#mw3 reader insert

[cas-backwards-tie]

⟡ vladimir makarov masterlist ⟡

--oneshots--

under the moonlight

--series--

the long road | After your fiancé’s murder, you’ve come up with a plan to avenge him. Now in Russia, you’re thrust into a country, a language, and a fake identity you know next to nothing about. Forcing yourself into his life was easier than you’d anticipated, now the only problem is you’re worried someone’s catching onto your lies.

[v1x3n]

[lushrue]

tf 141 as police officers anyone? dubcon, afab!reader

this was not how you wanted to spend your weekend.

you'd graciously agreed to go out for your friend's bachelorette party. she'd all but begged you to be there for her last night of freedom, so how could you not show up for her? now, though, after three too many shots and sitting in the drunk tank of the local police station, you were beginning to wish you'd stayed curled up on your couch.

you weren't even entirely sure what had happened. one moment, you were walking to your next bar, your body floating along with the crowd. the next, your friends were catcalling some random men across the street and the red and blue lights started flashing in your periphery.

the officers that arrested you had been nice enough, you supposed. they were understanding of your situation, but not understanding enough to let you out of a public intoxication charge. the more senior one, captain price, had given you your own police car away from your friends after you'd complained about your head pounding. if he copped a feel as he helped you into the seat, no one but the two of you had to know.

his sergeant, garrick, chatted you up as you rode the couple of minutes to the local jail. he was friendly, conversational, if a bit flirtatious. you weren't sure a cop was supposed to compliment a prisoner's hair or the way her dress showed off her tits so much.

but the two cops serving as jail wardens were by far the worst. sergeant mactavish had been the one to book you in, taking your fingerprints and filling out the necessary paperwork to cite you. inhibitions lowered by the copious amounts of vodka you'd been talked into consuming, you told him his tattoos made him look hot. he seemed to take that as a green light, murmuring in your ear about how bonnie you were the whole time he was booking you.

lieutenant riley just unnerved you. you could see him staring through the window of the thick metal door, the bars not deterring him one bit. clearly, he could see as much as he needed to. he hadn't stopped staring since he'd thrown you into the cell.

your friends had taken notice too, the way the officers seemed to take a liking to you. the group of them hatched a clever, albeit drunken, plan to use you as bait to escape. if you were completely in your right mind, you would've refused without a second thought. however, fortunately (or unfortunately) for you, it sounded genius to your alcohol-logged brain.

you sauntered up to the door, standing on your tiptoes to bring your chest into view. you put on your best pout, holding the bars of the small window. "sergeant johnny?" you slurred, your fingers dancing suggestively along the length of the bars. "me and my friends are thirsty. can you and your friend get us some water?"

the giggles of the girls behind you let you know how good your performance was, and you put on the best flirtatious smile you could muster while drunk. the two officers looked at each other, seeming to contemplate for a moment, before they both came directly to your cell. the heavy door swung open, hinges squeaking.

"why don' ya come with us, troublemaker?" mactavish purred, crooking his finger at you. his lieutenant stood behind him, arms crossed over his broad chest.

"we can give ya just wha' ya need."

[witchthewriter]

𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝟏𝟒𝟏 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞

⤷ female, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑪𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑨𝑰𝑵 𝑱𝑶𝑯𝑵 𝑷𝑹𝑰𝑪𝑬

・Price exudes confidence; he could be standing still, his mind thinking of a hundred different things at once and everyone around him feels like they're introuble.

・He has that Dad Presence

・Back straight, rubbing his beard every now and then.

・Whenever kids feel scared in public (like they've lost their parents somehow) they'll ask John for help 100%.

・And he is always ready to help!

・Whenever you're in uncomfortable situations, and you can feel the attention from someone you do not want. Then John is quick to notice. He watches your body language like it's in art form.

・And all he needs to do is stare down that mthfcka and they leave you alone.

𝑲𝒀𝑳𝑬 𝑮𝑨𝑹𝑹𝑰𝑪𝑲

・The thing about Kyle, is that he has a really welcoming vibe about him.

・He rarely makes others around him feel intimidated or uncomfortable.

・HOWEVER, for him, it's like a switch.

・Off = down to earth, kind, soft Kyle, On = is a soldier who is used to getting his hands dirty.

・He will shut shit down immediately. His eyes seem to change as well, his demeanour stiffening, nose flaring, ears almost ringing.

・Like a bull to a red flag, Kyle is ready to attack, to defend and to end whoever made you feel uncomfortable (even in the slightest)

𝑱𝑶𝑯𝑵𝑵𝒀 𝑴𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑺𝑯

・Uses his brawn but also his brain for his scary dog aura.

・He's packed with muscle, but has a natural ability to make certain situations very uncomfortable by pointing out things.

"Ye know true men dinnae harrass women, righ'?" Johnny would say, his arms crossed in front of him, a sneer on his face; a look so deadly anyone would fold instantly.

・He's basically eminating an approaching dog whose growling. Canines showing when he speaks.

・Murder on his mind.

𝑺𝑰𝑴𝑶𝑵 𝑹𝑰𝑳𝑬𝒀

・Only needs to stand near you and people steer clear of both of you.

・Doesn't need to say anything; doesn't even need to glare, he just has a resting ... scary face. Where people feel intimidated instantly.

・But when he has his mask on - or a medical mask (always in the colour black), while folding his arms, then it's over. No one even LOOKS your way.

・So it does make going out in public a LOT easier. No one is bothering you

[clinicallyaccurate]

You ever read a fanfic so scrumptious, so absolutely yummy, pure genuine love for it, the type that has you biting your nail in anticipation and wanting to inject it into your veins in the middle of the night.

