

You pause your movement, vibrator stuck between your folds as you writhe and twitch against it. You squint your eyes, rolling over the message once. Twice. Three times before a smile is tugging at your lips. A hand comes up to squeeze your tit, fingernails dragging against the lace as you lean into the camera and smile sweetly.

“hi ghost - i missed you.”

His belt hits the floor before you finish your sentence.

Your voice is thick like honey, laced with desire that Simon is convinced was meant just for him. The vibrator begins to move again, pressing into your wet core with a little squelch as you mewl out in pleasure.

He follows your pace, eyes fixated on the pink toy that dips in and out of your little pussy. It stretches you, pushing against your folds and humming against you.

Simon is messily jerking himself off as you roll your hips against the vibrator, letting soft pleas fall from your lips. He spits on the tip of his cock, palm rubbing it against his shaft as he grunts happily. The slick and lazy strokes mirror the way you rub the vibrator greedily against your clit, thighs parting like the gates of heaven.

He wants in.

When you pull the toy away from you, the sound of your dripping cunt follows along with it. You wiggle closer to the camera, eyes blown out with pleasure as you press the pink toy into your mouth and lick. Tongue sloppy, eyes rolling in ecstasy and hips bucking against the pillow underneath you.

$300 from Ghost_Stalker

-i missed you more princess. missed your pretty little pussy.

“prove it,” you challenge.

His head slams against the back of the chair, cock covered in his spit as the sounds of your soft laughter that plays from his screen. He bucks his hips up with his movements, imagining that your body is curled around him and bouncing on his lap.

Your nails would drag against his skin, leaving harsh red lines in their wake as he’d let his hand fly to your ass with a sickening smack.

You’d jump, grinding your mound into him with desperation as your perky tits rub against his chest. Simon imagines himself nipping, licking and biting at them, his dick throbbing at the way you’d drool out his name.

In his dreams, you’re an obedient little slut. Ever a tease, you’d bounce on his dick one minute and beg for a kiss the next. He’d wrap his hand around your throat, choking you until you’re seeing stars and begging him for more.

You’re chatting away with sleazy men who can’t afford you, and it makes Simon enraged. It’s him who matters. It’s him who should have your attention. It’s him who you should open your legs for. His stroking gets aggressive, jaw set and hardened as you blow kisses and make false promises. Simon is rubbing himself raw, his free hand going to cup his balls and gently squeeze.

And then someone asks you where you got your cute little outfit. And like the vixen you are, you smile sweetly into the camera and push your tits together.

“Oh? these? they were a gift from someone special.”

And it’s true. He’s your favorite. He’s the one who you’re dreaming of - and it’s embarrassing to pine after a man you’ve never met. But it’s washed away by the burning desire to please him. Only him.

He’s trying so hard to hang on. To regain some sense of normalcy as his dick continues to twitch and warmth spreads throughout his body like an inferno. His eyes are trained on your curves, the way you’ve got a smile lighting your face up as your hips grind into the soft pillow below you. He’s slapping the tip of his dick against his abdomen, letting the beads of precum splat against his skin and forever stain him a sinner.

Here he goes again, thinking with his dick.

$500 from Ghost_Stalker

-put on a good show for daddy.

And you do. The red lace has been slipped off of you, tossed to the side as you reach over and off the screen to grab something. A perfect angle of your tits in full view. Simon follows every movement. He licks his lips in anticipation, stomach heavy with desire.

You sheepishly pull the dildo out, smacking it against your outstretched tongue and dipping a hand between your legs. Dripping, wet beyond comprehension and Simon is lucky enough to watch as you curl your fingers inside your pussy and mewl.

His hips are rutting up, hand fisting his cock in desperation as you suck on the dildo while fingerfucking yourself. His chest is tight, sweat glistening against his skin while he watches intensely. So fucking wet.

You hope he’s watching. You’re praying that he’s jerking off to the sight of you. That you’re both staring up at the ceiling, eyes searching for the constellations that brought you together when the stars aligned.

Is it wrong? To want something that you’ve never known?

Simon can tell you’re becoming undone. You always get riled up with his words, eyes full of excitement as he showers you with attention every stream. In his fantasy, Simon thinks you wished that your delicate fingers were his. That you wanted him to slowly rub at your bud of nerves and press his fingers into your cunt. And then he’d have you sit on his cock and make him watch as he licked his fingers clean.

He can’t help himself when you’re like this, messy and needy on screen with your wet pussy smearing against the pillow that he wishes was his face. You’re whining and panting, fingers dipping in and out of your core as Simon picks up the pace and lets the heat travel up his skin and light him ablaze. Your voice is music to his ears.

“i’m so close- fuck. please, i- gonna cum.”

When you climax, your chest is heaving and a layer of sweat has covered your soft skin. Your hands are dancing across your soft tits, twisting at your hardened nipples that all but scream bite me. He’s smearing more spit all over himself, breath coming out in short pants and eyes dark and heavy.

The dildo rests against your folds, almost as if it’s taunting him. And so what if he blows all him money in one night? It’s going to a good cause - at least, that’s what he’s convinced himself.

$2500 from Ghost_Stalker

-again.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth at the message, ignoring the chat as it blows up at the extra show. You’re already eager, smacking the tip of the dildo against your folds and rolling your hips upwards.

“a little desperate tonight? i don’t mind - anything for daddy”

It takes everything in him not to cum right then and there. Simon feels like he’s died and been reborn. Like a siren has sung him to a peaceful sleep. Like the explanations for his bank statements are worth it. And when you press the tip of the toy into your dripping wet hole, it feels like Simon can practically smell your sickeningly sweet pussy.

He thinks it smells like candy.

You wince at every inch of silicone that slides into you. Your thighs are trembling, an arm propping yourself up as you whine and mewl like his favorite little kitten. The camera is shaking from your movements, head hung back in ecstasy as you bottom out the dildo and sigh happily.

Such a dirty slut, Simon muses. So nasty. At this point, his strokes are quick and methodical. Tugging at his tip that’s still producing precum, almost as if it’s desperate for release. His balls ache, his eyebrows are knitted in concentration and his abs are tight with anticipation.

“m’ so wet,” you gasp, the sounds of your pussy flitting against the dildo playing on repeat in Simon’s mind. Your thighs are spread fully, and your pillowy tits are jiggling with the movement of you fucking yourself. “are you watching?”

There’s a frenzy in the chat, a hundred eager men thinking that your words are meant for them. You raise yourself to your knees, angling to toy to press against your folds as you bite your lip. “i bet you are. guess what?” You breathe, eyes twinkling with mischief. “i wish you were here.”

Oh, how wrong they were.

He's close. The edge that he’s built is about to fall beneath him, collapse into a million pieces while you get drunk off the way the dildo slips in and out of you. Your eyes are squeezed shut and your chest is heaving, lungs struggling to take in air as you climb that high once more.

You whine and beg to yourself. Simon curses and lets his hips snap up against his stroking. His cock is unbearably hard, skin tingling with the sensation of pure lust that consumes him. You bounce and grind on the dildo with need, hair falling back against your bare shoulders as Simon drinks in every ounce of you.

Legs shaking, tits bouncing and hands coming up to play with your nipples, you look like a goddess. He’s never been so entranced, so enthralled and so obsessed. The way your nails dig into your skin, squeals of pleasure ripping through your stomach as you cum around the toy. You roll your hips greedily, savoring the orgasm and rubbing quick circles against your clit.

It’s all that it takes to have him squeezing the tip of his cock and shooting hot cum all over his stomach. It’s shameful, pathetic and downright heavenly. He promises that he’ll never cum to anyone but you.

The overstimulation has you reeling, chest heaving and eyes watering in excitement as a wave of pure bliss is crashing against you. The chat is singing praises to you, falling on deaf ears as you lazily still your hips and lean forward - dildo still firmly shoved in your pussy.

“are you satisfied?” You ask innocently. No, never. You don’t say his screen name, but it doesn’t matter, he knows it’s him you’re talking to. He knows by the way you slide off the toy, hair sticking to your skin as you slip on the red lace as a sign that the shows coming to an end. He knows by the way you dip your fingers between your wet folds, gathering the sticky cum around your digits - before you lick it off them like such a good girl.

He has to have you.

$5000 from Ghost_Stalker

-i’ll double it if you do it again

[lunarw0rks]

i’ve never seen anybody write for simon riley better than u 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 can i request him + manhandling idc if it’s headcanons drabble ANYTHINGGGG ur writing is just too good

A/N: thank you so much, I'm always doubtful about my characterization lowkey, so this means a lot <3 I think about manhandling!ghost several times daily.

Summary: Ghost manhandles you.

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), strong language, smut, rough sex, manhandling, p in v sex, fingering, size kink, creampie, established relationship, fem!reader, no use of y/n

Word Count: 2.3k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ ao3 ver.

Manhandling // Drabble

With Simon’s rough and rugged line of work, the last thing he wants to do is exert himself even more, especially at his partner’s expense…

… Right?

Well, that’s not always the case.

Sometimes, he can’t help himself; his full strength is used on them with ease, the shock of it all. The power of his large, calloused hands and bulging biceps. And most underrated, his toned thighs, the force of his knees to pin a squirming hostile.

