brainr0t-landfill
childish interests, grotesque mind
call me Rusty, he/him, reqs/asks always open unless stated otherwise, always check tags or tw lists, English isn't my first language I apologize for any mistake, not main account, open thw criticism
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This this this forever we love our over-formal queen give her some respect
me genuinely tweaking when i read fics where farah speaks english informally and uses contractions instead of how she actually speaks in the game (will not instead of won’t, i am instead of i’m, etc)
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"Hope her vengeful spirit gentles"
Aaaaaaaa going insane, clawing at the walls, chewing drywall the way they're trying and trying to make it natural make it organic despite everything that would make Pershopne their in their disposal the way they don't succeed it's really really like a greek tragedy there's no way around it aaaaaaaaa I'm drawing circles in a wheat field Peaches you've done it again you've done it again I'm chewing my own tail
The Lethe
An Ichor Veil masterlist
Ghost/Soap/female reader
7.3k words - AO3
Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Greek mythology au, modern retelling. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Smut, M/M/F, loss of virginity. Praise kink. Breath play. Pain play. Feelings of fear, jealousy, and anxiety. Mention of abuse by reader's mother.
The next morning, you wake alone.
You lay alone too, dread swirling in the cosmos, a thick, uneasy tension swooping over the palace where you linger, the protracted creep of corroded hanging moss, a thick curtain of dying green.
Memory is sharp. It’s fickle. It has a hold on you, your mind, your body, and your legs shift restlessly in bed, thighs pressing together.
Cerberus snores on the rug in front of the fireplace, lean and lissome and stretched long.
They open their eyes as soon as your feet touch the floor, shaking off their stupor and trotting over to rest all three heads on top of your thigh.
Pet me.
How could you say no?
“I really have to use the bathroom.” You whisper after giving each ear a good scratch, stretching tall, bones and muscle all stringent, but not sore. Almost nothing feels tender, you realize, and when you inspect yourself in the bathroom mirror, there’s no evidence of last night.
No raw, punished skin.
No puncture wounds.
You’re relieved, the impending doom-like feeling that plagued you the moment you opened eyes lessens, and-
A small shard of disappointment settles in its place.
Did you desire to wear their mark? To have them on your skin, by choice?
Your back is an ugly crisscross of fine golden lines, all remnants of the Whip.
These, you did not choose. These, you do not wear proudly, or at all. You hide them. You’d rip them from your skin if you could. Pull them out from tip to tail, scratch yourself raw.
You’ve already tried.
Your fingers find the faintest remnant of last night, a small dip in your skin the circumference of a tooth. Everything comes flooding back, the sting of your palm against the John’s cheek, the indulgent dig of the cuffs in your wrists.
They stole you.
Do you care?
You expect to feel more unsettled. More enraged, but it only trickles through like a summer’s spring, barely bubbling up through cracks in the earth. You feel betrayed by their thievery of you, but something else lurks beneath the surface, something soft and beautiful, threatening to drag you in with it.
It’s dangerous here, but not in the way you were expecting.
Maybe it is the separation from the wildest part of your being that has cooled your temperament, somewhat.
Only somewhat.
After all, you did hit John in a fit of rage, did you not?
A loud knock rattles the door. Cerberus whines.
“My lady.” A Naiad stands on the threshold of the room, your room, you suppose, her black clothes, nearly white hair both ethereally sleek, hands clasped in front of her waist.
“Um…”
“Your presence has been requested, if you are…” she pauses, delicately, jaw tilting with a shadow, eyes narrowing into slits. “Awake.” She sweeps over you, performing an inspection for something from head to toe, and you find yourself studying her ears, their needle pointed tips accentuated by such symmetrical bone structure, she nearly looks like a cat.
She regards you like one too. Aloof. Holier than thou.
Bitchy.
“I am.”
“Wonderful.” But it doesn’t feel wonderful, the word overflowing with acid. Who is this female?
“I’m sorry, who…”
“I am Minthe, my lady.” Why is everyone calling you that? All the time? You frown.
“Like the plant?” Cerberus shifts at your side, rising on their haunches just so, and she glares at them.
“Yes, my lady. Like the… plant, as you say.” Her teeth shine into a smile, forced and uncomfortable.
Something is wrong here.
“Will you be joining us, or shall I inform them you deign to continue resting?” Us?
