No Exactly

I would like to humbly more soup

(The one with detached reader and traumatized Simon that blurb was so tasty and ONLY only if you have the spoons for it ♡)

i have a ladle so have this

they share a cig together; it’s not even from simon. he found it in the drawers in their bedroom, stashed underneath a couple of CD’s that are only encased in paper folders. it’s an old pack with only four sticks left and they’re not even the potent kind, and simon realizes, then, that they have been hidden so carefully.

he purposefully lays them on the kitchen table, after dinner, to watch how she’ll react. it is, after all, still a breach of her privacy; that, sure, she opened her home to him but he knows, all too well, that there are certain corners in every house that are never meant to be prodded — apparitions made from memories live along too, and simon knows to be careful lest he rouses a nightmare from its burrow. he knows. he knows. still, he thinks about what he can coax from her, and chances it with the shadows.

but she just blinks at it, her eyes flicking between simon and the pack, slowly and cat-like, before heaving a sigh and reaching for her lighter in her pockets. simon hums, something low and curling with a quiet wash of disappointment at her impassivity, and moves to take a stick out from the pack, only—

a twitch in her fingers. a slight pause in her movements. a crack in the facade; a blip in her silence.

simon smells the blood in the water and pounces on it with snapping maws. he grins, careful, and utters, “y’don’t like it that i found them.”

he doesn’t need to ask when it is obvious that it is true.

she licks her lips, eyes meeting his, and simon wants to commend the way she was quick to gather her spillage and force it back in her mask, but her hands are still quaking, and her fingertips have turned light with how hard they are pinching the lighter, and simon knows that he’s won this one.

she knows it too. he sees it in the way she takes a ragged breath in; in her continued silence.

“they’re my mom’s.”

her voice doesn’t waver, it doesn’t break. it rings clear, like he just asked her what the weather was and she knows it is raining outside because when does the rain ever stop? but she is no longer looking at him, and simon—

he knows enough about the apparitions made from memories and pulls his hand away.

“i see.”

simon wonders if it’ll look too much like he’s licking the wound of his shame if he offers his pack instead, but in the silence of his words, as his own memories unfurl like miasma, she lights up one.

he devours the image she makes — the quiet ember flickering across her face, now smoothed off any storm — when she takes a puff. he doesn’t look away even when she passes the stick to him; doesn’t look away even when it is his turn to breathe it in, and for his patience, he is rewarded the sweet image of the smoke spilling from her lips as she collapses back to her seat with a soft upturning of her lips.

and, somehow, the night isn’t over even when they’ve finished the pack.

simon knows that this is the true victory.

it’s sad when Gaz is excluded in MW content and to defend him most people just bring up how cute he is, which isn’t wrong. but also we should acknowledge he is just a good character overall.

it’s disappointing that so many fans exclude interesting and well developed characters due to their looks or just them not being men. many characters in cod who are not conventionally attractive or are women are often not brought up by fans.

characters should not be disregarded because of design, gender, etc. let’s not make this a trend in the community.

simooooon

they will not leave me alone

more ancient gods

It's been two months since you appealed to the ancient gods in a last ditch attempt to save your village. Two months where soft rains fall every few days, healing the dried, cracked earth. Two months since most of those gone for battle return, scarred but no longer scared. Two months where game have slowly returned to the lands around the village, and barren plants have begun blooming again. Two months where the only death comes at the end of a long life.

You try to find a new rhythm to your days. Three months ago, you were another member of your people, albeit one with more knowledge of the old ways than was considered necessary. Now, though, the village elders have spoken in hushed terms of elevating you to the position of prophetess or seer, believing you have some direct connection to the four gods who saved them. You do not share their faith, but you still bear the initial marks of all four gods on your body.

You still do not know what it means.

In the meantime, the shrines you asked for have been completed, and you've become their de facto caretaker. You keep the altars clean and say prayers to each god in turn. After the way they've blessed the village, you think it might be good to consult the ancient tomes again; perhaps there are other gods whose aid the village could use If only there was a place to pray to them. If nothing else, you could learn how to better show devotion to the four gods who feel so real to you now, though you struggle to explain why.