IT STARTS SLOWLY; the things you’re used to, like a grab of the jaw or a slight tug of the hair, all verbatim of what his hands normally do during foreplay. The first time he wanted to be rough, to manhandle, he told you beforehand. Since it’s such a rarity for him, why not use the element of surprise? The hand on your jaw, the scalp grip, the lack of words in between kisses, you’re just expecting his routine intimacy. But then… it felt different—abrasive.

Your back finds the wall or the back of the couch, his hold caging you there—not that you have a choice, or care to at this point. That other side of him can be so… exciting to see after months of him teaching you like your body is glass bound to shatter.

❝Keep your hands there, dammit, or stay fuckin’ still,❞ the grumble catches your attention because you hadn’t realized how much his digging fingers were making you squirm, all before they even reached anywhere remotely sensitive. In return, your hands remain on his waist, holding onto the fabric of his tee for dear life.

In truth, you’re too intrigued to disobey, and it’s abundantly clear that this side of him had the ability to make this experience tortuous.

NOT GOOD ENOUGH; No, not you—the couch isn’t good enough. In one swift motion, you’re over hiked over his shoulder like a wounded soldier. Only, his supporting hand is gripping your rear and not the legs of a maimed person, as he’d been trained. The shriek you let out, charms him, to say the least, not that his expression would show much of it. Your view is of the curves of his back, head bouncing against it as he takes calculated strides up the steps, as if there isn’t the weight of a grown person literally on his shoulder.

You hear the hinges screech, the same way they do even when you try to open the door quietly, but it’s clear that’s not a concern of his right now because it shuts and locks just as quickly. A tedious habit of his, even when not engaging in intimacy, even when he sweeps the house before bed every night.

Your back hits the mattress with a few bounces because you’ve been tossed. The small gasp you let out, it’s nothing compared to the resonant, growling chuckle that escapes him.

❝Don’t be a prude now.❞ The humor ends when he speaks. ❝I saw the way you were lookin’ at me… you’re enjoying this.❞

His fist finds the t-shirt you’re wearing, one of his, thrusting it upwards and over your head. It’s like your body is moving for you, how you raised your arms when he removed the shirt, but in your head it’s only a thick fog of lust.

NO TIME TO PREPARE; Simon knows his size, and he’s well aware of how harsh he is. He’s not a barbarian—a little foreplay is the humane thing to do.

His tongue is too intimate, and caressing your figure is too slow. After a few seconds of contemplation concealed by his lips on yours, he’s come to a decision. Hands, it is. Similar to the shirt, he nearly shreds the bottoms. With this cloud of his aggressiveness, he’d shred any clothing in his way. There was no time to tease, either. The sooner he can bottom out inside you, the sooner his frustrations will fizzle.

You’re clothless now, aside from the panties, though they were ripped off before you could catch up. ❝Simon,❞ he doesn’t raise his head, but the hooded stare is enough to shut you up. It was more of a moan than an alert, like you were already void of your full articulation.

If you really wanted to stop, for him to slow down, you wouldn’t be grinding your hips against his fingers.

Simon was only rubbing your inner thighs and you’d already said his name once, so imagine his amusement when he runs his thumb along your clit.

He has to stop himself; he’s not there to massage it like he normally would, he’s down there to prepare you for his size. Though, the hypothetical sight of you circling it yourself while he pumps his fingers, it would be enough to make him finish in his jeans.

Whether you do or not is up to you, it’s your body about to be misused, not his.

His head moves from hovering over your sex, to back over you, only he’s nipping at your cleavage and not your upper lips. There’s no warning; you feel it before you can beg for anything. His middle and ring finger, easing its way in, before he wastes no time curling them against your walls.

Still, with one hand occupied, his strength prevails. The unoccupied one is on your shoulder, keeping you pinned so only your hips have any range of movement. ❝Already a mess for me.❞ His mouth is slightly agape, like he wanted it there instead of his fingers. It was true—the methodical, sticky noise, especially when he went faster and it gathered more on the area. After only a minute of this, it had dripped down the length of his fingers, already a small pool on his charcoal gray sheets.

IMPATIENCE; sure, you could try and fight his grip, but you’re only tiring yourself out more. It didn’t matter how much you wanted to touch him, to do something other than lay there and writhe—good luck. He had already pictured this, when he was kissing you downstairs, what position he was going to put you in. Hips controlled, hands free; the opposite of the one he just fingered you in.

Lucky, or unlucky for you, he was aching for release.

His fingers, once pumping in and out of you, removed just as quickly. With skill, he unbuckled his belt and was left in his boxers and t-shirt—eyes commanding, watching you ache for him impatiently. It was almost humorous, him being in charge and hasty, but you’re the one clenching around nothing.

Simon was never one for conversations, and he sure as hell wasn’t now—not when his cock sprang out of his boxers, throbbing and athirst. The tip of it, already slick with pre-cum was futile against the amount of wetness already soaking your core. At least he knew he wasn’t going to break you entirely, only immobilize you for a few hours at most—the thought of that only encouraged his ravishment.

IRON GRIP; for only a few seconds, one hand is on his length, lining it up. He groans lowly, a string of curses escaping his lips when he slips in with ease. The stretch alone could make him finish, how his size is crammed in, despite the warm-up he gave you with his fingers. But it’s not a slow entrance, it’s deep and forceful, so satisfying he would go forever if he could. ❝So fuckin’ tight,❞ he says, yanking your body towards his length, as opposed to using his own hips to pump himself. But that isn’t enough—you’re moving around too much, you can’t help it, he fills you so well.

Rather than harsh words, another command telling you to stop moving, he uses his strength again. For a second, he debated on putting your own panties in your mouth, maybe a hand there instead, but he wanted to hear every desperate exclamation increase the more he used you.

Before, he was only being rough, and it was nothing compared to how ferocious he’s being now. Both hands find your hips, lifting them off the bed, thrusting your weight on his length with all his force. Shoulder blades and above are still on the mattress, while the bottom half of you is lifted. The angle of it, how he’s lifting you, he’s hitting spots so deep inside—so rarely stimulated. And he’s hitting it with such force, a constant, repetitive pound kissing your g-spot. ❝Take it all for me.❞ As if you have a choice in the matter, he’s already bottomed out.

Even if he wasn’t finding that unparalleled spot, the sight of his eyes half-open, the grunts that sound like growls, even just the pure feeling of him inside you would be enough. From his perspective, it’s just as arousing; the mouth agape, your back stuck in an arch, how you pulse around him with each thrust, the sticky mess coating his cock and lubricating his forceful jerks.

FINISH ME; his movements have gone from calculated to sloppy, but the speed has only decreased a thread. The sound of skin meeting skin, each grind of his hips followed by the sound of your wetness, it’s inching him closer to his finish. And you, that spot deep inside you abused and built up in your abdomen like a funnel cloud—it wouldn’t be long now, not while he’s drilling you.

When he’s hitting that spot, there’s no need to press down on your stomach, to stimulate the clit that’s been throbbing this whole time. It’s like ecstasy, making your eyes roll slightly, each muscle from your pelvis to your toes tighten and tremble. If it weren’t for his large hands holding up your hips, there’s no way your legs would’ve been able to support themselves, and they sure as hell won’t be able to after he’s done.

❝Be good ‘nd cum for me,❞ his chest heaves only slightly, fingertips leaving marks where they’ve been digging for minutes straight. It’s more of a beg than he lets on, because if you keep whining like that, he’s going to finish before you. But you’re so close; he’s seen it several times now—the babbling, the shivering, the pleading under your breath—as if he’s going to stop now.

Within seconds of his relentless movements, the arousal his voice gave you, you were there, dissolving into the pleasure building brick by brick for minutes now. It comes like a sledgehammer, leaving you shaking against him while a string of reaction phrases breath through your lips. ❝There it is…❞ A small chuckle leaves his lips, but you’re too lost to notice.

He’s slowed only a little bit, as if to hold off his own release until yours has finished. He can’t be too distracted and miss it, otherwise he’d just have to start all over again—in his mind, he’s unsure you could even handle that, the sheer size and force he would use to do that.

The feeling ripples through you, his thrusts only magnifying it for you. Your hands find anything they can, first a futile attempt to reach him, but the angle makes it difficult. Then, the sheets you could’ve ripped from the mattress if you tried. Without any of your own control, you’ve tightened and pulsed around his cock repeatedly, so much it would’ve been difficult for him to keep moving if you weren’t so drenched by now. You could swear everything muffled for a few seconds, and if your eyes hadn’t tightened shut, there probably would’ve been black spots.

For him, the sight of it was something he would never pass up; downright sexy for him to watch, motivating his own climax to the point of no control anymore. The bulge of his cock visible on your stomach, he can see himself twitch. When he’d once been thrusting your hips onto him, he had stopped now, his own hips tensing as his head leans back slightly.

❝Fuck.❞ It’s a simple phrase, but his heavy breathing clouding the words says enough. Still, your hips are raised and at his mercy, shivering until he decides he’s done. His abs tightened a few times, spilling every last drop deep inside. He can’t help himself, he sneaks in a few slow thrusts afterward, savoring the feeling of your pillowy walls clenched around him—only until he knows he won’t hold back if he doesn’t pull out this instant.

AFTERMATH; his thumb traces your hips in a soothing manner, letting them down slowly until you’re resting on the mattress again. ❝Shouldn’t have let me do that, or I’ll want to do it again next time.❞ He lets out a deep snigger, pulling himself out slowly. He finds the waistband of his boxers, pulling them up to a normal position again. Then, he finds the throw blanket that ended up tossed onto the dresser, an action he must’ve done in the heat of it, due to his lack of memory.