Just for you to attempt to read it again the next day or days after, only to realize how absolutely terrible it is and realize you got to have been a completely different person then cause there is no freaking way you actually willingly read that.

[carbondioxda]

It’s unfair that the Task Force 141 should be called The Beauty Force 141. Like fuck you mean every single one of them is as handsome as realistically possible. Not just the game models, the actors too. How am I supposed to shoot enemies in the game when there’s a literal supermodel of them is gazing into my eyes and seducing me whatttefuck.

Military propaganda worked tbh.

[thegnomelord]

Gaz isn't a 'manly' man.

Sure he may be a soldier, but he doesn't believe in any of the shit single men spout on the internet on how he is meant to act and what he is meant to demand from his partner beyond love and respect. It baffles him how some soldiers in his previous units would bemoan their ended relationships when they'd treated their partners like shit.

So no, Gaz doesn't listen to those people telling him he should be in charge all the time. He's content to do more than half of the housework when he's on leave and you're still working. He's happy to 'play housewife' and make you a nice home cooked meal you two can enjoy when you get back late at night. He's elated getting to be the little spoon when you two snuggle up at night, finally able to sleep peacefully when he has his back turned to someone he trusts.

He's especially happy to let you paint his nails and put makeup on him because he loves the face you make when you concentrate, when your sole focus is on him. It's always so hard for him to try and not kiss you because you asked him to stay still and he doesn't want to smudge the lipstick you had so carefully applied on him.

And it makes it even harder to hide his arousal when you grip his chin and firmly turn his head back to stare right at you because he had moved his head to look at something that had grabbed his attention. The sudden motion never fails to send a delightful shiver down his spine, the hard scowl on your face when you see the streak of eyeliner going across his temple leaving him squirming in his seat and whispering a tense and raspy: "Sorry lovie."

Because if he tried to say just one more word he'd end up moan like a whore.

[worms-for-brains]

Yn and past + present Johnny interactions

(I apologize for extremely loose sketches)

[sarahsghosts]

the death and resurrection of jonathan price

john price x female, wife!reader

angst with an eventual happy ending

word count: 1,510

cw: none

chapter 2

songs: hurts like hell - fleurie, jackie and wilson - hozier,  angela - mötley crüe, haunted - taylor swift (acoustic version)

“john's alive.”

he’s alive.

that’s what laswell had told you.

ever since you received the news, you couldn’t sit still. you didn’t sleep, you barely ate.

“how?” you had asked. “where is he?”

laswell paused. “i can’t tell you any of that.” your blood started to boil. if this woman used the word ‘classified,’ you were going to scream. “this is is an unsecure line,” she explained, “but i’ll send someone to explain everything.”

you grabbed the phone from where it was cradled on your shoulder. “where. is. my. husband?” you snarled into the receiver.

despite your aggressive protests, kate didn’t tell you anything more. you shouted at her for a good minute and she listened patiently, which didn’t make you feel any better.

that was five days ago.

two days ago, you had tried redialing the number kate called you from, but you got no answer.

now you were pacing your flat, having survived the last five days on granola bars and coffee. your eyes fell onto the framed photo of john that hung on your wall.

you halted, your feet rooted to the floor as you looked at the memorial shadowbox that your brother-in-law had put together for you. it featured john's service photo next to the printed out program from his funeral service.

you stared at the photo of him in his formal uniform with a few bright medals pinned to his chest. you knew he had more commendations than that, but they were from classified, or otherwise off-the-books missions, so he couldn't wear those medals.

you always liked him in that uniform.

there was a gentle knocking from outside and your heart lurched. you sprinted to the door and fumbled with the lock before swinging the door wide open.

gaz stood in the hallway in a pair of jeans and a black long sleeve tee. he had his sleeves shoved up to his elbows and his hands were in his pockets.

he opened his mouth, probably to say hello, but you flung your arms him and choked out a sob. “he's alive,” you cried into his shoulder. “kyle, he's alive.”

“i know,” he murmured, his words muffled by your hair. he took in a breath like he's going to say something else but opts not to. instead, he gives you a reassuring squeeze.

you pull away from him after a moment. “i’m sorry. please, come in,” you say, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweater as you move back into the apartment.

gaz follows behind you. “no need to apologize,” he mumbles out quietly.

you turn your head back to look at him over your shoulder, his tone taking you by surprise. he sounds ... hesitant. uncomfortable.

your brows draw together. you thought he would be as happy as you were.

for the first time in years, you had felt hope. but gaz looked like he just watch someone drown a bag of puppies.

you turn around to face him fully. “gaz?” you whispered.

the sympathy you see on his face takes you back to john's funeral. he motions to your small dining table with its mismatched chairs. “let's sit down.”

you don’t. “what's going on? john...?” you’re unable to form a coherent question.

“is alive,” gaz finishes. “but he...” he breaks off, looking troubled.

your heart was pounding in your ears as you tried to piece together what he could be so afraid to tell you. “what is it?” you pushed, your voice rising a little.

gaz takes in a short breath before he forces out, “he doesn't want to see you.”