“No, I’m well rested, thank you.” She inclines her head, graceful movement elongating her already supple neck. You study her, cataloging her razor-sharp fingernails, polished heels, chin length bob. She seems like an assistant of sorts, heavy black book tucked under arm.
“Very well. I will wait for you here.”
“My Kings. The lady Persephone.” Gross. Minthe announces you, stepping to the side to allow you entrance from behind, the removal of her in your path revealing a large office, two dark stained wood desks with two very handsome gods seated behind them. Bookshelves blanket the walls, and in the middle of the room, a magic made map of the cosmos glows, gold and blue light dancing across the black marble floor. There’s a giant leather armchair in the corner, wide enough for two, and a soft blanket folded over the back. It’s cozy, homey, a welcome surprise.
Your body aches. Desire simmers in the bottom of the stomach, skin prickling with a shiver.
How is it two beings you hardly know are so capable of making you so crazy?
“Darling.” John croons, rising from his chair. There’s a sharp intake of breath to your side, barely audible, stifled. “How did ye sleep?” He’s close now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him, if you were so bold.
A magnet draws you closer.
A collar. A leash.
Hades holding the end of it.
“Fine, thank you.”
“That will be all, thank you Minthe.” Simon dismisses her, still focused on you. She steps away in silence, and when the door clicks closed- John is on you.
He presses close, arm snug at the small of your back, forehead dipping down to rest gently against yours.
“Sweet Persephone.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. “Are ye well?”
“Yes.” You breathe. You welcome his touch, this affection, and it feeds a sapling, roots trying to take hold, trying to survive. To grow. To bloom.
His lips lay above your brow, long kiss freezing into a slow moment, and Simon watches with a satisfied smile, a loving glance exchanged between the two as John pulls away. “Have ye eaten?”
“No, she, Mint, brought me right here.” He holds a laugh at bay. “Who is she, anyway?”
“Minthe was once our consort, now she works as an assistant of sorts.” Simon says the slowly, and the room darkens, shadows building in the corners, flooding the cracks and crevices of the bookshelves.
Well, that explains just about everything, then.
“Your consort.”
“Aye. But ye dinnae have to worry, we’ve not been with her in quite some time. We’ve been waitin’ for-“
“Johnny.” Simon stands, moving into your space. It’s only his name, and still so much more is communicated within those two syllables.
Waiting for what?
“Would you like breakfast?” He’s smooth with the disruption, steering and redirecting the train of thought.
“We hoped ye would want to take breakfast in here, with us.” John explains softly, and you nod. A simple request.
“Sure.” You pause, considering. “Could I…” Would they still have them? Is it rude to ask? You’re not quite sure how it works. Is there a kitchen?
“You can have whatever you like, darling.” Simon encourages.
“Portokalopita?” Johnny chuckles, tugging you a little closer, mouth to your temple.
“Of course.”
The orange cakes arrive with a fragrant pot of coffee and some Greek yogurt, slivered almonds on the side. Your usual breakfast. You blink, suspicious for a half second before remembering-
“Why were you watching me?” Simon tenses. “I mean, it’s obvious, now, that meeting John outside of Hebe’s was not coincidental, was it?”
“It was not.” You tuck your feet up into the chair, shifting on your side with a steaming cup in your lap. “We have been… curious about you.” Your blood runs cold. The marks on your back begin to sting, a phantom pain you know does not exist, but still plagues you. Hurts you.
“Curious.” You croak. “Why?”
“We have heard stories. It is rare that we find ourselves so… fascinated by one who dwells in Olympus. John and I, we felt… a desire, to learn what we could.” John smiles, turning fully to face you, reaching for one of your hands.
You do not give it. You’re uneasy, like there’s a direness lurking in the darkness of the room, waiting to pounce. It’s an overwhelming inclination of trepidation, of misanthropy… much like the rivers spilling from this land.
“So, you spied on me.”
“We did.”
“And… you don’t see an issue with that?”
“I… understand how this may be unsettling to you.” Unsettling? More like a set up?
“I don’t…” You sip your coffee, trying to pick through a smattering of words. You must choose them carefully, you’ve come to realize, to get answers. “I don’t understand, why go to such great lengths? There are dozens of other goddesses, more beautiful, more composed, more worthy of your attention than… me.” You, Demeter’s daughter. Demeter’s failure. You, the goddess who rarely leaves her temple, the one who does not engage in socialite events or associate with the more powerful Golden ones in the city.
You, who talks to plants.