❝Do what? Make me finish?❞ you ask, breathless and flushed. The quilt is draped over your shivering frame, like an unnecessary apology for the abuse. It seemed no matter how many times you insisted he could be rough, or how many times he was, he fussed over you.

When your tone came out slightly snarky, cocky even, he scoffed. His mind flooded with those images again, biting on his bottom lip with every ounce of his restraint. ❝Don’t get cute with me, love, that’s not what I meant.❞ His menacing nature would once send a chill down your spine, but after that, you’re hoping he’ll do it again, despite the ache in your muscles.

He finally finishes his sentence once he’s leaned in for another kiss, breath on your ever-gasping lips, ❝I’ll always make you finish.❞

[kechiwrites]

what’s in a name?

simon “ghost” riley x medic!reader

synopsis: ‘It’s not his fault.’ He reasons. ‘It’s not his fault you’re a brat.’ 

wc: 1.1k

cw:  fem!reader, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, teasing, dirty talk, light brat taming, spanking, pet names (princess, darling), no use of y/n ever.

an: yes, i know i should be posting kinktober IN NOVEMBER, but my god does this man make me wanna [redacted] his [data expunged]. enjoy!

He’s your most stubborn patient, in fact, his entire squad is a pain in your ass, but Ghost takes the cake. Always grunting and scoffing as you administer care, as if this is all a frivolity and not you saving him from gangrene or tetanus or whatever other peril has found its way into his blood that week. And that’s if he even deigns to be seen to at all.

It’s another one of those days, marshalled out of your bed at the crack of dawn because there are wounds to dress and blood to take. It makes you irritable, just short of bitchy really, and you’ll be damned if you have to work this early in the morning for a couple of jarheads who can barely string together decent conversation.

Ghost is the first person you see. Naturally. And it’s much of the same. Groans and impatient huffs while you snip gauze and sanitize abrasions. It’s rapidly turning you from irate to downright incensed.

“What’s your name anyway?” You murmur, while you fold up his shirt sleeve, baring a muscled, veiny forearm, covered in ink and dried blood, courtesy of a deep gash that’d only ceased bleeding thanks to a field tourniquet applied in the nick of time.

“No.” He mutters. As if that’s an answer. You scoff, turning in your swivel chair to grab more cotton wool from your desk. When you return he has you pinned with what little of his face you can see, dark, long lashed eyes peering out from the mask and face paint. As though he can see through you.

"You can tell me your actual name, or you can bleed out." It’s unnecessary, really. Probably even dangerous to ask, but it’s always bothered you that his medical record has those black marks where a Christian name should be. And you’re nosy. Nosy enough to pry it out of the soldier himself.

You stare at each other, neither daring to back down. Your threat is horse shit and you both know it, you're obligated to give the best care possible. He could wait you out. If he wanted to.

Apparently, he doesn’t want to.

"Simon."

You give him a smile in return, cartoonishly big and saccharine sweet. You begin cleaning the wound, humming happily with yourself. Satisfied.

For the next two months, it's relentless. Everytime he sees you, it's;

"And do you know your blood type, Simon?"

"It's lovely to see you again Simon."

"There are easier ways to stop bleeding, Simon."

It irks him, makes his skin feel like it's not sitting right. Makes him feel like his teeth are stopping his tongue from laying in his mouth comfortably. Makes his blood hum in his veins.

Eventually it's too much.

"Would you come off it?" He asks, voice rougher than he means it to be, but maybe that's what you need to end this little joke of yours.

You keep reading the charts on the clipboard in your hand, as if he hasn't spoken at all.

"Come off what, Simon?" You purse your lips at whatever you're reading, but he suspects you’re trying not to laugh.

"Saying my name like that." He flexes open the fingers of one hand, keeping the other balled in a fist on his thigh.

"Like what?" You finally look at him, head tilted to the side, the picture of innocence.

What a lark.

"Like you want something from me." He stands, looming above you, jostling himself into your personal space.

"It's your name." Now you are smiling, a confident, amused thing that transforms the look of your face, makes him forget the bags under your eyes and the familiar bone-tiredness of his body when it’s been pushed too far.

And these days, it’s always too far.

“We have code names for a reason, darling.”

“Darling? I was beginning to think my name was ‘Ugh’.” You drop the timbre of your voice to mimic him, though he doesn’t look very flattered by the imitation. At least, that’s what you get from the very little of his face you can see.

“It’s Ghost from now on.” He ignores you. It’s necessary, really. To block out the things you say. The things you do. The songs you hum cheerfully when you do inventory, the way your medical uniform stretches over the curve of your ass when you need something from the bottom cabinet.

“Sure, Simon. Whatever you say.”

‘It’s not his fault.’ He reasons. ‘It’s not his fault you’re a brat.’

It’s not his fault when he pushes you over to the examination bed. It’s not his fault when he fists his hands in the waistband of your scrub bottoms and yanks them down, it’s not his fault you’re wearing a thong, for christ’s sake. It’s not his fault that you giggle and sigh and beg so goddamn pretty.

It’s certainly not his fault that your cunt feels like a fucking dream.

He takes you like you deserve for all the teasing, brings the weight of his hand down on your ass when you moan something that sounds suspiciously like “About time.” Ghost gropes at your tits while he has you bent in half, in for a penny, as they say. His fingers pull and flick at your nipples, and you wish he’d put his mouth on you, fucking anywhere, and you don’t care what it does, bite, suck, kiss, what-fucking-ever. When you say as much in between the gasps he fucks out of you, he responds immediately, voice subdued under his mask.

“Maybe next time.”

Your eyes nearly roll out of your head at the idea of next time.

When you come it feels like your pussy is buzzing, stretched over the length of his dick and he tunnels into you, fucking into you deep before he grinds the head of cock into you, scrambling any thought you could’ve had.

It’s a battle for him to not come inside you, to resist covering the sweet, soft walls of your cunt in his seed, but he prides himself on what little control he has left, and pulls out, doing you a favour by letting his come shoot onto the floor rather than stain the baby blue fabric of your scrubs.

"Now, I think we can both agree to you saving that name for when you want me to spread you open, yes?" His voice is gruffer somehow, covering your overheated skin in the rasp and cadence of it.

"Fuck off." You moan miserably in response, your forehead sticking to the paper covering the examination bed below you.

"I want an affirmative, princess."

"Yes." You hiss from between your teeth, your head still spinning from your orgasm. “Yes, Ghost, I agree.”

“That’s better. Don’t worry about getting up.” He pats your exposed lower back, and when his hand withdraws you can hear him zip his fatigues back up. “I’ll see myself out.”

endotes: hehe...i love him. my mask kink is in full effect y’all. support content creators + city girls, reblog. find part 2 here. 

[meowmeowriley]

@sergeantwoods Sorry for the long wait, but here's the mer!AU

Think I'll call it Fish Out of the Sea

Ghost x Soap, blacktip reef shark mer!Soap, human Ghost, fluff, getting together (kinda)

Ficlet after the cut 😘

"No."

John sighed, he didn't seem surprised by Shepherd's hard rejection, but he kept trying. Simon had to give props to the fishing boat Captain. "You have the best mer rehabilitation facility in the country. It'd be a shame not to use it."

"You said you had a mermaid. That's not a fucking mermaid, John."

"I said I had an injured mer." He repeated himself from their earlier conversation.

"I'm not taking that thing into my facility."

"He needs help-"

"He's hideous, and aggressive." Shepherd barked. "That thing keeps lashing out, it'll scare patrons, attack my staff, and if that *thing* touches my mermaids, tries to mate with them, I'll have it put down."

"Mers are actually matriarchal, sir." The mer expert, Kyle, finally spoke up. "I've never worked with a shark mer before, but I do know he won't mess with Kate or Rosa, because they won't want him. Since they're together."

"Kyle. For the last time, the mermaids aren't lesbians. They're just fish." Shepherd was one of those who thought of mers as lesser than humans. Obviously.

Simon was standing near the door. No one had noticed him sneak in, but when he'd overheard that the mer was a shark variant, he'd needed to see it. Now, seeing the poor thing huddled in the corner of it's transport tank, curled in on itself, he felt so bad for it. He watched, any time someone went near it it flared out it's dorsal and pectoral fins. It would gnash it's teeth and charge the glass. All signs of aggression in a shark but... as soon as it finished its display it was right back to the furthest corner from the humans. It kept peeking at them over it's own shoulder when it thought they weren't looking. He quietly crept closer.

He took in it's markings, gray on it's back, white on its belly, black tips to it's fins. Claspers on its pelvic fins. A male blacktip reef shark then. His inferior end was all shark, something Simon was very familiar with, as he took care of all of the sharks here at the aquarium, several of them blacktips. His superior end, or top half, he supposed a visitor would (incorrectly) consider it, was new and interesting to him. Though he was vaguely humanoid, his skin was all two tones white and gray, like his tail. He had a wedge shaped snout in place of a human nose, a wider mouth with jagged teeth. Slitted eyes, and a black tipped fin atop his head that reminded Simon of a mohawk. Webbed gray and white hands with black claws rubbed up and down it's own arms in a self soothing gesture. One forearm had an odd angle to it, probably the injury that landed him here.

He retreated from the tank quietly before speaking, interrupting the squabbling of the other men. "He looks like a reef shark to me." Everyone else jumped. "Blacktip reef sharks aren't aggressive. Sure they can get a little iffy during feeding, but they're more curious than anything."