—-

nine years earlier

—-

loud music pulsed from the large speaker that was mounted in the corner of the dingy pub. the doors were propped open to let in the cool night air. the usually quiet bar was filled with soldiers, boisterous, loud, and drunk.

you pressed a hand to your temple fighting off the headache that threatened to set it. this pub was usually a quiet one, but the owner saw the crowd of soldiers coming in and knew that meant a good night for business. he had turned the main lights down and turned on the large edison bulb string lights that were tangled in the rafters.

you'd been coming there for years and, until now, didn't even realize those lights worked.

you fought off your irritation. you’d had a long day and just wanted a quiet drink at your usual spot. you hadn’t realized half the british army was going to show up.

suddenly, the stool next to you was occupied by a man with close cropped brown hair and a large smile on his face. he’s already facing you as he flags down the bartender and orders a beer. “hi,” he says brightly.

okay, so he may be one of the only other people in the establishment that wasn’t shit faced yet.

you raise an eyebrow. “hi,” you parrot back with a polite enough tone, but little to no enthusiasm.

the soldier seemed unperturbed by your apparent lack of interest and leaned a little closer so he didn’t have to yell over the music. “you don't seem like the type to hang out at a place like this. you must be lost.”

despite your irritation, you let out a small laugh, amused at his opening line. you shake your head. “not lost.” you look away from him and take a sip of your beer.

“oh, so you're a local, then?” he presses, a smirk tugging on his lips. he takes a look at the rowdy crowd around him. “this doesn't seem like the kind of place a beautiful woman, such as yourself, should—”

you huff and roll your eyes. “listen, guy,” you interrupt.

“john,” he supplies.

you give him a tight smile, suppressing your annoyance. “john. i get it. you boys are in town for probably three days—”

“five.”

“—five days,” you continued. “you want to blow off some steam, show off for your buddies, whatever. that's fine. but i have had a really long day and i’m just looking to have a drink, maybe two, and go home. alone.” you put emphasis on the last word. “so go back to your buddies and tell them i'm not into men. that way, you didn't technically strike out, yeah?”

his eyebrows shoot up and his smirk widens. he leans in a little further. “are you rejecting me?”

you tip your bottle towards him. “bingo.”

he leans back on the stool and, to your surprise, his smile widens. he sizes you up, his gaze looking you up and down, but not in a way that made you uncomfortable. finally, he stands from the barstool. but instead of moseying off to find his friends, he extends his hand out to you. “come on.”

you blanch. you were pretty blatant with your rejection. was this guy really that thick? “what?”

“you've had a shit day, needed a nice quiet drink, and then my lot comes and takes over your pub? doesn't quite seem fair, does it?” his flirty bravado is gone and in its place is a genuine, even kind, smile. “let me take you somewhere for a quiet drink, on me, and then you can go home.” he adds, “alone.”

you eye him, skeptical at first, but the sincerity that he radiates is too convincing. he’s watching you, his raised brows daring you to say yes. for some reason, you find a smile tugging at the corner of your lip, but you bite it back. “one drink,” you say, trying to sound stern. you take his hand.

“maybe two,” he counters, helping you off the stool.

“don't push your luck, john.”

he laughs and shakes his head. “one drink, then.”

and that one drink turned into nine years of beers on fridays and wine on sundays. weddings and vacations and, eventually, you becoming mrs. john price.

part of you thinks you knew, the moment you took his hand, that you would have followed him anywhere.

you sway a little, suddenly unsteady on your feet. “what do you mean he doesn’t want to see me?” you croak.

poor gaz just looks at you with such pity. he shakes his head. “said that part of his life is over now.”

“kyle, i...” my head is spinning and i squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to find a coherent thought. …over now? is he serious?

“you should know,” gaz starts again, his tone low and quiet. “we found him in a russian prison.”

your eyes snap open to meet his. horrible images started to flash through your mind. “was he there the entire time?” you breathed out the question in a shaky whisper.

gaz pressed his lips together and nodded once.

you shake your head, panic clawing at your chest. “gaz, i have to see him—”

“i know,” he says, taking a step closer to you and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “i know… i can give you the address of where he's staying now, but you should know…”

your hands were trembling. “what?”

“he’s not exactly the john price that any of us remember.”

part 3

masterlist

—-

TAGLIST: @fruitymoonbeams-blog @evergreenfields

[temeyes]

and he says he doesn't burn

[v1x3n]

[l0v3tast3]

ghost with a cute lil succubus gf :3

mdni! f!reader

simon loves having a succubus as his girlfriend. he loves when he's finally coming home from a mission and barely has the door closed before you're jumping into his arms— it's sweet and romantic at first, kissing him deep and slow and clinging to him, but it doesn't take very long to turn dirty. your legs are wrapped around his waist and it's just too easy to grind your soaked pussy against his growing hard-on, too easy to sink your nails (claws) into his shoulders and suck on and nip at his neck.

simon loves having a girlfriend with a long devil's tail topped with a heart and little horns poking out of the top of her head to match. he loves pulling your head back and rubbing around the bases of your horns, feeling you melt while he walks you both to the bedroom. you'll whine and beg for him to touch you more, more, more, and of course he obliges. simon lowers you to the bed and puts his hands and mouth everywhere. he sucks on your nipples while you're whimpering and (futilely) trying to push him down further. he leaves indents of his canines down your belly before he's kissing your thighs.

simon loves to get you desperate for him and especially loves how easy it is to do. it's basically your default setting around him— until he's rubbing the tip of his cock against your pussy. up and down from your hole to your clit and back, "y'think you deserve my cock? huh?" muttered while his free hand is keeping your hips from bucking up. you're nearly teary-eyed while you beg and plead until he shuts you up by finally pushing into you. you can take him, you're meant to take him, and still, by the time he's buried to the hilt inside of you, your eyes are rolling back and claws are leaving more scratches on him than he had gotten during his last deployment.

simon loves hearing your vocabulary reduced to whiney pleas and praise— "fu-ck- i missed your cock- missed it so much- ah-!"— and other mindless babbles. he loves how your capacity to speak noticeably diminishes with every new way he manhandles you; hunched over you with a hand on the headboard as leverage, then lifting your lower half to meet his hips as he kneels, then folding your thighs to your chest in a breeding press that makes you go nearly limp. "missed this cunt," he'll groan, "made just for me, right, princess?"

(ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ likes, comments n reblogs are always appreciated!!

[ghouldtime]

Alone. Truly Alone.

A fanfic based on the Alone Operator, for all the monster lovers out there Pairing is: Alone Operator (aka Simon Riley)/ Gender neutral Reader / John "Soap" MacTavish

Prologue/Drabble: Tomorrow

Chapter One: Going into an abandoned military facility for a quick job for some extra cash wasn't your best idea

Chapter Two: You go to collect your reward and end up with leaving with more than the money alone

Chapter Three: Johnny didn't want someone who asked questions - to him, anyways. That didn't mean you wouldn't try to get your own answers

Chapter Four: 20% done - You try to talk some sense into Johnny and get Ghost the one thing he wants

[writingfromasgard]

Lamb Chop [Price]

[Masterlist] | Captain John Price | Requests are Open

gif by Shadow0-1

Synopsis: John Price doesn't mind the little girl who waddles over into his backyard while he's repairing his broken fence and certainly doesn't mind the lovely lady who comes to retrieve her.

cw: single mother x John Price //// AN: This was supposed to be longer but i cant remember where i was going with it, might write more later

John's ears perk up as he hears a familiar babble on the other side of the fence. It's a nice summer's day so working outside seemed like a good idea. The little girl he's been hearing for the past few months waddles herself through the hole in the fence before her mother can grab her.

Her big eyes look up at him, a stick in one of her hands. She babbles a bit more before hitting the bottom half of the plank, mimicking the movement of his hammer driving in a nail. He chuckles at her attempt, halting his work as an flurry of apologies come next, a woman stepping into his yard to retrieve her daughter.

"I'm so sorry. I should've been more watchful." You apologize, hauling the toddler up on your hip. "She's faster than she looks when she gets curious."

"No trouble at all." John reassures you. "Don't mind the company. Last tenant had a dog that chewed up the boards so I'm fixin' them up."

You pause a moment, taken back by the smile and sparkle in his eyes. You clear your throat, extending your free hand to introduce yourself.

He shakes your hand firmly, "John. I would've introduced myself when you moved in but I didn't want you to feel crowded given the other neighbor's welcomes."

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TRIGGER WARNING: throwing up.

Back then, Mother wasn’t like this.

Your childhood memories are a broken mosaic, shattered and scattered, much like the snow globe Daddy gifted you at Christmas before he disappeared. At the age of twelve, it seems like your mind finds a way to flush it all out. Now, there's hardly anything left to hold onto as proof that you weren’t born and started out as a sixteen-year-old girl.

Yet, somehow, you know Mother wasn't always like this. She didn't begin her existence as a woman who wielded her critical gaze like a burn, her lips all too willing to spew sharp words when she caught you wearing a dress she didn't remember buying.

Today was supposed to be fun—your lunch outing, “girls time,” as Mom would say. She promised to take you to the new Italian restaurant around the block, then you’d go for some ice cream and some shopping. You figured this was the perfect occasion to wear that beautiful white tweed dress from Auntie Joyce.

But, as you came to your mother’s room to borrow her perfume, her smile faltered at the sight of you. She stopped applying her blush, placing the brush on her dressing table.

“I don’t remember buying this one,” she said, tilting her head as if the fabric offended her.

You bite your lip, torn between telling the truth or lying. But, the dress is just too pretty not to wear.

“You did.” You reply, hoping she’ll buy your lie.

Your mother, however, deepened her frown—she didn't. Instead, she got up from her dressing table chair, striding over to touch the dress' fabric. Her fingers sent a shiver down your spine as she reached the back of your neck to yank the tag. She gasped as she read the designer's name.

“You think I’d buy you a Chanel dress?” She hissed, eyes wide as fury seeped into her voice. “Who gave you this?” she demanded.

Your heart was racing. You were about to respond, but you knew deep down that no explanation would be enough to quell her anger. She would not tolerate your silence. You let out a gasp as she seized your shoulders, shaking your body roughly.

"Who was it?!" She snapped.

“I-It was Auntie Joyce,” you whispered, shrinking under her gaze.

At your answer, her face became even more contorted, features twisting as she dug her sharpened nails into the flesh of your shoulders. “Why?! Why would you do this? Are you trying to insult me?!”

“No!” You pleaded, but she only paced faster, breathing heavily as if on the verge of explosion. “I just... I just liked it!” you desperately tried to explain.

“Liked it? Or was it just that Joyce could afford you what I can’t?!” she booms, spinning around to face you. “Do you wish Joyce was your mother instead? So she could buy you fancy dresses when I worked my ass off for you?!”

A lump formed behind your forehead, the ache intensifying as your vision began to blur. Glancing out the window, you notice the gorgeous weather outdoors—a deceitful illusion that had led you to believe this day would be a good one. You were supposed to go on a lunch outing to that new Italian restaurant.

You clenched your teeth, holding back your words. Did you really give off that impression, simply by wearing this dress? Was it disrespectful of you to accept Aunt Joyce’s gift when you were meant to spend the day with Mother?

The pounding in your head became more intense. Was the adult world this complicated? That every action had layers of implications that weren’t visible on the surface? You had hurt her without even realizing it. If the adult world was this confusing, then how were you going to survive after turning eighteen? Nothing was ever simple.

You stand trembling, picking at your fingers until they bleed. With trembling lips, you dare meet her glare.

“I-I can ch-change,” you stutter, hoping it will calm her anger, anything.

But her brows furrow lower, her mouth twisting in a sneer. A sharp look as she spat: “Too late. You’ve already ruined our day. This is all your fault!”