“I mean, look at Hebe, or Artemis, one of the Pleiades, they’re all-“
“No.” Simon cuts to the quick. “We do not care for other goddesses, sweet Persephone. We only care for you.” An undercurrent of power ripples, shuddering between the three of you. “Our affection, our care… is only true for you.”
“Me.” Because they do not know you. If they did, the affection would certainly wane. How long would it be, before Minthe was warming their bed once more?
“You, darling. It’s why we brought you here. To know you, as you are. Not as your mother intended, or how chatter portrays.” You look between them, slow eyes finding solemn faces, dogmatic in their assurance. “We had hope you might… enjoy our company, as we believed we would enjoy yours.” John shifts. It’s a fractured movement, barely perceived, but unsettled, and he cocks his head afterwards, gaze thick and focused on you.
“I told ye, we’d never hurt ye.”
“I know.” You whisper. You believe it now, to an extent. A pool of guilt tugs you into its current, an apology bubbling up over your tongue. “I’m sorry… about… striking you, last night. It was unbecoming of me.”
“I know ye are.” He soothes, and Simon interjects.
“The next time you feel an overwhelming urge like that, you tell us. We’ll take care of you.” His smile drips with a predatory gleam, and you’re suddenly inside a memory, the feeling of ichor sliding over your skin, spilling down around your fluttering rim, his finger pushing inside your body where you’ve never been touched by another. His mouth, covered in it. Golden lifeblood smeared across his lips, John’s cum spilling down your throat, molten earth, burning you anew.
What started it all? The idea that they locked your magic away? That they took you?
That they trapped you.
“I felt…” You tap over your heart, signifying the part of you that’s missing, and he nods in acknowledgement.
“I understand. It’s a difficult thing, we’ve asked of you, and you’ve done so well.” Your hands tremble, fighting the urge to preen like a raven beneath the praise.
It encourages you. Urges you to talk, spill secrets, let go of weights holding you at the bottom of the sea, where you cannot breathe.
“My- my mother. She used to do something similar. When she felt like I was out of control. When I became… too much. It’s a familiar feeling.” They exchange a long glance, and then John kneels, a hand on your knee, the other stroking deft circles into your thigh.
“Persephone. The scars,” Your eyes slam shut. “on yer back. They were made with a magical object. Did Demeter do that?” He demands, and you inch away, trying to create space, trying to escape this- this conversation, this vivisection.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” You whisper. “Please.” His eyes are so blue. Like the Aegean, a venetian, crystalline color that deepens when he frowns, his emotions worn so plainly for both you and Simon to see. He’s distressed, like he wants to scoop you up, carry you away. They’re both staring at you with… pity. “Do not pity me.” You snarl, hackles rising.
“It is not pity you see, darling.” Simon shakes his head. “We do not pity you, or your strength. The story of your temple is known far and wide, even to those down here. It is sadness that we feel. With you.” The lump in the back of your throat is thick, too thick, and it threatens to derail your composure.
You push past everything else. The assurance you could come to them, when you felt like you were going to explode, detonate across the world, when everything turns white and you need your pain, your pleasure.
You’re only here for a day longer.
The rest of your breakfast is put aside, and you stand between the two with an open palm.
“Well, then. What’s on the agenda for my last day?”
There are many places in the Underworld that hold you captive, but Hecate’s piece of it, a forest of dew dropped trees with gnarled trunks and lavender flowers, vibrant mosses shuddering beneath your feet, a hollow thrumming with the wildest of magics, leaves you breathless. The goddess is just as striking, tall and elegant, deep black hair that swings at her hips, emerald eyes and pointed nose perfectly set in her face. Her skin glows, a sepia drenched harvest moon, and when she reaches for your hand, you swear you hear the barking of a dog.
“My lady.” She gives you a graceful squeeze before she releases and bows her head. “You are more lovely than the rumors credit.”
“Oh.” Your face heats. “Thank you.”
“The rumors say ye’re as fair as Aphrodite.” John teases, and your eyes go wide.
“Surely not.” You brush it off, but the tingle across your skin remains, flattery nestling in your heart. “Your home… is beautiful.” You try to give it back, deflect it upon her, and she watches you with knowing eyes.
“Thank you. It was born from me, as I’ve heard your temple was from you?”