"He's been charging the glass, Ghost." Simon managed to suppress his eye roll at Shepherd's nickname for him. They all called him that here. "Fuck you mean 'not aggressive', you don't know mers."

"No, but I know sharks. He's injured, and defensive. You ever think he doesn't like us because it was something shaped like us that broke his arm?" John winced, he obviously felt bad about it. Not like he could've know he'd caught the mer in his net, but it was nice to see some accountability from a fisherman for once.

"Well we can't communicate with him, so he'll stay scared and defensive." If Simon didn't love the sharks, he would've left this place a long time ago because Shepherd was an absolutely abrasive cunt.

"Kate and Rosa can. And their English is excellent." Kyle spoke up again. "We have them pass on the message of our intentions, and Ghost and I tag team his rehabilitation." Of course he uses the dumb nickname too. "It's the perfect plan! And an incredible opportunity to be one of two aquariums to actually work with a shark mer. The novelty of something so rare will bring in patrons." Kyle was really leaning into Shepherd's true interests here, bringing up money.

Shepherd was quiet for a moment and then, "If anything happens, you're both fired." He then stormed out of the room.

"Thanks, Gaz."

"Of course, Cap."

Now the three of them had to get the shark mer into an appropriate tank.

***

They had initially tried to put him in with the other mers, but he'd seen the sharks in the tank across the hall and told Kate he wanted to be with his own kind. That would make Simon's job easier, anyway. Kate had explained that they needed to put a cast on his arm, and Rosa had wrestled it onto him, since the humans couldn't get too close. They decided to name him John, after Captain Price, calling him Johnny affectionately. Gaz explained to Ghost that part of rehabbing Johnny would be gaining his trust, teach him to communicate. To release him without a way to communicate could lead to him attacking humans and being a problem down the road.

Simon had a plan: ignore him. He was a reef shark, his own curiosity would get him to open up. It took a week.

Simon would feed his sharks from a catwalk above their tank, for safety reasons, dropping their food in in the mornings before they opened their doors. No need to scare any children. For the first week, any time he passed by, Johnny would posture aggressively and gnash his teeth, before snatching up his food and swimming off. When Ghost would gear up and go in the water for his evening shows, Johnny stayed far away. At night, Gaz and his mers would move over and Ghost would mostly just observe as the girls tried to teach Johnny how to speak, and he petulantly ignored them, with a little pout on his face as he refused to even make eye contact with them. It was cute.

The first time he tried to speak was also the first time Simon saw him raise his head above the surface. He seemed frantic. "HAAAH!" He startled a bit at what was most likely the first time he ever used his lungs to breath air. "HAAAAH! AH! YAAH!" he was waving with his good arm. Stretching it out towards the platform between his tank and that of the other mers, thrashing his tail with his fins tucked in. Very distressed. Simon went to check, to see what could possibly be bothering him so much, when he found their elusive fourth mer. Simon had only seen Gary once. Gaz called him Roach, because he hid in the tiniest cracks in the reef in their enclosure, why on earth the isopod mer was on the platform, and not in the water, was beyond him, but he couldn't let the poor thing suffer. He had several of his little legs caught in a grate. Simon spent some time disentangle him. He tossed the infant sized mer into the nearest tank, which happened to be the shark tank, with Johnny. The larger mer immediately dove to catch him. He stroked Roach's antennae back like one would the hair of a small child, a soothing motion. Clearly not as much of a loner as he pretended to be. From then on the little isopod mer could be found clinging to Johnny's sides or fins with his many little periopods more often than not. After that, it seemed that Gary encouraged Johnny's more curious side. The mer's language was mostly outside of the human range of hearing, but Simon occasionally caught clicks, whistles or hums shared between the two.

Simon had left a bucket with soap close to the edge once, the two mers were clearly curious about it, but he didn't think anything would come of it. Which is why it was such a surprise when Johnny stuck a webbed hand in and scooped some out, popping it immediately into his mouth. Simon knew it wasn't enough to harm him, which is why he couldn't help but laugh at the poor creatures misfortune as it sputtered and writhed, making bubbles. While laughing he let his guard down, and was surprised when something struck him, knocking him off the catwalk and into the tank. He opened his eyes and looked around, seeing only Roach, floating downward, listing side to side, tiny head in his tiny hands. He surfaced to see Johnny. "Did you just throw him at me?!" Johnny sunk down so only his eyes and cranial fin were above the water. The little shit. "Not cool, Soap!" He forced his palm out towards the mer, sending a spray of water its way. That seemed to really break down the mer's walls.

Johnny started approaching while Simon would try and clean the tank. At first, darting away if Simon caught sight of him. Eventually however, he would get closer and simply observe. He'd watch Simon work at cleaning the glass or vacuuming the sand at the bottom. It was fun to see shark behavior and mer behavior collide. If Simon sat something down, Johnny would pick it up, and without a doubt if he could get it in his hands, it would end up in his mouth.

There was a small crowd, a child's birthday party had been held over by Gaz's mer tank, the girls were always a hit with the kids, and the little show they put on with Gaz was actually pretty funny. They'd harass him as he pretended to try and do his chores. Slapstick comedy was good for all ages.

Simon had his own show with his sharks, but it wasn't for a few more hours. He was actually just trying to clean. Apparently his cleaning sponge had caught Johnny's attention, as the mer had swam up and was watching him intently. He kept inching forward, eventually crowding Simon against the glass while reaching for his sponge. "Oi!" He said into his respirator, not that anyone could hear him. He shoved Johnny away and kept trying to cleaning, but the persistent bastard just kept coming back. He could vaguely see the crowd observing them through the glass. They were probably laughing. When he'd had enough, he got an idea. He turned when Johnny got close again and placed one hand on his dorsal fin and the other on the underside of his snout. He began to rub at the sensitive underside of the mer's snout, and just like his sharks, the mer entered a state of tonic immobility. He repositioned Johnny, nose down tail to the surface, Johnny's arms hung limply down past his head. Simon quickly withdrew his hands and watched as the mer continued to float for a bit, before blinking vigorously. He shook his head before righting himself, and slapped his tail into Simon's chest as he practically fled to his little cave at the other end of the tank. When he surfaced later, Gaz informed him that the kids were raving about how cool the 'shark guys' were.

Simon had to admit that Johnny was growing on him. He looked forward to seeing him each day. Johnny began trying to get Simon to swim with him. He'd grab Simon's arms and try to pull him into the water when he was on land, or he'd push Simon away from the glass and his cleaning supplies, towards the open water. Sometimes Simon would indulge him, and the two of them would make laps around the tank.

Simon realized, when Johnny began posturing towards the sharks and getting territorial about him towards them, that Johnny was attempting to court him. Worse, he couldn't bring himself to try and put an end to the behavior either. Johnny was getting touchy, he'd run his hands along Simon's sides or chest, in much the same way Simon would to per his sharks, but it felt different. He would push Simon until he floated horizontally in the water, then drape himself across the man.

Simon knew he was getting himself into some deep shit, but he couldn't help the small voice in the back of his head that urged him to reach out, to cradle the mer's rubbery cheeks in his hands. He wanted to kiss him. He was fucked.

***

I hope you liked it! Ngl, I really liked this one. If you don't mind, I might expand on this and make it a multi-chapter fic over on AO3? I wanna explore more of society's reaction to mers, specifically interspersed relationships and where this could go. Let me know what you think, and thanks for the idea!

[duck-a-doodle]

[Slaps beak.] This duck can write some serious fluff.

MY MASTERLIST

A/N: I tend to not include gender or race in my writings for a more immersive experience. Anything that is unhighlighted or is without a link suggests that the fanfiction is still in the works. Stay tuned for more! :-)

CALL OF DUTY

General Headcanons

Soft Intimacy — TF141 / König / Los Vaqueros

| What intimacy looks like with the COD boys.

Tactical Cuddle Bug — TF141 [ 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 ]

| The most serious member of the 141 is secretly a very affectionate person.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

The Rumoured Casper's Honey Bee [ 1 / 2 ]

| Simon "Ghost" Riley, who has grown accustomed to you, wants your medical attention and his regular checkup.

X-MEN

Wolverine / James 'Logan' Howlett

Cohiba de la Mente

| You disliked Logan for a good number of reasons. He was brash, abrasive and quick to bite the lure — and for the first time as a counsellor of the school, you took the bait.

Heart on the Sleeve, Love for the Beast

| Your generally affectionate nature, which has earned yourself the nickname 'Teddy', lures the attention of a certain hard-headed man.

Kitty Cats Don't Grow Mutton Chops

| A tale in which Howlett dishes what he cannot handle.

Мой Котëнок

| Logan Howlett spoke more languages than you realised, and horror dawns upon you as you realise it meant he understood everything.

Grouchy with a Side of Sweetness

| Logan has the funniest ways of showing that he cares.

SPIDER-VERSE

Miguel O'hara

Professions Unto the Masquerade [PUTM]

| You were recruited for your ability to capture a Chameleon variant that was immune to all spiders' abilities. Except yours. Miguel inducts you into the team, but you know that the induction was but a formality for his other intentions with you.

[spectrerie]

Your Simon

Simon Riley x reader (gn I'm 99% sure)

TW: toxic!Simon, whump, captivity, psychological torture(?), kidnapping, yandere!Simon, maybe don't read this if you're only comfortable with fluff and light smut... even though there no smut in this (maybe I'll add an epilogue or sm idk)

Approx 2k words, random drabble. wrote this at 4 am, un-betad. Let's not nitpick, yeah? Cool.