A fortnight after the first rains fell, a young mother asked if she could make an offering to Gaz for the health of her new baby. Two days later an old man found you and, hesitantly, asked how he could ask the god of death to guide his wife in the afterlife. Two of the men you'd played with as a child bring seeds as an offering to Tav the night before they're set to till and sow the field. The former leader of your people's warriors brings his best weapon to lay on Jon's altar in thanks for bringing him safely home.

At night your dreams are more vivid. You find yourself in fighting leathers, sword in hand, as Jon teaches you swordplay. The god of death reminds you you gave your life to him, and he does not plan to cut you down so young, urging you to learn Jon's lessons. Tav joins you in Gaz's unwalled tent, dishes spread feet from the fertile fields where now both men use your body for their pleasure.

More than whispers of conversation carry from your dreams. Jon telling you the shrines and worship make their presence in your village, and in your life, stronger. Gaz hinting that dreams will no longer be the only place you see them. The god of death talking about the power of names before giving you the one your people had lost to time: Si. Tav commenting on how you'll glow when he can truly show you how powerful your fertility is.

Everything points to a reality you cannot comprehend. Until one day, half a year after that first night, your village is visited by four large men, strangers to all but you.

main masterlist

As Your Skin Gives

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist

Chapter Seven: eyes

tw: non-con

That night, Johnny does not let you go.

He keeps you like a long broken promise, arms squeezing around you tight enough to punish himself on your sharp edges, until his blood has coated you in an apology. It’s suffocating breathing the same air as him. Shared breaths. A union that’s almost worse than the joining of flesh. 

The heat makes it difficult to sleep. Between the summer breeze and Johnny’s warmth radiating off of him, you’re covered in perspiration when dawn breaks over the duvet in soft streams. Simon’s alarm rouses him not too long after, prompting him to roll over to look at you with a glare. His nose flares. Deep sniffs to the crown of your head before he grunts, fingers pushing Johnny’s arms off of you before he tugs on your collar. 

“Time for a bath, Bonnie. C’mon. You smell like a fuckin’ dog.” 

It’s the same thing all over again. Doted on hand and feet by a man who’s very existence attempts to convince you that you don’t deserve such grace. Fingernails scraping the grime and dried cum from your skin, angry lines searing into your muscles from his pressure—his fingers grace over your throat, and when it does you fear he might like how tender the flesh is there. That he might want to squeeze and see how far it compresses until the cartilage pops like fireworks in summertime. 

Your days continue to pass like this. Pathetic whining from Johnny as he begs Simon to have his way with you. Fingers down your throat to ensure you’ve taken your medicine like a good pup. Body crushed by sadistic love—nothing but a catalyst for debauched fantasies in rotten brains. Your bravery comes slow and careful as you find your voice again, though your words often fall flat. Too gauche to save yourself. Forever looking out the window, yearning for something softer—

—for fresh air. 

Sweat clings around your throat like a noose. It nestles underneath your collar, sticky and thick, where the leather adheres to your skin like it’s becoming a part of you. You’re morphing. Becoming the dog Simon so desperately pretends you are. A finger slides between your skin and your damnation, collecting moisture and grime, forcing you to grimace. It’s fine. You wipe your hand on the grass underneath you, and you remind yourself a little bit of sweat is worth it. 

You’re outside. 

Rays of sun kiss your skin between dancing leaves in the humid summer air as the grass acts as a bed below you. You could cry. You feel it build up in the back of your throat and the corners of your eyes—an odd relief. You never thought you’d be outside again, forever locked in that house with that crazy man and his disobedient mutt. A sweet summer breeze teases your hair and cools your skin as you lean against the trunk of a tree. Nature’s call whispers just beyond the edge of the forest where a cool stream babbles as it smooths stones and sediment along its bed. 

This is the most free you’ve felt since you were brought to this wretched place, though it doesn’t come without its drawbacks. There’s a ten foot radius in which you’re allowed to travel, as Simon has taken care to tie you tightly to the tree via your collar, ensuring your bright ideas can’t get the better of you. 

Johnny had begged and pleaded fruitlessly for days on end to let you outside with him, and then even more to let you join him in the forest—where he’s surely stalking around now—but Simon refuses to have any of it. You’re left alone with the brute as he tends to a modest garden with flowering tomatoes and cucumbers while Johnny allows himself to be swallowed up by the thick foliage and bramble of the woods. 