“Yes.” She motions to a winding path that disappears into the thick of the trees, and you oblige, soaking in the sparkle of the wood. The magic is dense here, heavy, like water, flowing through all things, the roots, the leaves, the crows adorning the branches, following you from perch to perch. You don’t notice, when John and Simon start talking, asking Hecate a question about… something, too transfixed on the multitude of colors flourishing at the tops of the canopy, leaves and petals fanning out like a muted rainbow.
Again, you’re struck with a confusing consideration.
How is it the Underworld is capable of such life?
Hecate’s piece of this realm is alive, lush and untamed, resonant magic oozing from every spiral and cell in the moss, in the bark, in the air. Amethyst leaves ranging in size from head to hand fall from the sky like the changing of seasons, and the entire hollow breathes with it, power pulsing in a light breeze all around you.
Even the crows are thriving, living things. Part magic, part bird.
You frown.
“Persephone?” Simon questions, gentle hand on your back. It’s warm, and firm, pulling you into the touch, butterflies in your belly slowly cracking their eyes opening, greeting the day with a flutter of wings.
“Sorry, it’s just… the crows, they’re… alive?” Hecate laughs.
“Yes, they live. They’re my own murder, traveling as I do, between the Underworld and Olympus.” She holds out a hand and an iridescent, onyx feathered companion lands gracefully in her palm, preening. “There are many corvids here, now. Magpies, jays, treepies. They’re supposed to stay confined to the hollow, but I suspect some of them have made friends in Asphodel Meadows.”
“Now? Were they not here before?”
“No birds lived in the Underworld, before Hecate’s residency.”
“Hades allowed me a home,” she smiles at them, gentle appreciation aglow on her face, and then turns back to you. “a gift in itself, and so, I give them one in return.”
“You are more than generous.” John says. He walks close, hand lax at his side, fingers occasionally grazing yours. The touch is hardly a moment, fleeting, but it burns you through, muscle, soul, and bone shivering in response.
“Hades is benevolent, though they’d never let Olympus know it.” She murmurs, raven black hair catching in the wind.
“I’m starting to see that.”
“This is the Lethe.” Simon gestures to the rushing river before you. It’s not a river of hopelessness, like the Acheron, but something else. Something different.
It’s a river of loss.
“What… what is it?”
“The Lethe is the river of oblivion. She takes memories from souls, freeing them from past torments, or pleasures.” John is gentle, grasping your elbow, keeping you close at his side. You don’t resist, sinking into the warmth of his body, letting his steady comfort guide you away from where you stood at the edge, entranced by the low rumble of the water, the melodic call echoing from the rocks below.
“Or it serves as a punishment.” Simon warns at your back. The chorus rises, song reverberating, and you tip forward, away from John, straining to hear who it calls, the repeated exhalation of your own name.
“Persephone.” He warns, heavy magic blanketing the ground, cypress and white poplar drifting on the breeze, thick with the weight of his magic. “If the Lethe were to take you, there would be no returning to Olympus, or your memories. She is a power even we do not control.” She.
“She? What do you mean?”
“She was, is, a goddess in her own right.” Your eyes widen, the river hissing and crooning to you, desperate vibrato just on the cusp of her song, a sound sharper than a banshee’s wail. “Of all the rivers in the Underworld, she is the one to be feared. We can free a soul from the Acheron, or the Pyriphlegethon, we can forbid a crossing of the Styx, but we cannot return memories taken by the Lethe.” Simon draws you away, arm around your waist. “Come.”
John drags you back to the meadow.
He cradles you in his arms, opposite Simon, who sits silently, eyes half lidded, reclined on his elbows.
“Do ye like it here?”
“It’s beautiful.” You trace the fragile petals, white velvet smooth and soft, canary yellow pistils shimmering in the afternoon sun. “I love narcissus.” Simon’s mouth quirks to the side, turbulent sea settling after a storm when you look his way, and John tucks your back into his chest, heavy arm across your shoulders.
“The Underworld agrees with you. It is not every day the Narcissus sing for a soul.” His mouth is on your cheek. You press, pushing skin between teeth, and he obliges with a nibble, not enough to sting, but with enough pressure you feel the edge of his incisors, vicious points of his canines.
“It’s… not what I expected.” This is easy to concede. Easy to close your eyes and slip away in the web of them, their hold, their touch. Easy to pretend they didn’t steal you outright, they haven’t locked your magic away, they haven’t taken you from your only home.
“Would ye come back? To visit with us?” Your eyes are still closed, and you hold them there, fingers sliding through the lithe growth of grass, stroking across stems and petals, feeling for the pulse of their power, the magical force of nature existing the same in a tiny blade of greenery, as it does in every fiber of your goddess hood.