Simon knew you were fragile, but he didn’t think you could be so easy to break. This was his third deployment since he’d met you. The third since he’d pulled you into his life. At first you’d been panicked, indignant and ungrateful. You didn’t understand the significance of his actions. Every detail meticulously planned out, every minute aspect of your stay without him accounted for. You just had to stop fighting him and start fighting for yourself. Fight to stay alive, just like him. He just wanted to share this with you, why wouldn’t you let him?

“Don’t worry, Love, I’ll be back in no time. You won’t even get a chance to miss me.” His hand stayed on the back of your head, fingers locked in your hair, holding your head up so you could look into his eyes. So you could watch him lie to you. You knew the routine well at this point. 

First the devil may care Ghost would ply you with cheeky taunts to smooth out your concern. His abrasiveness would wear you down, polish you into a reflection of himself. 

Despite yourself you began to cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. In the beginning it wasn’t him you had missed. It was the promise of regular meals, and fresh water. Baths. Heating. Freedom. Now he was the centre of your world. He was your everything. 

While he was deployed you didn’t know how long you’d be left to stew in your own sweat and the grime of the basement he’d thrown you in. The smell of dust and mold hung heavy in the air down here. Soon the smell of your body would join them creating a fetid blend that would stay in your nostrils for weeks after your release. If you lived that long. The single hanging bulb barely illuminating your surroundings, not that there was much to see.  

Gallons of water lined one of the walls, at least a dozen of them neatly tucked from one dusty corner to another. You’d count them in earnest when he left you. Your mind was to panicked now to begin the frantic calculations of how long you could stretch your supplies. Just in case. 

Two boxes of hardtack biscuits and cans of god only knew what were neatly pressed up against another.  At times you feared he’d been feeding you cat food. You’d opened cans of greying meat floating in gelatinous gravy, other times the cans contained some kind of soup. Either way you’d choke it down cold. 

A part of you loved it here, you felt closer to him. You were a soldier too. This is where you’d live or die. Your battlefield.

His hand left your head and he went to the centre of the room where a small metal cot with a thin mattress stood. No pillow or duvet, but at least he’d given you a thick itchy woollen blanket. Army surplus to complete your private barracks. You’d earned the cot after weeks of good behaviour, no crying, no useless begging, no disobedience. A luxurious upgrade from the sheets of cardboard he’d left you to sleep on during his previous deployments. You followed before he even turned to call you, taking a seat on the mattress. 

“Will you miss me, pet?” He asked, coaxing your chin up with a gloved finger. 

“Yes, of course” you said between sobs. He huffed out a humourless laugh, and stroked your head. 

He hardly had to grind you down anymore, soon Ghost gave way to Simon. The mask he wore over his soul fell away, leaving behind the raw and broken boy he’d been before he learnt being someone else was as easy as covering his face. Part two of your dance begun.

The tears you thought you’d controlled began to fall again, pouring out of your tired eyes as you looked up at him. Your protector and captor. The man who told you everyday he’d die without you, the same man who held your life in his hands. 

“Please, please, Si… don’t forget about me here. Please.” The last word came out as a choked sob as you pressed your face against his thighs. Begging him to let you go was useless. You knew the steps now. Let him lead you, let yourself need him. Let him have something to control, someone who wouldn’t disappoint him. Someone he didn’t have to pretend with, unless he wanted to. 

“All you have to do is survive, pet. Same as me.” He knelt down in front of you, dark eyes shining with a mania that told you he was past pleading with. “All we have to do is survive. Think of me while you’re fighting in here, yeah? And I’ll be thinking of you out there. You’ll think of me won’t you? Hmm?” 

You nodded. 

“So say it.” 

Gathering yourself, you pulled away from him, eye to eye it was easier to believe the words that tumbled out of your mouth. 

“I’ll be thinking of you Si, so please, please,” your voice began to quake with unshed tears, “please come back to me. I’ll die without you.” 

You knew he was smiling beneath his mask. His hands came up to cradle your head, his grip too tight to be anything but a reminder of the control he had over you. 

“Of course you would. We need each other, don’t we?” 

You nodded and said your well rehearsed line. “We love each other.”

He watched you weep for a while, and you knew a part of him felt sick with himself. If he returned, if you lived, he’d tell you as much when he came home. 

The realisation that this was your home hit harder down here, puling more tortured sobs out of you as he watched. You weren’t sure if the ragged breaths you heard were yours or his. 

“Simon, Simon” you chanted his name over and over as you cried, like a prayer to a long dead god. He stood above you, within reach. One touch and you’d know he was real. But you cried out his name, and he watched. Until watching became too much and the sound of his name was punctuated with the sound of his boots ascending the stairs. 

The sound of a key turning.

And then the silence. 

— — — 

You counted the days by litres of water, cold canned meals, and fitful slashes sleep. 

One of each a day. 

No cheating. 

You recited songs in your mind, the lyrics painted dark by the deep gravely voice of your thoughts. Simon’s voice. 

You imagined a life with Simon, a life different from this. Those dreams were all that kept you sane. If this was sanity. 

A life with sunshine and tenderness that didn’t have to be earned. With music and hot food, baths together. The warmth of his body against yours. Every dream began and ended with the sound of a key turning, the creak of the old cellar door, deep lungfuls of fresh air. 

After meals and before sleep you’d press your nose to the tiny blacked out window. Taking deep breaths of the English countryside before closing it again. Air when were awake, warmth when you slept. These rules and rituals were what kept you alive here. Hell was rolling green hills and cloudy skies. Hell had no one around for miles. Hell and home were two sides of the same coin.

The same countryside he’d offered to show you when you’d first began dating him. You recounted those first few dates with him often. Combing your mind for any sign of the man he’d turn out to be. 

It had been too soon for a weekend away, you told yourself this time and time again. Turning your captivity against yourself in your darkest moments was a game you hated but still played. What fool would take a trip with a man they barely knew.? You hadn’t even known him for two full months when you went away with him. Your 6th date. This may have been the longest date in history. 

Sometimes you thought of your friends and your family. Were they worried? Were the little dribs and drabs of communication Simon let you have with them enough to keep them satiated. Had they stopped caring, like Simon said they would. 

He often told you the family a person was born into was rarely their true family. Like his. You knew pieces of the life he rarely spoke about. The father he hated, the mother he pitied. The brother he held complex, painful feelings for. You hardly heard about him at all. You suspected he was the only person outside of the 141 Simon cared about. Maybe the only person he truly loved. 

Did he love you? Actually love you?

Could he? 

Another litre, another can.  Another day. 

— — — 

The creak of the old cellar door woke you, as usual. You’d long since stopped running up the steps when you heard it, not trusting your mind to be honest with you. 

“Baby? Are you awake, Love?” 

You didn’t believe it. You couldn’t. The disappointment would hurt to much. 

The sound of heavy boots descending the stairs drew something out of you, but yet you still couldn’t let yourself believe it was real. That you had survived. Again. 

Warm fingers caressed your cheek, tracing the shape of your eyes and nose, until they finally settled on your neck, below your jaw. A beat passed in tense silence, you could still be dreaming.

A shaky breath that wasn’t yours filled the room, “thank god.” You opened your eyes, and he was there. A dark figure against the light, stoic among the swirling flecks of dust in the air. 

“Si?” Your voice was weak and hoarse from who knew how many weeks of disuse. 

He nodded, lifting you from your cot with ease. Holding your body against his tightly as he brought you up the stairs. Your eyes fluttered against the light, the early evening sun cutting  through you until you help your eyes tightly closed.

You heard him shush you softly before you realised you’d been crying. 

“Si,” you said again and you felt him hold you closer. 

“I know baby, I know. I’m so proud of you. We made it.” 

He set you down on the edge of the bath and began the careful work of peeling your filthy clothes off. 

The final chords of this tragic, disgusting song had begun, and your dance was ending. 

He washed you gently, tears in his eyes as he rinsed away the layers of pain he’d caused you. 

He spoke to you in gentle tones, barely above a whisper, as though any loud noise would send you into shock. He didn’t wait for your responses, knowing you were too exhausted to give any. 

“It’s okay, pet. It’s okay, you’re safe now. You’re out. You’re out.

“Were you scared? I know baby, I know how scary it was, but you’re safe now. I’ll never let anything happen to you, never. You’re too important, I love you so much, pet. Too much.” 

You let the hot water and his words baptise you, remaking you under the heat of his love for you. He washed every part of you, yet nothing felt as intimated as when he washed your hair, stroking your head gently as he cried and promised you things you weren’t sure would ever come to be. 

When you were clean he wrapped you in a towel and left to get you something to wear. 

Was that you? Was that really you in the mirror? Chapped lips, large sunken eyes, your cheeks were hollow and your skin dull, your natural undertone wiped away and replaced with a pallid grey. When he came back you still couldn’t look away from the person in the mirror. He placed a pair of sweatpants and one of his t shirts on the heater and closed the door, giving you time to settle back into yourself. Your new self. 

You hated him. You hated him for doing this to you, making you this person. 

You opened the cabinet and went through the minor motions of humanity. Brushing your teeth, brushing your hair, and pulling the t-shirt on mechanically. You left the bottoms folded, knowing you wouldn’t be able to keep them on no mater how tightly you tied them. He was just too big, and you were just too small. 