You struggled to control your racing thoughts and the growing panic. "Please..." You pleaded through shallow breaths.

“Get out of my room.”

Ignoring your desperate pleas, Mother directs her gaze to the mirror, her eyes fixed on her reflection. She doesn’t look at you, but you know she’s waiting. As quietly as you can, you slip out like told. You close the door with a gentle click, and the house falls silent once more. The heaviness in your chest becomes unbearable because you know this will mean two days of Mother treating you as if you were invisible.

Something broke inside you. Fresh tears streamed down your face as the excruciating pain in your temple pounded relentlessly. Your body trembled uncontrollably, racked by waves of sobbing.

Mother wasn't always like this before, but you weren’t sure about that anymore. It was hard to conjure the image of that other version of her, now that the venom had infiltrated your veins, weighing down your eyelids and convincing you that Mother had always been born and started as a woman scattering eggshells in her wake.

Or perhaps you’re the poison. Perhaps you're the one who scattered the eggshells. Perhaps Mother’s venomous outbursts were merely her attempt at retaliating, releasing a barrage of curses and what-ifs. Of another life she might have had if you hadn’t existed, had she never met Dad.

(But I don’t know why I’m here, either.)

Now, you’re sitting on the edge of the plush bed, in the room Sabrina gave you and Simon. The ornate carpet seems to be the thing that catches your attention, but in reality, your mind is more preoccupied with what happened an hour ago: Joyce introducing Simon as your boyfriend to Mother, Mother pretending she’d known all along—“There just hasn’t been an opportunity yet,” as she tells Joyce.

The way she touches you in a gentleness you never believe she was capable of.

Drowning in the depths of your thoughts, you remained oblivious to the shower ceasing or Simon exiting the bathroom in all his bare-chested glory. Droplets of water clung to his skin; a towel hung around his neck. He stares at you like a crossword puzzle, hands on the waistband of his pants.

“You alright?” he asks. 

Forcing a smile, you say, “Yeah, I’m alright.” 

Simon’s eyebrows raise slightly, his gaze studying you suspiciously. But he’s never been one to push people into things they don’t want to say. He moves to retrieve his shirt from his bag.

Unable to hold back your guilt, you blurted out, “Sorry about Sabrina. She shouldn't have acted that way towards you.” You fidgeted with your fingers, seeking a distraction from the growing unease.

Simon paused, then turned first his head and then his body to face you. He claimed the empty spot next to you, the bed dipping heavily under his weight. You didn't dare meet his gaze, fixing your eyes instead on where his shirt was still bundled at his elbows.

“That really what’s ‘ad ya so tangled?”

You let out a humorless chuckle. If only he knew how much his gaze seared you—how desperately you searched for a momentary reprieve by averting your eyes from him. Yet, avoiding him was an impossible task. You dared to look up to meet his stare, feeling your heart flutter against an invisible grip.

“Maybe,” you answered, leaving the question unanswered.

Simon huffed out a breath. It seemed like the situation weighed more heavily on your mind than they did on his.

Feeling brave, you added, “And I’m sorry about my aunt too. For how she labeled you.”

Simon gave a non-committal grunt, and now you were desperate to unload the heaviest guilt of all. One that he probably won’t brush off so easily.

“And I’m sorry about my mother,” you began, voice small and hesitant. But the sentence had been said, and you had to finish it. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell her about you like she claimed.”

When you finish, you brace yourself for his reaction—for his confusion and skepticism, questioning why your mother would say that in the first place. You've prepared yourself to respond truthfully: you don't know. After all, there were countless things your mother did that you couldn't make sense of, no matter how much you racked your brains. By then, you had braced yourself for his irritation, a demand for clarification—or even an accusation that you are trying to trap him, to reveal his existence to your family to ensure he can't leave you so easily.

Feeling indebted to redemption, you try again, “If you want to leave early, before tomorrow… I’d understand.”

“Ya think too fuckin’ much, ya know that?”

You stare at him as Simon tucks his shirt on, muscle ripping under inked skin. He stands, reaching for the cigarette pack he left on the bedside table before he showered earlier. Considering his words, you nod more to yourself.

“Maybe I do.” You reply softly.

“It ain’t fuckin’ ‘ealthy, love,”

Simon shoved the cigarette pack in his pants pocket. He was the last person to talk about healthy habits when he smoked several packs a day. But who are you to judge? Somewhere beneath your brittle bones, in your greenish-brown flesh, you are just as poisoned, if not worse. Every day your mouth spews acid from the rotten fruit growing in your belly.

Based on your self-examination, you offered a simple two-word response.

“I know.”

The great hall was alive with music and laughter as Sabrina led the crowd, Andrew by her side with his possessive hand resting on her waist.

“Tonight’s our last night of freedom before the shackles come on, people!” she exclaimed dramatically, drawing laughter and cheers to fill the room. “So let’s eat, drink, and have a good time! But for the love of God, try to keep yourselves in check; we still have a wedding tomorrow!”

With a glass raised high, she prompted the rest to join her in a toast, followed by a domino of clinks and enthusiastic applause. From your perch at the far end of the room, you watched with a smile as Sabrina blossomed under the attention. Her friends flocked around taking photos, their phones flashing on and off before bringing the blonde into a crushing hug.

The looming shadow at the edge of your vision grabs your attention, and you turn to see Simon's imposing frame returning from a phone call. You greet him with a quiet “Hey,” searching his eyes. “Is everything alright?”

Simon leaned in close to your ear. “Yeah, everythin’s fine.” He cast his gaze on the last-minute decorations scattered around the room. “Fancy.”