“Yes, I think I would.”
They lay you down in a crux of a hill, legs spread upon a bed of Narcissus, fragile blooms crushed beneath sacred weight, a cacophony of power joining together.
Your mouths meet, again and again, limbs and tongues and teeth joining together in a rapturous haze, a firestorm brewing inside you, a swell of power so strong you can feel it tearing at your skin, glorious and brazen, clawing at the cage. It is wild in your heart, in your mind, and only burning brighter as Simon tugs you close, a hand over your heart, his mouth on your breast, teeth grazing your nipple atop muslin, an insatiable god devouring at a mystical altar.
When he bites down, your legs fall wide, and John kneels in prayer.
There are many names for it, you know, but in this moment, it’s as if time is old, a god’s back bowed for you, his mouth on your cunt, sacrosanct promises running free like the rivers of this land, like the spring bubbling up from the depths of your temple, pulled from the land like John pulls pleasure from you.
Ichor runs. It paints you in gold, drips from Simon’s mouth and between your legs, mixing with the slick and spit swirled by Johnny’s tongue, the cusp of a cliff’s edge growing closer and closer-
But not close enough.
A gilded hand fits your throat, a collar made of divinity, and he squeezes, enough to make your vision spot, fingers digging into the dirt and roots and stems of flowers long crushed. John does not relent, only pushes you farther and farther against the edge, sanctifying the bond stitching between the three of you each breath you draw, the spool of Fate spinning long woven threads stretching to the end and beginning of time, knitting you into the patchwork of their lives, their eternal existence.
Their goddess.
Your Hades.
“Come, Persephone. Come for us.” Light explodes, forcing your eyes shut, and you tremble between them, crying out their names in near hysteria, celestial light bleeding from your skin like a star in the sky.
John gasps.
Simon tips his chin to the sky, and laughs.
Their room is quiet. Dark in the daylight, an empty burrow dug by a fox, pitch black emptiness as far as one can see.
“I’ve never…”
“We know.”
They hold you like treasure, like glass. Gentle words and touch, John cradles you in the cove of his body, magic zinging across your skin, sparks flying in the room.
Simon kisses the inside of your knee, arranging you carefully between John’s spread legs. He’s hard at your back, heavy cock throbbing hot on your skin, but he only grabs your hand to hold it when you reach for him, tucking you gently back into his cradle with his lips on your neck.
Is this what it feels like? Love?
“What do you want darling?”
“You. Both of you.” Simon, aglow in the flickering fire light, smiles at you and John, pride and glory, divinity still fresh between his teeth.
“Let us care you for tonight.”
You nod, and clothes vanish. John’s cock weeps in the cleft of your ass, his body trembling with effort to hold himself still, and you turn your face to his, letting him work his tongue into your mouth as Simon stretches you a finger, tiny explosions of pleasure imploding with each stroke.
Hands, teeth, tongue- a tangled mess of divinity.
Powerful gods, together mightier than Zeus, worshipping between your legs, glory abound in the sound of your moans. Simon gives you more, languid touch turning fevered, adding another finger to your soaked entrance, and you gasp, spine quivering in pleasure.
The gods kiss. Simon cups John’s cheek, holding him steady, exploring, deep and true. You can only watch, mouth ajar, taking in every lavish touch exchanged, Simon’s bicep flexing as he pumps John’s cock, a crease in his eyebrows when there’s a huff and moan.
“Darling.” Simon murmurs, thumb and forefinger holding your chin. John presses his lips to your neck again, nipping and sucking your skin, fingers ghosting over your belly and breasts. It makes you squirm, insatiable hunger rising in your throat, in your soul, and you yearn for them, for this, for it to culminate and flower.
Bloom.
“Please.”
“Ye dinnae need to ask.” John hums, delicately lifting one of your knees, exposing you like a spring blossom. “Look at ye, already desperate for him.” He strums through the wet mess between your legs, fingertips lifting to his mouth, lashes fluttering as he licks.
You want to correct him. Want to tell him it’s not only for Simon, but for him too. That everything is for both, a balance of scales, pain and pleasure and passion all revolving around the two of them, with you in orbit.
But your words fail, and John looks at you with eyes full of stars, endless night dotted in endless nova, like you’re the one being orbited, being loved, being worshipped on consecrated ground.