You clutched a hair band in your hand, knowing he’d want to tie your hair back. He loved doing those small things for you. And you hated him for it. 

When you shuffled into the bedroom you stood in the doorway, watching you with a grief in his eyes as though he hand’t done this to you. 

He pulled you close, picking you up and laying you gently on the bed. The mattress felt obscene after weeks on the cot, you wept again and hated him for turning you into this person, a person that cried at everything. A person who knew what it felt like to sleep on the floor. Someone who felt blessed to have a bed. 

He took his place beside you, and you pulled yourself close, holding your body to the curves and edges of his. His arms wound around you and pinned you to him, his lips brushed your forehead and you felt his tears fall, running down your cheeks and mixing with yours.

“I was so scared without you. I really thought I wasn’t gonna make it this time.” 

“Me too, Si.”

You understood how much he needed this, how much he needed to be the villain, how much he needed to hate himself before he could go into hell and be a good soldier. So he could come back home a hero, a rescuer. Your protector. 

Your Simon.

[in-amor-veritas]

incredible art by nyia.kylab on instagram

Was very honored to have a chance to write an interpretation of this incredible work of Ny's. I was shown the piece with very little context and it truly moved me, especially since I feel a very strong connection to Simon as a character.

༺💜༻

There are those who study dreams who have said that dreaming of clay represents a relationship that makes you risk losing your identity, the fear of losing who you are through being moulded to fit the purposes of someone else and not your own.

Simon may be sculpted from clay, and perhaps at first glance you may see how he has fallen into this pattern,  how he has been used as a means to someone else’s end. How he has been stripped of his identity and painted over in the colours of something he’s not or he should never have had to be. He’s been painted as a caretaker to a father, a parent to a sister, a criminal to a classmate, an outsider to a society that will never accept him. 

A danger to an institution that leaves little room for mistakes.

Even from Wilhelm, who paints him in the most extraordinary colours of love, who stained his heart with purple. For that person too he has been asked to change forms into something that is not his true to who he is. 

Simon has given constantly of himself until there’s precious little more to give, until the signs of wear, the abrasions and stains begin to surface even in moments of fragile happiness and intense joy.

The process of moulding a masterpiece of entails getting your hands dirty, starting over when you make a mistake, to use an expert eye and hand and instinct in order to personify an idea or will. 

Clay can be reshaped and remade again and again until it becomes what it was meant to be. To be kindled in fire and emerge as more beautiful and radiant terracotta, glazed in colour or left red. To become an unapologetic piece of art that is breathed to life by mistake after mistake, trial by trial, measured in small successes and great setbacks.  

Because even when faced with impossible circumstances, when the world expects him to sacrifice his own morals, to be the bigger person, to hide his face and do what’s easy. When they try to silence him. Even when the exterior that protects his heart is beaten down, is stained by the judgments and needs and wants and scorn of everyone else. Even when they pull at him from every direction and suffocate him with hands that stain and leave imprints in the colours of what they tell him to be.

Gold

What they think he wants to be.

Purple

What he actually wants to be.

Simon is made of clay. And through fire, he will shape himself, rearrange the chemicals of his limitations to become an effigy no longer able to be remoulded to fit someone else’s vision. Although terracotta too is fragile, in the way that humans are, it is brave. 

It is brave to be yourself in a world where people want to break you.

Simon is simple perhaps at first glance, rough-hewn to those who don’t care to understand him.  But clay is tangible, and earthen, and real.

[mylarena]

"look 'ere, si."

ghost shifts his gaze from the far wall and tilts his head down to look at johnny. the scot gives him a smile, lifting a hand to cup his cheek.

"there ye are, mo ghraidh."

all it takes to get ghost to release all of the tension built up in his body is a simple sweep of johnny's thumb under his eye. he slumps forward, reaching out and hooking his fingers into the edge of other mans jacket to tug him closer. johnny goes easily, stepping forward to stand against the countertop ghost is perched on. he reaches up with his free hand and pushes back some of the dusty-blond curls that had fallen into ghost's face, momentarily admiring the stunning contrast between his half-lidded eyes.

"yer real bonnie, ye ken?"

he traces one of the scars trailing down ghost's cheekbone with a feather-light touch, deciding not to mention the shiver he can see go down the mans spine.

"lets git you cleaned up, aye?"

johnny reaches over to his left to grab at a warm, damp washcloth he had set down, keeping his right hand steadily holding ghost's face.

ghost keeps his gaze trained on johnny's own face- he doesnt think he'll ever get tired of studying every last scar and freckle that adorns the mans body.

the first swipe of the cloth has ghost's eyes fluttering closed, but he forces them back open so he can continue to admire the tender expression thats overtaken johnny's face.

he loves this man.

this man loves him.

this man, johnny, kind and loving johnny, loves him, ghost, abrasive and harsh ghost, simon, a dead man with more issues than should be allowed in the military. johnny, who is so pure, so sweet and good, loves simon, the furthest thing from good, bitter and blood-soaked.

its not that johnny hasn't killed his own fair share of people, his hands aren't free of blood and they never could be, but he's so good that it practically rolls right off of his skin. it never stains. but every time ghost touches johnny he can almost feel himself ruining that clean canvas, he can almost see the way he leaves bloody hand prints behind on his skin.

but he's here. he's here, wiping the warpaint off of his face, removing some of the blood that covers up simon, that makes him ghost. he doesn't mind the streaks of crimson that ghost leaves on his hips, his hands, his face. he doesn't care about the blood that stays on his hands anytime he cups simon's face so gently.

part of simon thinks that johnny looks beautiful when he's covered in marks made by him.

"close yer eyes, mo ghraidh."

simon lets his eyes shut without question, without hesitation. he doesn't need to be alert right now, not with johnny so close. he doesn't need to watch the door, watch for anyone hiding in the shadows. he knows he's safe. he trusts that johnny would protect him. he trusts that johnny would never hurt him.

when johnny finally finishes cleaning the paint off of simon's face, he sets the cloth to the side and leans forward to press their foreheads together.

"all done, m'eudail."

basking in the warmth and tenderness that johnny gives so willingly, simon reaches up and cups the back of johnny's neck. he whispers oh so softly, just for their ears,

"i love you, johnny."

"i love you too, mo chridhe."

[abubblingcandle]

For the Whumptober ask game, how about

7/11

(Does the UK have 7/11s? The joke might not work as well for you if you don’t lololol)

Thank you darlin!! We don't have 7/11s but I have been in them in different countries so I know what they are 💕💕💕

This is from my Whumptober ask game (send me a number between 1-31 and I'll give you some info and a snippet from that fic) which I am still accepting numbers for!

Day 7 - Magic with a Cost - Star Player in a Twisted Game

In my head I am referring to this as Jamie Tartt Gets Christmas Carol-ed 😂 During the Zava period Jamie wishes that he never came back to Richmond one night when he's struggling with no one caring about the team and being alienated as he won't join the Zava Personality Cult. He wakes up in his house but it's owned by someone else and no one can see him. Imaginary Simon guides him through the impact he has had on other people and what his life would be like if he hadn't made that decision

“Hey Jam Tartt.” Jamie pulled his head up from his knees and blinked sluggishly as he came back into his body. As the mist clears, the light navy blue suede sambas come into focus at the bottom of long, chinos clad legs. Jamie knew those shoes. He had bought them, and then the first time he had come home and seen them there was already a little stain on the toe cap that had never been cleaned. “You seem a little shook up there duck?” Jamie followed the legs up and let out a choked whine of relief at Simon’s soft smile looking down at him. The piercing electric light of the Nelson Road corridor cast an abrasive halo around his head, he was an angel sent to save Jamie from whatever hellscape he had got himself trapped in. This wasn’t real and Simon was here to fix it for him.

Day 11 - "Leave no trace behind, like you didn't even exist" - Counting Up My Karma Ch1

This one is ... well it's a a lot for poor Jamie. About six months ago I was lamenting that I had 49 ideas on my WIP list and so threw out the net to the whump crew for another idea to make it a round 50 ... and not going to lie, we cooked. The initial idea came from @jamiesfootball and it is based around Jamie arriving to Richmond after Ted and when the team has started to buy into the Lasso Way. Which leaves Jamie in a horrible position of being "needed" but not being the star and he's getting contrasting instructions from all sides. There's no winning. Plus he was Rebecca's attempt at unwitting sabotage and so gets gaslit into thinking he is cursed as she tries to get him to flip and ruin the team spirit. I saw this prompt and just had to dust it off for this!

“You must be Jamie Tartt!” Jamie is startled out of his grinning stare at Roy’s departing not as quickly as he used to be able to back by a chipper exclamation behind him. “Fucking yeah, good to be recognised by a fan,” Jamie replies with a scoff before turning and finding himself face to face with the one player he hoped he wouldn’t be seeing today. “Oh I am a fan,” Dani Rojas beams, shuffling his crutches into one hand to over his right hand out for Jamie to take. “Hey, good to hear yeah mate. Sorry bout the knee,” Jamie stumbles over his words. He still remembers it. Ferran had brushed Jamie off when he pointed out that wouldn’t it be super awkward to loan out a replacement for an injured player from the team that injured him but he had been laughed out of the office and told to go pack his shit. Stevie wasn’t the cleanest player on the best of days but to his credit he got the ball and there was nothing in the sliding contact with Rojas. If Jamie was feeling particularly Sky Blue he would point out that Dani could have easily avoided the contact but that didn’t seem like the right thing to say when the lad’s warm hand was pressed in his. The sound when his knee hit the turf, you didn’t need a pitchside microphone to pick that up. “Oh there is no worries Jamie Tartt. It was an accident and it wasn’t even you that committed the tackle. I would be a fool to blame you for the wills of the universe,” Dani shrugged. Jamie nodded tentatively, managing to free his hand from Dani’s with more force than he thought would be required.