You followed his gaze, nodding and bringing your champagne glass to your lips. “It is rather fancy,” you agreed softly, taking in the view of people dancing to particularly cheesy music. “Could’ve Gone For You” blared across the hall—it was a wonder no one had complained yet. “The music could be better though.”

As expected, he gave a derisive snort from behind his mask. “Could’ve gone without that sappy shite, if ya ask me.”

You laugh at his visible irritation, and he smiles—crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes—either in appreciation of his own joke or something else. Looking around, you see Sabrina flitting from guest to guest with her fiancé. Your uncle laughs with a group your age, no doubt torturing them with his lame jokes and exaggerated stories.

As your eyes swept further, a familiar face appeared in the throng. Sabrina’s mother is greeting everyone happily... and beside her, her. Your own mother glided near with a faux smile, her gaze finding you instantly across the room before it landed on your hands. And her face contorted in dislike.

Your airway tightens, and your grip on the glass stem turns your knuckles white. As your mother says something to your aunt—causing her to direct that bright smile in your direction—your breath comes out in short stutters that you refused to acknowledge. But unbeknownst to you, someone else had noticed your suddenly quiet demeanor.

“Here’s my favorite niece!” Aunt Joyce exclaimed, pulling you into her signature suffocating hug layered with her fragrant perfume. You forced a smile, cheeks straining under the effort.

Releasing you, she turned her attention to Simon, brows knitting in the absence of a champagne glass in his grip. “And you, Simon! Where’s your drink?” she asked almost as if she were offended, and before Simon could answer, Joyce waved her hands dismissively. “You know what? I’ll get it for you! Consider this a special treat from the mother of the bride.”

“Bring me one as well, Joyce.”

Then she spoke, unexpectedly. Joyce and you fell silent, exchanging a surprised glance. Mother abhorred drinking, berating even the most moderate drinker within sight of her. Yet here she was, requesting a glass of champagne, with a smile still not reaching her eyes.

Joyce hesitated. For a brief moment, as the conversation lingered in limbo, you hoped she would refuse, that she would stay and not leave you alone with her. But alas, your aunt left the conversation without questions, melting into the crowd with a resumed cheery demeanor and a “Coming right up!” abandoning you and Simon, betraying the image of a good host.

Mother smiled—a perfect picture of a mother—as she turned to Simon. “We haven't really had a chance to talk more, have we?”

The game starts. You wait for Simon's part in their exchange, fingers twisting white-knuckled around your champagne flute. Your heart races like a caged bird's, pounding against your ribs while acid explodes in your stomach.

Simon gave her a curt nod. “I s’pose not.” He answered so casually.

Mother chuckled softly, a sound like ice cracking. “My daughter right here"—she places a manicured hand on your shoulder, nails digging possessively into your exposed skin—“she's very shy, believe it or not; which is probably why she hides so many details from me about you.”

You despise the way her voice assumes a sweet, innocent tone—a mask to deceive yet another person to fall under the impression that she is a "good" mother and to normalize her prying into the lives of the people in your life with the excuse, "I'm just a mother who is worried about her daughter."

Something old, almost ancient, creeps up the walls of your stomach—rising, rising, rising like a tidal wave. Acid scorches your insides, your mind twisted in anxiety. You try to catch your breath to keep your expression schooled.

Mother smiled again, then asked, “What is it you do for work, Simon?”

You yearned to reach out to Simon, to tell him that he was under no obligation to answer. He valued his privacy above all else, you know, sharing little even with you. You wanted him to know that he doesn't owe anyone an explanation, least of all this woman who had so abruptly ambushed him with impudent questioning.

“Engineerin’ stuff, mostly.” came Simon’s reply.

You feel a spark of relief at his lie—one that tells you that he knows he owed this woman nothing. That he, like you, saw through her guise to the poison beneath. And in that, a dark triumph bloomed despite your raging gut. Perhaps it was a sick, twisted thing—the thought of another seeing Mother as she truly was and not as the loving mother she's pretending to be.

Proof that you're not crazy. That you're not the ungrateful, disobedient child who left home as she described to her relatives in pursuit of sympathy.

“An engineer, interesting,” Mother replied, though her smile remained cold. “It’s good (Y/N) has found someone so… capable.”

As she turned to you, you saw it—that brief flash of disgust, dislike, and something more threatening on the curve of her lips. A flash of fangs before the strike. The sour taste of acid reached your epigastrium as your head sank into déjà vu. It was like all the other times, when the family reunion was in full swing and she would tell a series of “jokes” about you.

Which, then, you soon learned was humiliation.

Mother would do it again, this time to Simon. She would paint you in a worse light and portray you as a weight that he would be wise to shed. And then later, after he was gone, Mother's arrogant triumph would be cemented in her chant as if she had proven a point, as if she was right once again.

As if people didn't leave you because of her.

To prove your fears, Mother sighed delicately. “It's too bad I live so far in San Francisco. If I were nearer, I'd be sure to give her lessons to improve herself—she still has a lot to learn, and I wouldn't want my daughter to burden you.”

At this point, the pain had already hit your head. Your mouth shut tightly as you desperately attempted to suppress the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm you. In your efforts to maintain a semblance of composure, you missed Simon's concerned glance.

“Reckon if anyone’s a burden ‘ere, it’s meself. But she don’t seem to mind it none.”

Feeling Simon’s hand squeeze your shoulder gently should have melted the tension away—but it didn’t. If anything, it only served to twist the knife deeper. Then, shame bloomed in your chest.

Under Mother’s watchful eyes, even his touch now felt tainted, as if it were something it shouldn’t be. A sin you had no right to. And you hated this—how easily she could twist even this, turning a comforting gesture into something dirty and wrong. It wasn’t, you knew, yet still you couldn’t banish the sickening guilt that writhed within like an eel.