“You give us a great gift, little goddess.” Simon’s palm rests on your thigh, thick, swollen cock leaking against your skin. He’s big, bigger than you’re sure will be comfortable, a little bit of fear starting to pique as you shift, and he leans, an elbow near your shoulder, face above yours, level with John’s. Everything slows, Olympus stopped in its tracks, the Underworld holding its breath, and the three of you breathe, magic tugging and tearing at your souls, dragging you closer to the cusp of something unknown.
You can feel it.
“We’ll go slow.” He strokes your cheek. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, yes?”
“Yes.” There’s a softness in him, intimidating edges all worn gentle, and his eyes are heavy, focused as he pushes into your body, fire and flood making your fingers dig into John’s thigh.
It burns.
It hurts.
It’s good.
The agony is decadence, sharp tinged pain morphing into fiery pleasure, burning in your soul and your veins. You moan, and John presses his thumb to your tongue, holding your jaw firm as Simon begins to move, carefully working you open with gentle strokes, gritted restraint clear in his jaw.
“F-fuck.” You hiss around the digit in your mouth, and they both watch, observing, waiting for a safe word or a warning sign.
Nothing comes.
Only pain.
Only pleasure.
“More.” You croak, and Simon noses your cheek, lips drawing a line up Johnny’s forearm as he strokes, hips swinging to meet yours, body trying to fold in half when he seats himself so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly. “Oh gods.” Your eyes roll back in your head.
You’re on fire. Burning in the pits of Tartarus, crammed between the gods of death, exalted through mounting pleasure and pain, twisted together in veneration.
Simon shoves deeper, up through your cunt to your throat, through your magic and out your mouth, insanity leaking from your lips like you drip around his cock. It’s obscene, the way he batters into his body, the lap of John’s tongue in your mouth, his finger against your clit, how you light up beneath them like a supernova.
“There it is.” Simon’s eyes glow, observing and inspecting, watching the way you take his cock, celestial light spilling from your pores. You cling to them, shiny like a pearl, iridescent and wild, groaning with each thrust.
They split you open, crack your very soul wide, broken cypress beneath an axe.
It’s an unrelenting pace, an lewd show of slick and tears and sweat- ichor that runs down your throat when John pinches your clit, inside of your cheek crunching between your molars like a meal.
“Ahh, please- please.” You’re rambling. Begging.
More. More. More.
“Sweet little thing.” Simon spits, cadence transforming into something slow, the subtle rock of a boat on the sea, nudged up against your cervix. “Perfect little pussy, made for your gods.” Plural. Like they’re both housed in one, experiencing together, breathing and fucking and biting, as one.
John pushes his nose under your jaw, iron grip lashed across your waist, holding you steady, keeping you in place over the reverberation in your chest of screams and moans, noises unlike a goddess and more like an animal, a tiger, a bird-
Simon slams into you. The pain is shocking, and you scramble, reaching for purchase, clinging to him, to John, explosion of stars illuminating your vision.
When he rains a hand down across your flank, your eyes roll back, slipping beneath the swell of pleasure and pain, a war raging between the two.
“Good girl-“ Simon grits, and you pulse around him, greedily, squeezing with another strike against your flesh, fingers dug into your hip. There’s a glimmer of darkness in the room, ebbing cruelty lingering in the corners, watching in wait, bidings its time, knowing it needs the right moment, the perfect crescendo in order to strike.
“Look a’ him.” John marvels. “Makin’ a mess of ye.” You blink up at them both, lashes webbed with tears. They’re beautiful, etched from marble, perfectly cast in the image of ultimate power, dark and decadent, decay and hope, sculpted together.
They will break you.
“Please-“ the plea breaks off in a gasp.
“We know, darling. We know.” John soothes, syrupy and smooth, a hand running over your ass with another whip of his fingers. He probes at your rim, lightly testing before pushing in, stretching, exploring, and you keen, curling around them, muscles burning red like hot coals. It sears. It nearly pushes you over the edge.
You want to fall with them, into them. You want them to take everything, to give you pain and pleasure until you’re not sure who or where you are, remake you in the image of these emotions, this wildness flowing between the three of you.
John pushes a second finger in beside his first, and you see stars. Three become one, bursting into light and bathing the room, touching over the bed and walls and gods, casting opalescence across their faces.
“Fuck!” you gasp, and Simon’s lips curve on your skin, voice low and rough when he speaks.