[analyzing-people-like-hell]

saw your recent post in the sanders sides tag - here goes:

Some of these are more fun-to-watch than relates-to-me, but I figure listing ‘em all will give you more to work with.

Listed in alphabetical order, except as needed to group sources together.

Alastor, Hazbin Hotel (show)

- He’s charming, confident, very good in his chosen field, and also happens to be AroAce. He appreciates jokes, but can also be intimidating.

Cayde-6, Destiny (game)

- Quick wit, quick shot. Always fun to hear his dialogue during missions and strikes. The kinda guy you’d go to for a good story (or if you’re lookin’ for extra paperwork to do).

Crow, Destiny (game)

- Good guy, interesting situation (read: tragic backstory). Not exactly doomed-by-the-narrative, but…

The Doctor (10th), Doctor Who (show)

- Honestly, not sure why. He’s just fun to watch. (Also, he has a very distinct/memorable way of phrasing things)

Data, Star Trek: The Next Generation (show)

- Yes, I’m Autistic; How’d you guess? (/j) Honestly though, having a discussion with him about humanity/social behaviors/other things would be SO interesting!

Odo, Star Trek: Deep Space 9 (show)

- If Odo and I were in the same room, I don’t think there’d be much talking. But, in a two-introverts-who-got-dragged-to-the-same-party-and-are-avoiding-the-humans-together kind of way. Companionable silence.

Spock, Star Trek: The Original Series (show)

- He’s just cool. (also a HUGE childhood influence towards logical thinking)

Malcolm Reynolds, Firefly (show)

- Protective of his crew, “Has a conscience, and hates it,” no-nonsense, practical thinker, quick wit, stubborn.

Simon Tam, Firefly (show)

- Very good at what he does (doctor), smart, stands by what he believes in (“when you’re on my table, you’re safe”), and who he cares about (his sister).

River Tam, Firefly (show)

- …River is a mood. Specifically, a “leave me alone, I can’t talk now, my brain is full of bees” mood.

Seth, Lost Terminal (podcast)

- He’s an AI who used to live in a satellite, and made his way down to a post-collapse Earth so he could talk to people. He often mentions the intricacies and confusing nuances of human communication, his distrust of plants and salt, and the fact that humans are quite fond of bread and beer.

Susan Ivanova, Babylon 5 (show)

- “No boom today. Boom tomorrow. There’s always a boom tomorrow.”

Michael Garibaldi, Babylon 5 (show)

- If any of the main cast could’ve broken the fourth wall, it would have been him. I don’t know what that says about his character, but it feels right.

Virgil Sanders, Sanders Sides (YouTube series)

- He’s the personification of (Thomas’) Anxiety, but he can be quite brave when he needs to be. When he’s under pressure/more anxious/needs to be listened to, he’ll act more abrasive, but he has a softer side (heh side) he shows when safe. He’s also the secondary brain cell holder of the main cast.

Logan Sanders, Sanders Sides (YouTube series)

- The brain cell (/pos). Also seems to be going through… gifted-kid-burnout-angst-stuff, for lack of a better term. Also nicknamed the Mom of the group, though someone pointed out that he didn’t choose that title for himself, which I thought was interesting.

Janus Sanders, Sanders Sides (YouTube series)

- I think you already saw him in another ask, so I’ll be brief: “You’re not stuck with an ‘evil snake boy.’ *pose* You’re just stuck with a snake boy.”

…After typing this all out, I’ve noticed that most of these fall into one of three categories:

~Autism~ TM (/pos)

Competent, might be an asshole

Protecc/Attacc

I don’t know what that means, but it’s kinda funny.

Have fun!

ANALYSIS #4: 06/11/24

It's about time I start getting around to all these new test subjects. I apologize for the wait, but I'm more than ready to see what you have in store for me here, #4.

I'm not familiar with the majority of these characters, so this could very much be a hit or miss analysis.... Your descriptions definitely aided me a lot, so thank you for that. I guess we'll just have to wait and see if this ends up being accurate at all...

Why don't we see if I got your backstory right first? It's where everything originates, after all.

"LORE":

You seem to be an observer in this game of life. I feel like you've spent a large part of your existence on the outskirts of everything, and the times you have joined the outside world were never completely of your own volition.... You don't feel like you particularly fit in as a "human", yet at the same time everything you feel is all too human. I can imagine it gets pretty overwhelming, and you've probably gotten a lot of heat for it in your younger years. Maybe you didn't have many friends growing up, and the ones you did have probably didn't live up to your expectations of what "friendship" was supposed to be. Maybe you've had friends that took advantage of you and it didn't even click until the damage was already done, or you stuck it out because.. that's what friendship's supposed to be about, right? Maybe you were just left out in general, always the second option unless they needed something out of you. Who knows. There could be a lot variations of what happened in your childhood regarding relationships, but I'm guessing they didn't always make much sense to you. It's probably why you stay on the outskirts so much. If the world won't let you experience humanity for yourself, you can at least watch humanity from afar.

I have a feeling your home life wasn't all that great? It wasn't particularly terrible-- you're grateful for what you were given-- but you wish there were things that were done differently. I think this also plays into the whole "disconnect from people" bit. Maybe they cared for you, but it was clear they didn't understand you, and it can be a little hard to be grateful when somebody's care is always... a little off? If that's the case, I bet it probably feels worse knowing that you can't really blame them for not understanding. Things are probably better now as you've grown, but there are things that still sting just a bit. Also for some reason I think you were homeschooled.... No reason why, it just came to mind, and I've learned trusting my gut makes my analyses more accurate. I'd like to see if that ends up being true.

Another thing that my gut keeps telling me is that the tism is strong in this one. You've already confirmed that, but I specifically feel like (i'm assuming you're diagnosed based on how you phrased "yes, i'm autistic") you were either diagnosed at a pretty early age or you were late diagnosed (probably because of icky-ew gendered stereotypes in medical fields) and it explained a whole hell of a lot of your childhood, to the point where you're surprised you weren't diagnosed way earlier in life. Heavily leaning to the latter, by the way, but the first still has a 5 to 15% chance of standing. Either way, it depicts why you'd feel such a heavy disconnect from the people around you. It's as if everyone was given a script to life, meanwhile you're forced to improv it the whole way through. Do you see life as a game? How much time have you dedicated to perfecting your skills, believing that perfecting them would be the key to winning these petty social games? Are you sure you're not still lost? Just some food for thought.

Anyways, with that all in mind, let's see what really goes on inside that head of yours...

THE TRUTH:

You still resent the world in a way, don't you? I can't shake the thought that there's still a resentment buried inside you that's been bubbling for a while. Maybe it's lessened a bit, but you can still feel it resurface every now and then. It's as if sometimes a reminder will come your way and it's another crack added to that bottle you've been storing all your emotions in. Like another poke at the confines will unleash everything you've been working on trying to maintain. I don't think it's spilled over yet, but I think we both know it's certainly not far from tipping over. You surprise even yourself with how much you've managed so far.

Part of you has lost your vulnerability. I'm not sure when or how, but I think it goes back to that disconnect from people. I don't think you've met anybody who's completely understood you yet, which has probably led to constant misunderstanding from everyone else. That kind of persistent detachment is bound to make anyone lose parts of themselves. If that's what happened, I'm sorry they took that part away from you. You deserved to be yourself without being shot down over and over, you still deserve that. It really is a shame that the world is too blind to see the beautiful depth in your soul. Complexity is never a flaw. Complexity is rarely even "complex". The world just needs to learn how to appreciate you at your core, and I truly hope they're able to see that in you soon. 

In fact, why don't I detail some of the complex beauty that I can pinpoint? If the world can't see it, then it only makes sense if I spell it out for them.

YOUR BEST TRAITS:

You're very attentive. You also seem to have some pretty good wit. That not only makes you a really great analyst, but I think it'd make you a pretty great comforter too. You're able to analyze and recognize patterns in people, and you seem to still hold a great appreciation for people despite how isolated people have made you feel. Despite always feeling like an outcast, there's still a part of you that cares. Those are qualities that truly great comforters have. However, with how confusing relationships with other people can be sometimes, I can also see why that would hinder your ability for it and turn you away. Nevertheless, the foundation is still strong. You're still strong. Use that to your advantage. Take back the life that you deserved. Show them that you are not the painting they've made of you.

I just feel like you're really funny for some reason, and probably pretty chill while still being able to stand your own ground and opinions. That's a highly respectable mix of traits to have, at least in my eyes. You also for some reason remind me of that main guy from Magnus Archives. I've never listened to Magnus Archives though. All of the information I know about that podcast has come from random clips I've stumbled upon and rants from my friends who are into it. But from the information I have on him, I view him as a weird little autistic guy who's always a little tired, a little witty, maybe a little too obsessed with analyzing sometimes, also probably on the aroace spectrum. However, he's also a hard worker who-- when he cares about people-- he really cares about them, and if he likes you then you could probably drag him just about anywhere (even if he grumbles the whole way through). Now I have zero clue if any of that is true to his character, but I feel like it could maybe fit yours, and I at least think people like that are a pretty special find. 