You hate yourself for this.

Mother scoffed at Simon's reply, annoyed he refused to rise to her bait. “That's a surprise. You seem to like my daughter very much.”

The acid hit the tip of your throat. Setting down your champagne glass, you fled the room as fast as your unsteady legs could carry you, one hand clamped over your mouth. You burst through the nearest bathroom door just in time, collapsing in front of the toilet and retching violently. Stinging tears rolled down your cheeks. The acrid fluid spilled through your fingers, stripping your throat raw until there was nothing left but dry heaves.

Sitting on the cold tile, you feel as small as that sixteen-year-old girl again. Everything you’ve tried to do—leaving home and moving to a new continent, changing your phone number, making minimal contact with people who might tell her about you—now feels pointless. Foolish little girl.

How bad was it all those years ago? It's ironic that the memory has been blurred, yet your body still reacts the same way to her. Suddenly, a hole forms in your heart, a vacuum where all the big emotions are drained away, leaving only a hollow emptiness. Nothing. This yawning void is no better than everything.

Lost in the numbing fog, you jumped when the door banged open suddenly. Simon stormed in without a knock—very much in his character. The black mask obscuring his expression, but you could see his eyes burning with some intense emotion that you couldn’t place.

Judgment? Pity? Disgust? You don't know, and you're afraid of finding out.

Instead of answering your "questions," he crouches down in front of you, brown eyes sweeping over you, assessing your condition.

“You alright?”

His voice came out gruff, but there was an unusual edge you’d never heard before. Nodding slowly, you rasped, “Yeah, must’ve been the champagne.” It was a lame lie, but you were too tired to offer a better one.

Simon must have realized that too. He looked at you as if he knew what this was about, as if he had seen plenty of this. But, alas, you were a coward, choosing to avert your gaze and pretending his eyes didn't strip you bare to the bone. How could you explain to him that this was all because of a mother?

“Come on, let’s get ya back to the room, yeah?”

In that moment, you are reminded that Simon is not like her; he doesn't pry or make demands. He doesn't ask questions you fear to answer or force explanations you don’t want to elaborate. Whether it's kindness or indifference, you don’t know, but for now, it’s comfort.

Even as you wrapped yourself in a cocoon as soon as you reached your room, Simon let you. He closed the door after returning from another smoke, turning off the lights and letting the room bask in the pale moonlight coming through the window. The bed groaned as he joined you, his big, warm body close yet distant.

You fervently wish he would embrace you.

Fresh flower arrangements filled the air with a sweet scent; the wedding arch looked stunning with the decorations Joyce had mentioned the day before. On the long-awaited big day, the manor was bustling with excitement and nervousness. Bridesmaids were running around the hallway in their beautiful gowns.

Clicking his tongue, Simon wrestled the buttons of his suit jacket with effort. To think that clothes meant for his smaller, younger self years ago would fit his now bigger body was foolish; however, this was the only formal wear he owned back home. Besides, he had never been one for fancy parties (his life was more about simpler, boring affairs). If it weren’t for you, Simon was sure he wouldn’t be attending any more similar events in the future.

His lips released an exhale as the final button slid into place. Walking to the mirror on the far side of the room, Simon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. His broad shoulders were stretched to their limits, almost tearing through the black fabric with every movement. Like a grown gorilla stuffed in boy’s clothes. But it’d ‘ave to do, he supposed. Not like there’s time to run out for a new one now.

“All set then?” you asked Simon as you walked out of the bathroom after finishing your makeup and hair.

Glancing around, you saw his tie laid out neatly on the bed. You lifted the silk tie and turned to him, stepping closer to close the distance between the two of you. “Here, let me do this for you.” You offered him.

Simon inclined obligingly, lowering his head to allow you to loop the tie around his neck. The next part proved to be a challenge. Trying to bridge the gap between your heights, you rose up on your tiptoes, hands straining to cross the wide satin over the narrow one, but still fell exasperatingly short.

Releasing a sigh, you looked up into his eyes. “Could you maybe... bend down a bit? I can't reach up there." You said.

A wry smile quirked his lips, and for a moment, you thought he might refuse just to give you a hard time. But after a beat, Simon stooped lower so your faces were level. “How's this, then?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Simon watches your hands work deftly, tucking the strip of silk beneath in a half-Windsor knot. You pull it taut in the direction of his collar, then flatten out the delicate fabric's dimples on the sides. The tie is completely symmetrical after one last tug.

“There.” You smooth the silk against his broad chest.

You turn to do your other preparations, while Simon walks over to the standing mirror to take one last look at his appearance. Satisfied, he turns to watch you insert yourself into your light blue dress.

“Can you help with the zipper?” you ask.

Simon’s footsteps approached before you felt his big palm meet the skin of your back. Your breath hitched, goosebumps running down your spine. He worked the zipper until a brief hissing sound was heard, signaling it’s all set. “All done.” He announced.

Before Simon could stop himself, he leaned in to brush a ghosting kiss by your ear. “Ya smell nice as always.” His warm breath caressed your delicate shell, and you squeezed your eyelids shut as you tried to calm your pounding heart.

Turning to meet his brown eyes, you pause to take in the subtleties of his face, which you know he will conceal once more. The slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes in his rare smiles, the curve of his lips amidst his light stubble. He blinks, and those pale eyelashes flutter along with the butterflies in your stomach.

To be one of the few allowed to see him so unguarded feels like a privilege in its own way.

Your lingering gaze prompted him to ask, “What?”

You simply shook your head with a small smile. “You smell nice too,” you replied, barely more than a shy whisper.