Still, while Simon works, you are allowed peace. Birds sing and call to one another in the branches above you as you pull budding clovers from the base of the tree. Pale green roots peel easily beneath your fingernails, and you shove them into your mouth. Its flavor is bland—watery and earthen. It’s the closest thing to freedom you’ve tasted for weeks. You savor it. Roll it around on your tongue before swallowing it down. 

“Bonnie!” 

Johnny calls your name from the environs of the forest, returning from his adventure with a wild array of flowers in hand. Metal clinks as the tag of his collar jingles in tune with his jogging, and he approaches you with a grin. Knees sink into the grass next to you as he holds the flowers for you to take—you’ve gotten better at not flinching when he moves around you. 

“Look! Pretty, aren’t they?” he asks. 

There’s no rhyme nor reason to the mess of flowers in his fist. Bruised daisies with spindly stems mixed with bright yellow buttercups and blood red poppies. They’re tied together with the thin, malleable stem of some greenery you don’t recognize. There’s a surprising weight to them as you take it into your own hand, thumbing over the cool stems. 

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, voice stiff. 

“Just like you. So pretty and soft.” He looks at you, and you can see the earth’s reflection in his eyes as it curves around the shape of your body. Large hands reach for you, warm palms cupping your cheeks as you freeze, tree bark digging into your spine as you stiffen. “I can’t get enough of you.” 

That brief taste of freedom quickly sours in your mouth as Johnny’s lips crash against yours, and you are reminded that not even in the glory of the outdoors are you safe. He is surprisingly soft with you, a gentle and adoring embrace, but there is a heat behind his skin that bubbles and roars. You feel it fight against him, skin searing and blistering. He’d eat you alive and leave your bones to bleach in the sun if he wanted. 

Johnny doesn’t stop at just a kiss. He never does. He’s always hungry. Always yearning. Greedy hands paw at your chest, pinning you against the unforgiving trunk of the tree while your heels dig into the soft earth beneath you. It gives you no purchase as your elbows buckle underneath his weight while you attempt to urge him off. 

In your head, you scream as clear as day, but your mouth makes no sound. 

“Johnny!” 

Simon’s call is the only voice of reason he listens to. The man tears himself from your lips as he looks over his shoulder, chest heaving. Thin strings of saliva keep the two of you connected, but they break with a gentle gust of wind, leaving the moisture to fall on your chest instead. A basket of vegetables sits in the brute’s gloved hands, and you want to laugh at how terribly domestic he looks with dirt stained pants and a sweat slicked brow. 

For a moment, he almost looks human. 

“Bring ‘er inside,” Simon orders. 

Muscles tense in your body as Johnny undoes the tether keeping you bound to the tree. Wilting fibers of pretty flower stems stain your hand, grip having destroyed their beauty in your poor attempt at denying Johnny his only right on this property. You leave them on the ground beneath the tree as Johnny beckons you inside with him. Truly, they are beautiful. Vibrant colors, soft petals—but you will not damn such an innocent thing to the same life as you. Better to rot in the shade of a tree. 

By some miracle, you are left alone after you’re locked back inside. You’re perched by the window in the living room, gazing at the dying bouquet of flowers as a curious bird pecks at the decaying flesh of its pollen. You envy it. Not the bird, but the floral mess it tears to shreds. You shouldn’t. You are already in the flower’s shoes. One in the same. Dainty things too soft to fight against the fingers that plucked you up from home. You wonder if, at the end of all of this, you’ll be laid to rest beneath a tree that will sing whispering lullabies to your corpse. 

Sharp, grating metal clinks and clatters in the kitchen capturing your attention and ripping you from your daydreams with clawed fingers. A fetid odor wafts around the house, assaulting your nose with a sharp sting that not even the breeze blowing through the window can quell. Curiosity gets the better of you as you slip free from your perch and you quietly wander through the living room. After spending more time than you would like to be trapped in this house, you have every squeaky floorboard memorized; you approach in silence. 

Gingerly, you peer around the corner of the entrance to find Simon sitting faced away from you at the table. Hulking shoulders stretch apart a stained white shirt as he scrubs away at something with a blackened toothbrush. Metal parts of varying sizes lay in neat lines in front of him, coupled with the wood stock of—

—a gun. 