Also, you're just a wee little guy. A little snake boi even.

And with that, I think I'll leave my thoughts here and take my bow.

With utmost gratitude (and hopefully utmost accuracy),

Dr. WZ

[scmantic]

is that (HANNAH SIMONE)? oh, no, that’s (RANIA CHADHA), a (FORTY-TWO)year old (NURSE AT VALPARAÍSO CENTRO MÉDICO) who uses (SHE/HER)pronouns. they currently live in (CASABLANCA), and the character they identify with most is (HELEN PARR FROM THE INCREDIBLES). hopefully they find their own little paradise here in el país de los poetas! 

BASICS 

full name: rania ahana chadha  hometown: london, england  sexuality: bisexual  birthday: september 10  zodiac: virgo sun, capricorn moon, virgo rising (i'm so sorry) height: 5’7”  languages spoken: english, spanish, french marital status: married  children: 10-year-old twins, sonia and zane   traits: nurturing, bold, focused, abrasive, defensive, stubborn

HISTORY tw anxiety

born in london to restaurant owners, rania grew up in the kitchen with her two younger brothers; while they caused trouble she kept them in line (in typical older sister virgo fashion), from a young age being the Responsible One and helping raise the younger ones

her parents were super busy, so she had a lot of responsibility from a young age, was the one getting her brothers up for school and making sure they were dressed and fed

she was a high achiever in school and was very ambitious from a young age, knowing immediately that she did not want to inherit the restaurant from her parents

her parents weren't super happy considering she was the ideal future owner and the MOST responsible child clearly, but they let her Follow Her Dreams of becoming a nurse

being under so much pressure to achieve and to help out wherever she could definitely took a toll and she has struggled with anxiety for most of her life, always anxious she isn't doing enough or is doing the wrong thing; there's always something to worry about

in college, she met her spouse after a particularly shitty, annoying breakup and has never looked back

she was always kind of ambivalent toward relationships and ~love~ until she met them, blames them for making her a softie (she's always been a softie)

they ended up in chile due to her partner's job about 15 years ago and it's safe to say this feels like her forever home, their twins were born here, they have a life here — rania loves it

loves being a mom, loves being a Working Mom and having a full schedule because if she's not moving then she feels like she's d*ing

PERSONALITY/FUN FACTS

biiiiig mama bear energy, protective as hell of her kids and pretty much anyone else she cares about

type a, perfectionist, will do everything herself just so it's Done Right

she DOES have a therapist and manages her anxiety, but she's still always buzzing, always moving, has lots of energy that she puts into work and the people around her

generally friendly and very sweet, doesn't know a stranger, but will not be sweet if you mess with her family

tough love advocate, does not beat around the bush

loves bad tv, show her a show that has too many seasons and terrible writing? she is SAT

stubborn, likes things to be her way, will be annoying if they're not

despite growing up in a restaurant, is a horrible chef, her kids audibly groan when she's the one making dinner

wears lots of jewelry (always gold), bunch of necklaces and rings

WC page found here pinterest found here

[scxttershot]

So I copied this over from my Discord rants last night - a brief text-based analysis of Floyd Lawton's character depth.

Re. Possessing no outward feelings except sarcasm and general assholery, suppresses everything else, subconscious belief that we deserve to be punished, chronic intimacy issues probably stemming from how fucked up his family is, actively suicidal with a death wish, debatably has 0 redeeming qualities on the surface, generally homicidal [bitch me too to all of this!!!!]. Despite everything, Floyd cares. He wouldn't be around other people by choice if he didn't. Waller has canonically offered him the chance to walk several times, as he's served multiple sentences. He wouldn't have damn near agreed with Peter/Ragdoll saying the Secret Six were his family if he didn't. Wouldn't have manipulated a doctor at gunpoint into telling a young woman who he at that point barely knew that she didn't accidentally cause her father's end stage lung cancer re. Lori/Black Alice. Also yeah his flings with Jeannette, Michelle, etc. were a lot more than just sex if you read Deadshot: Bulletproof or Gail Simone's Secret Six series, there's actual romance and protective feelings there. Susan Lawton who knows, it's hard to say and I really think what they had completely fell apart after their son was murdered, + her character wasn't super developed. In any case it's the classic machismo thing of "showing human emotion makes you weak and a liability" coupled with what I'm damned sure is PTSD. The reaper follows Lawton like a shadow. re. The Get Out of Hell card, he specifically steals it because he doesn't want to watch the Six tear each other apart over it. Also re. Floyd cares, 1987 Suicide Squad: he went with Digger to Digger's mother's funeral as a plus one and stuck around without even being asked. Meanwhile the entire time he's claiming not to like Captain Boomerang.

 And eventually, Floyd breaks out of that hard shell a little. It takes fucking RAGDOLL calling him [and Catman] out over it, and it's literally the final issue of the 2008 Secret Six series, but he's genuinely concerned and pained when Catman gets shot. For reference. If the guy who replaced all his joints with cybernetics and banged his own sister calls you out and makes an actually good point while doing so, that is both concerning and something you should probably listen to. Earlier in the run he also cares enough about Thomas to ask him personally to chaperone a date with Jeannette because Floyd is legitimately scared she'll take advantage of him, also. Is that referring to physically? Sexually? Emotionally? Probably all three. But nothing happens. Like. Damn. There's not a lot of content that goes out of its way to specifically show that a lot of Floyd's generally abrasive personality is an act. AS IT STANDS given pre-Crisis on Infinite Earths Floyd Lawton, lately DC has made him far too sympathetic for a homicidal contract killer. There is a very fine line between "likeable asshole" and "this is watered down to the point where sometimes it's but the vapor of a character". We need a balance, DC. And I hope, one day, someone can write that again.

[theoreticallysensible]

Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis truly is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read. The total, unconditional love he has for his lover Bosie, even though Bosie treated him so awfully and is the reason he’s writing this letter from prison for having a sexual relationship with this man who doesn’t even care about him. The way he connects this unconditional love he feels to Christ, the first romantic, who found true beauty and depth of soul in sorrow and sin and the real understanding of love and human complexity that can only come from such deep low points. His commitment to seeing everything through a lens of love, meaning a belief - a hope - in the potential and value of all people. The way he sees that as his only way to stay sane, because hate and meanness eat you from the inside and make life miserable. The way that this love sadly blinded him in how overwhelming it was, and made him unable to direct it rationally towards Bosie’s moral improvement, instead enabling Bosie in his cruel indifference to his wellbeing. A sadly inauthentic love of delusional devotion rather than clear-sighted platonic compassion. The tragedy of this is exquisite- and the beauty of his perseverance through this tragedy. The way he learns that the truly loving thing is to try and teach Bosie how to learn from his mistakes, to embrace love with him. Realising that combining his love with concern for morality makes it more honest, and loving him even when he acknowledges and critiques his faults is a more truly unconditional love. His commitment to an idea of what people could be by looking at them with love, living with a focus on what isn’t, but might be, is, especially with all the Christ references, almost a negative theology.

It reminded me of Simone Weil’s belief in an absent, mysteriously impotent God, who communicates to us and materialises itself in the world through our consciences. But Wilde’s is a more hopeful image than Weil’s. Weil believed that suffering, even total dehumanising suffering must be accepted as part of the fundamental evil of the universe. We cannot help but fight against it, driven by God’s urge to love, but it is part of God’s plan and so it must be revered, even embraced, as worship. For Wilde love of suffering is useful simply because it allows for better understanding and a more peaceful soul. Both recognise love as a necessary part of understanding, for Weil part of her famous philosophy of learning through attention rather than effort, but for her it is again for the purpose of worship. Both died as a result of their tremendous love. Weil from starving herself out of solidarity with prisoners of war, Wilde from ill health as a result of his time in prison, sent there only because he foolishly trusted his beloved’s advice.

The more I write the more I realise the difference between them in incredibly slim, but I still see more hope in Wilde’s vision. For Wilde love makes life worth living, a way to improve the world through enthusiastically sharing it. It is a means to an end of collective happiness. For Weil it is pure service to an absent, dead concept, a horribly nihilistic distortion of religion. I love Weil so much. Her purity of purpose is inspiring, from her work in factories, to her fighting in the Spanish Civil War, to her work with the French resistance. But her vision of the world was miserable and austere, and explains to me some of the more conservative elements of her otherwise radical political philosophy. Wilde’s love is a love of hope and joy, and I genuinely think that having read his ideas have made me a better person. Wilde was an agnostic, but his writing on Christ almost made me consider religion again, from a purely negative theology perspective. I think Weil demonstrates the folly of that though. I thank her for providing that.

I do think the similarities between these two are cool though. They were both extremely unusual people, outspoken, abrasive individuals. I wonder if there’s anything in the fact that Wilde was bisexual and Weil seems to have had some sort of gender fuckery going on (she would sometimes sign letters as a man, as a sort of maybe, maybe not joke - in Lars Iyer’s book My Weil the character who takes on her name is fittingly a trans woman). Their shared queerness in a time when that was very much not accepted (Wilde went to prison for it, that’s where he wrote the letter) may explain their similar individuality and introspection and critical eye towards conventional morality. Certainly with Wilde that makes sense, Weil idk though - she’s just built different I think.