“Ours.” He vows, chokes, guttural. “Our goddess." He fucks you deep, relentlessly, firm hand gripping you flesh. "You can take it, show us your light.” He’s lost himself in you, and you in them, crying out as they throw you over the precipice. “Come, darling.” It takes no urging. You’re already there, praise and agony and explosions of nerves imploding, throwing you into an orgasm that has your legs locking in place around Simon, your fingers tangling in John’s hair.
You become light. Divine incarnate. Celestial dawn, touching the peaks of existence for the first time. It flows and flows from you, overpowers your senses, drowns you in a sea of exhalation.
Simon shouts something. His mouth finds yours, but you’re lost in the waves of your own pleasure, still holding tight to both, anchoring yourself through the erratic thrusts of Simon’s body, his hips jerking as he fills you with his own gift, a touch of divinity lodged where he ends and you begin, his hand wrapped around John’s cock and stroking until he’s spilling. Simon’s tongue on yours, on John’s, open mouths and wet faces bent together to make one, hallowed, consecrated temple, the planes of your bodies twisted together in the depths of the Underworld.
Your light shines and shines until you think your heart may give out.
Maybe it does. Maybe it bursts into stardust. Maybe it becomes theirs.
“Will ye have dinner with us? A last meal?” John presses a kiss to your shoulder, decadent and sweet. You’d forgotten about your need to leave, forgotten about Olympus, and the reality is somber. Still in their arms, and you already long for them, mourn them, dread the lugubrious return to your own realm, where your life awaits.
“The door.” You murmur, fingertips tracing over Simon’s chest, the hallowed ground where your head lays, where you listen to the steady thump of his heart. “Will you show me?”
“After dinner. Please.” John murmurs it into your skin, and though it’s a shattered promise waiting in the wings, there is nothing in you deciding to protest or say no, not when he tugs you free, rolling you onto your back so Simon can tuck you into his arms. “After dinner, we’ll show you.”
He spreads your legs, stroking a finger through the seam of your cunt, watching lazily with heavy lids as you whimper.
An offering he will give.
An offering you will receive.
“After dinner, then.”
You wake to an empty bed, much like this morning.
“John? Simon?” The sheets are soft against your skin, but there’s bitterness in the air, magic like death lingering in the room.
It feels like rot.
The door is ajar, barely. It allows light to spill in across black marble, the faint, sharpened pitch of an argument echoing down the hall.
You sit up.
What’s happening?
There’s a wine-red robe draped over the edge of the bed, and you don it, quickly, quietly slipping down the onyx halls, straining to listen.
“The Fates decided, and they chose benevolently. We are honored by such a gift.” The Fates decided what? There’s a strangled, indignant laugh. A female’s.
Power snaps, rough and wild.
“You cannot possibly mean to make this… this goddess of spring your Queen.” What? Acid brews in the pit of your stomach, swirling together and forcing you forward, desperation on the balls of your feet. Is that Minthe? Is she talking about you?
“Persephone is to be our wife; ye will speak of her with respect or not at all.” John snaps. You’re what?!
“We have waited, and would wait centuries more, to receive her. Her presence brings an eternal season, to us, to all who would love her, here in the Underworld.”
“But you do not truly care for her.” You tremble. A sea devours you, pulls you beyond the black water, down into the trenches, far deeper than anyone ever knew existed. There, it tosses you side to side, virulent rage and sorrow rising beneath your feet, pushing you back up to where you break the surface.
And break free.
The agony in your heart shatters the strongest magic, draws your own power back into yourself, twists it together to become something more, something wicked, something villainous.
Ungovernable Persephone.
“It is more than care. It is devotion, an all-consuming passion. One you would not understand.”
“But she’s a freak! A shut in li-“ Minthe’s words do not continue. They flail in her throat, the same way her soul does as you appear around the corner and twist it, making it malleable, ripping and tearing until it grows anew, sprouting with vigor into a new form.
The ground shakes. John shouts something at you, but you’re far past reason, far past explanation, and now there is only Demeter’s vengeful daughter, a wicked soul.
Rotten to the core.
Your magic swells. The palace trembles, and you feel the flow of life, Hecate’s grotto, the souls, Asphodel meadows. Every bloom and blossom cry out with you, and you scream your rage into a terrible power, one with thorns and vitriol. They surge together, and you draw from them like drinking from a river, pulling and pulling until you can no longer see, or hear, lost in the wind, the bliss of your wicked soul, your weaponized magic.