Beautiful and well loved, the dark stain of the wood stock glistens in the light seeping through the windows as Simon scrubs at the inner mechanisms with a solvent. It’s gutted. Completely useless. Yet, your blood turns to ice in your veins at the very idea of the weapon. Every organ halts its functions, and you’re left in breathless terror. This shouldn’t surprise you. He drugged you, kidnapped you, and now keeps you like a pet—why wouldn’t this monster have a gun? And still, it’s a violent reminder. 

A gun isn’t as fun as his bare hands. 

Simon huffs as he places the part down in favor of a new one, coating the toothbrush with more solvent before continuing to scrub. Your brain finally begins to wake up as it sounds alarms deep within your psyche, urging you to flee, but as your eyes scan the surface of the table, you quickly realize there is no running away. There is no hiding place where his eyes cannot reach you. 

Phone propped up against a tool kit, Simon has a perfect view of everything in the house. The living room where you spent the last hour daydreaming, the empty bedroom, both entrances to the house—everything. There is not an inch of this prison that is not able to be broadcasted to his phone. Even now, the way your body curls around the doorway is within his view, proving your guilty nosiness. 

“Huntin’ season soon, Bonnie,” he says, hands still working. He does not look back. He doesn’t need to. You’re already in his line of sight. 

There’s a faint, gruff chuckle that leaves his lips when you silently back away, slinking into your burrow like the scared little rabbit that you are. You want to retreat back to the window, to watch the world pass you by, but it’s too close. It’s too close to Simon, and there are eyes in these walls. 

So you wander with your gaze trained above you, seeking out the glimpse of a camera lens as you try to calm your breath. You’ve been here for weeks and had never noticed such an intrusion, always too busy keeping your head low lest you gather unwanted attention. What has he seen you do? What has he watched happen to you? Has he seen it all? Every little thing Johnny’s done? How his favorite pet takes and takes and takes? Does he enjoy it when you’re undone? When you’re so used up you can’t even move? 

This is why he looks at you the way he does—asks you questions he already knows the answers to. You feel your fists clench, nails biting into your palms as your fingers quake. What a foul, nasty, terrifying creature. A beast with too many eyes for his own good. If you could, you’d pluck them out of his very skull one by one and eat them.

“Bonnie?”

Johnny’s voice stops you in the middle of the hallway. You’re not even sure why you’re here. Perhaps you were wanting to hide in the bedroom—cover yourself up in blankets as if you’re a child attempting to will away the scary man preparing for his hunt. But there’s something new; an unfamiliar door open, one you have never been quite brave enough to venture through. 

Treading carefully, you approach the door to find a strange room. Somehow, it’s quieter here than it is in the rest of the house, yet chaotically strewn about. Bookshelves hold art supplies on old boards, paint stains the floor in various spots, and a large cork board displays inky artwork. It’s overflowing. Pins diving into the walls, hanging up depictions of trees and unfamiliar rooms. In the midst of it all is Johnny, who sits at a large cartography desk marred with small scratches and spilled ink. He’s already looking up at the doorway before you enter, a smirk pulling at his lips. 

“I knew it was you. Your feet are lighter than Simon’s are,” he gloats. 

Blinking, you can’t help but tilt your head at his tone. He seems different somehow. Relaxed. A pencil lazily sits in his hand, tip resting against paper, graphite smearing along his pinky. You venture a step into the room, and he doesn’t seem to object. In fact, he welcomes it as he gestures to the corner of the room on your right. 

“You’re welcome to have a seat,” he offers. 

An oversized reclining chair sits nestled against the wall with fluffy cushions. Its seat is sunken in—well loved and used—yet looks all the more comfortable for it. Confused, you narrow your eyes at Johnny as you take another cautious step toward him. 

“Are you drawing?” You don’t know why you ask. It’s obvious what he’s doing, and speaking to the man who uses your body against your will on a regular basis is the most degrading thing you think you’ve ever done, yet your tongue moves anyway. 

“A bit,” he concedes. “The stream looked nice today. I wanted to draw it before I forgot what it looked like. I like saving memories.”