None of you moved. The ceiling fan whirred on ceaselessly, filling the silence with the soft snores of its motor. Outside, the rustling of leaves in the wind waved along with the thin branches that tapped on the window. Your eyes returned to his lips as if it were the only way home, and you wanted to wipe their dry surface with the touch of your tongue.

All of a sudden, the fantasy of the future plays like a presentation inside your pretty head. In the countryside of England, what would it be like if this were your wedding instead of Sabrina’s? If Simon were the happy groom instead of Andrew. There would definitely be his favorite bourbon. You’d wear this classic, timeless wedding dress with a long veil and a waterfall bouquet. His parents and siblings (if he has any) would fill the front rows to watch you exchange vows.

Would Simon want that? Has he ever thought of a wedding with a previous girl? Your heart is gripped tightly by the green monster's hand. He was your first, and yet there was someone before you and another before them. Your chest weighs with the realization that his neck has been bared on lips that aren’t yours.

While you were lost in your own thoughts, Simon was fighting his own. And before he could stop himself, he was leaning in, pressing his lips against yours in a nearly desperate kiss. Your eyes widened, mind compelled to be dragged in as he yanked your waist to bring you closer. He grunted into your mouth as he walked you back, causing your back knees to meet the bed and you to sink into the soft mattress. Your hands curled around his neck by their own accord, clinging to him like a mooring rope that kept you in place.

You weren’t the first, you know.

You weren't the first, and that fact ignited a fierce anger within you. Your fantasies, so cherished, now tear apart like shreds of tissue. The desire to be the first skin he ever touched in lust, to be his living mannequin as he explored a woman’s anatomy and poured his pornographic imagination into you... all seemed like a distant pipe dream shattered by the harsh truth of reality.

These desires... they had almost been wiped away, replaced entirely with a fierce anger and a fierce urge to rid the world of any evidence of him having touched a woman who wasn't you.

But as his tongue expertly sweeps over yours, hooking and tracing the cavern of your mouth carefully, you find yourself lulled once again. His kiss like a prophet spreading a gospel, and surrendering to him is no longer an option. You know you weren't the first, yet you present yourself to him like a willing cattle to a slaughterer all the same.

The boisterous shouting outside the room grew louder, snapping both of you out of the moment. The hurried footsteps on the creaky, old wooden floor were easily heard, before someone's voice announced, "It’s starting!" followed by complete silence in the hallway once more.

Simon was the one to break the kiss, his gaze momentarily fixed on you before shifting to the door and then back to you like a dazed person. “Sorry.” The single word escaped his lips; you're not sure what he's apologizing for.

As he moved to stand, the bed creaked softly beneath his shifting weight. Your eyes follow his retreating form, lingering on his lips, still flushed and swollen from your kiss.

“Wait,” you breathed, catching his wrist before he could turn away.

Simon’s pale eyebrows knit together in a puzzled look, but he still says nothing. Hesitantly, you reach up to swipe your thumb across his lower lip, gathering the faint sheen of gloss left behind.

You chuckled. “You've got my lipstick on,” you explain, holding up the gloss-stained digit for him to see.

The expression on his face changed from confusion to a gradual realization, and finally, a hint of amusement as he let out his own deep chuckle. Licking his lips slowly, he brought his own thumb to swipe across, searching for more residue.

“Fuckin' thing,” he grunted as if in annoyance, but the crinkle around his eyes told otherwise.

Your lips were pulled into a smile. Reaching out your hands, you asked, “Help me up?”

As he pulled you to your feet, you took a moment to smooth your gown and hair, making sure you didn’t look too disheveled from the kiss. Simon retrieved his mask from his pants pocket, hooking the strap over his ear. Slipping your arm into his once more, you both made your way from the room.

From afar, the strains of romantic music (with better taste) colored the wedding day. The sun radiated warmth, casting soft, golden rays on friends and family who had taken their seats waiting for the ceremony to begin. As you and Simon walked along the fresh, green grass, sentimentality began to burrow into your ribs.

As you walk to your seats, your eyes are glued to the side view of his sharp outline. When the light seeps through his bittersweet chocolate, transforming his iris honey-colored, the throbbing in your chest is renewed. You could blame it on the wedding—on the love and romance that hangs in the air as two people prepare to be unionized in a testimony of many. But, in truth, you know better what this is.

A ballerina twirls atop your heart, pirouetting to its rapid rhythm. The pastor has opened the ceremony with the words of God, yet you are busy with your own unspoken prayers.

Please, make him stay.

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[thegnomelord]

Simon Riley hums to himself when he's alone.

He picked it up from his mom who'd hum the songs of her youth to distract her son from the drunken shouting of her no good husband. Every note clean, mellow, and quietly pulled from her throat with meathooks so little Simon would have to strain his ears and press his head to her breast extra hard to hear anything over the litany of slurs ringing through their empty home, the walls echoing the words as if to show the house itself did not want them.

The habit carried over to him, to self soothe without looking weak, be it when he was up all night studying for exams or in the bowels of a Mexico with his blood creating pools around him. It was an instinct by this point, to hum in his scratched up and raw voice so nobody could hear how broken it actually was.

The first time he did it with you, it was because he. . . He wanted to do it. Huddled on the couch watching some movie he didn't care about, with your head on his chest, feeling that Simon Riley was still alive. He felt the desire to hum bubble up inside him as he nuzzled his nose into your hair, the old songs he'd learned long ago all but leaping off his tongue.

The notes weren't as pretty as hers, his vocal chords couldn't produce clear or melodic sounds with how many times they'd been screamed raw, but you didn't care about that. You just cared that it was him who was making them, that he could be without the high concrete walls he'd usually build around himself.

Simon didn't know why that made him as happy as it did.