He turns the paper in your direction, and you can make out the image of it clear as day. Pristine water cascades over smooth stones in a tiny waterfall in the stream, swirling with faint bubbles and lost leaves. You can see every ripple of water; the tufts of grass that kiss the bed, and the flowers that sway in their midst. It’s alarmingly beautiful and expertly captured coming from a man who has only ever brought you pain. 

“It’s lovely,” you breathe. A proud smirk pulls at his lips as he brings the paper back into his view, and you swallow. “Do you… have trouble remembering things, Johnny?”

He shrugs. “I used to, but not much anymore. I’m all healed up now.” He states this flippantly as if it’s not a concerning thing to admit, all while tapping the side of his head. 

For the first time since you had the misfortune of meeting him, you look at Johnny. Really look at him. You see past the collar and the dumb glaze of his eyes and you catch on to the scars that litter his body. The tattoo on his arm—some sort of coat of arms you don’t recognize—the graphite staining his fingers, the puffy scar that dissects his hair near his temple. There’s a stark difference between the ruggedness he holds and the one Simon displays—Johnny is softer, somehow. Better loved and cared for. 

Someone else is in control of your body; someone stupid. Your fingers float through the air as you reach for him, skin brushing against the overgrown mohawk of his hair and then tracing the scar. It’s blunt. Round. Somewhat hidden behind the thick, dark hair on his head, but you feel the way it tugs and protrudes out of his skin. He sizes you up as you press against him, blinks, then leans into your touch. 

“Were… were you hurt?” you ask through the tightening of your throat. 

When he nods in confirmation, your touch slips from his head, but Johnny catches you. He’s gentle. Loving. He holds you, tracing the back of your hand with the tips of his fingers as he looks up at you through heavy lids. 

“What happened?” You need to stop. You need to shut up but the questions won’t stop pouring out of your mouth. No, you need to know more about them. Gather as much information as you can so when you finally get out of this hell hole, you’ll know exactly who to point at. 

Johnny moves your hand to his lips, pressing a fat kiss against your knuckles before rubbing it in with his thumb. “I had a bad day. That’s all, Bonnie.” Once again, his lips are on your hand, tender and soft, before he relinquishes it. The eraser of his pencil taps lightly against the wooden desk as his head quirks to the side, eyes clearing. “Go sit down, Bonnie.” 

Against your better judgement, you do. Something thick hangs in the air. A gnarly trepidation that you can’t shake, yet you sink into the recliner so easily that you nearly forget the discomfort. It’s easy to ignore the feeling of dread clawing at your chest when you’re busy searching the walls for eyes—

—and you find it. A small, impossibly tiny hole drilled near the far corner of the room. With that angle, it’s able to view nearly the entire room, save for the space just under it where a bookshelf resides. A faint glint from the overhead light illuminates the lens as if it’s winking at you, taunting and toying with you like the pet you are. Its reminder rings clear in your head, and you take care to engrave it in your mind as you glance back at Johnny. 

You’ve got to tread more carefully than this, Bonnie.

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The Captain - Simon Riley x Sniper!Reader, Wife!Reader

summary: Ghost’s sniper wife (reader) joins Task Force 141 on an op, against his wishes call sign: Freyja warning: mentions of violence and death (ofc), blood Next >>

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Getting into a verbal spat with a nearby stranger (Soap) over something inconsequential when you’re forced to overhear the loud, very confident, and horrifically wrong point he’s trying to make to his buddy.

He seems quite annoyed to be interrupted at first, but then he actually gets a good look at you, and suddenly he’s more than happy to engage with your criticism—you’re tenacious. The topic far too stupid to deem either of you the clear winner beyond personal preferences, so it ends up being a fight to see who can outlast the other, and neither of you are willing to let up.

You’re jamming your finger into his puffed out chest, missing the dangerous glint in his eyes that he gets as the digit makes contact with his shirt when an uninvolved party jeers at the two of you to get a room.

Your eyebrows nearly fly off your face when your Irritating opponent snaps back with a frustrated “-ah’m tryin’!”

Thinking very hard about Kyle and period sex too. Kyle with his long fingers, kneading your thighs until cramping goes away, bringing you warmed up heating pad and murmuring “know it hurts, doll. It’s okay, just breathe, you doing good”.

Kyle who notices when you breathing changes, when you get restless with need you can’t sate, not on your own — his lips trailing down to your knees, cheek rubbing on your thigh when he asks “can I, baby?”.

You grumble, cheeks heating up because you are going to be messy and you are bloody and it will ruin the bed and he will be messy too and—

Kyle hums, nodding along and drags your shorts off, tapping your hip so you’d raise them for him to spread the towel under you. He kisses your thighs, teeth grazing meat of them, pressing harder the closer he gets to your pussy.

Aching, sensitive and slick. Poor you, got so needy and thought it to be an inconvenience?

Kyle, whose long beautiful fingers spread you open so he can drag his tongue up, taking a long lick, so he’d greet your clit already warm and slick. Lips of his pressing into you gently as he holds you open. Just like that, baby, be good for him, be still, okay?

He will take care of everything.

Kyle who is leaving kisses all over your pussy, sucking the folds of yours in his mouth, giving love to every soft tender bit of yours. Can’t have his favourite girl getting cold, can’t he?

And Kyle can keep you warm alright.

He sucks on your clit, tongue trailing up and down until you are whining “Kyle-Kyle-Kyle”, like it’s all that you know, like it’s all you can remember. Your hand pushing his head lower, forgetting about the blood and the mess and any embarrassment.

Because Kyle groans in you pussy, sucking it clean and laving it with attention, his hips moving when you whimper “Kyle” again, his hips grinding into the mattress so he can get some relief too.

Because Kyle is so hard it’s enough to make him dizzy, drunk on you, his head so empty he feels it ringing and cracking like a white noise of faulty telly.

Because Kyle looks up at you, bloodied, eyes half lidded and fingers holding you open when he presses another kiss to your clit.

He licks another stripe up your pussy, breathes out “wanna cum, baby?”, like you weren’t rocking your hips in his face a moment ago. Cheeky bugger.

Kyle’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in slow perfect circles, making you whimper, blood and slick dribbling down on the towel when he taps it, toying.

“Say please, doll.”, he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh again, his pupils blown wide, his other hand tugging his sweatpants down so he can hump the bed in peace. “Say ‘please, Kyle’.”, he sucks a mark in your thigh and taps your clit again. Impatient. Hungry. Greedy for your attention.

Kyle is the best there is and it’s not up for a debate. Kyle wants to know you think so too. Kyle wants you to plead for him because one needy whimper from you and his cock leaks so much it’s embarrassing.

“Please, Kyle, wanna cum”, you choke out, hips twitching to roll into his touch, his thumb feather light on you. Infuriatingly so. Giving you just enough to keep going and not nearly enough to push you over the edge.

“Need me so bad, baby? Need your Kyle so fucking bad, don’t you?”, he breathes out, diving back between your thighs, grinding into bed, sucking on your clit until you are trembling and gripping his hair, trying to pull him closer. So hungry for him, so needy, he groans, his own hips twitching, heat dripping to the base of his spine, pooling in his abdomen.

Until he is blind with want, until he is drooling all over your pussy, eating you out like there is no tomorrow.

Kyle, who pushes you over the brink and laps up every drop of pleasure, drunk on you, hazy with want, his thighs trembling, stomach sticky with his own release. Can’t help it, doll. Not when you squeeze his head and moan his name and cum on his tongue.

Not when you are being so good to him, chanting his name, letting him eat his fill — spoiling him really with all that, baby. Being so sweet, that he’d gladly spend the rest of his life between your legs.

If you promise that he is going to be your Kyle through it all, baby. Deal?

Hey. Your brain needs to de-frag. Literally it needs you to sit there and space out.

If you want your memory or executive function to improve, stare out a window at the skyline or sidewalk or trees or birds on the electrical wires for like 20+ minutes per day. (With no other stimulation like a podcast or TV if you can manage but hey baby steps innit). If you're fortunate enough to have safe outside with any bits of nature, go stare closely at a 1 meter square of grass and trip out on the bugs and shapes of grasses and stuff.

Literally this will make you smarter. Our brains HAVE TO HAVE this zone out time to do important stuff behind the scenes. This does not happen during sleep, it's something else.

That weird pressurized feeling you get sometimes might be your brain on no defrag.

Give your brain a Daily Dose Of De-Frag.