“Persephone.” A gentle voice calls, Hands cradle your face, a thumb smoothing your brow. “She cannot hurt you, Persephone. Stop this. Now.” A demand, sweeter than primrose and lily, drips like nectar against the will of your rage. “It’s alright. There is nothing to fear.” He murmurs, empyreal restraints tightening at your wrists, harnessing your power, redirecting it into the ether, commanding it still and steady.
When your vision clears, it’s horror you face.
Horror of your own doing.
You stumble away, clutching the robe to your chest, mouth agape.
On the floor between you and the Kings of the Underworld, is a small mint plant. It sprouts from a tiny clump of dirt, timid and frail.
It harbors a soul.
It harbors your wrath.
You are a monster.
“No, darling-“ John tries to reach for you, but Simon stops him, an arm out, catching him at the waist. There is sadness on one face, aloof calm on another.
Are these really the gods you gave yourself to? The ones you believed would care for you?
You are a fool.
You turn for the door and run.
You’re sprinting towards a river.
In the dark, you can’t be sure which it is. You’re not sure of anything, in these moments, these shattered clips that fracture your heart, the confusion that ricochets inside your brain, a silver pinball bouncing off walls with lights and noises exploding in the silence. Everything competes with the rush of a river, roaring swell crashing against rock, humming alive in the dead of night.
Their wife.
They brought you here to be their wife.
You laugh out loud to the cool, crisp air.
A fool.
Fate’s tool.
They weren’t interested in you. You aren’t special. You’re only a sanctimonious fortune from the The Moirai. Something promised. Something they feel you deserve.
Something you have no choice in, again.
But would you choose it?
Simon’s words ring in your ears.
“Persephone is to be our wife; you will speak of her with respect or not at all.”
“We have waited, and would wait centuries more,”
“It is more than care. It is devotion, an all-consuming passion. One you would not understand.”
The Fates.
The Fates decided.
The Fates decided to honor them… with a gift.
A gift.
You laugh again. It catches, hysterically, building and building into an explosion, a wild streak of pain taking root in your heart, and beneath your feet, Narcissus blooms. Even at a full sprint, the rage in your voice is palpable, and it breaks, cracking your chest wide with a sob.
They were never going to let you go.
They do not care for you. They only care for what has been bestowed to them. Their gift.
Not you. Not Persephone.
“Persephone!” A shout in the distance echoes over the valley, and only urges you faster, feet flying through a meadow. No flowers grace your shins, only grey grass, silvered in the moonlight.
Another voice calls to you.
The promise of oblivion. Of freedom. Memories laid to waste in her path, scars and agony and heartbreak all put to rest, buried beneath a mountain built of abeyance, weightless in the face of true nirvana.
Freedom.
Freedom from this truth, this betrayal. Freedom from your own stupidity, your foolishness washed away, soul wiped clean. Freedom, from the crack of your mother’s Whip, a magical object sculpted from the breadth of her power, built to hurt only you, for eternity.
You stand at the water’s edge. She’s too strong, and you cannot pull away, feet glued to the riverbank, fixed upon the rage of her waters, the power behind the swell.
Would it be so terrible?
You see Hebe. Melia. Nell. Their light, their laughter. The way their smiles sculpt their faces, how their power tastes when it infects the air. Your friends, forgotten.
But still she calls. She lashes her power to your own, strips of bark laid against your soul, binding you to her, tugging you closer and closer to the water.
You dig in your heels. The cacophony thunders, drowning everything else out, the scream of your name, the haunting in your heart.
You fight.
You fall.
Simon has never felt such terror.
Ichor turns cold in his chest, fear and panic rising into a tidal wave, an epic monster of emotion, filling his lungs with leaded salt water, choking out his last breath.
“Simon!” John shouts. He pushes his power into the river, cutting the current effectively in half, slowing its pace to a trickle. It will be enough, to find you.
It won’t be enough to save you.
Simon stands motionless. He cannot see anything, except the memory of your fall. Slipping into the river, disappearing beneath the water that will take your mind, your memories. The intricate pieces that make you, you.
He does not deny he had considered it. Allowed it to darken his mind, disrupt his intentions. He discussed it at length even. Argued with Johnny about bathing you in the water, bringing it in through a spring, disguising it as something it was not. Something safe.
“If she bathes in the Lethe, we will be all she has ever known, Johnny. She will no longer hold the pain, the torment from her mother’s hand, she will not carry the grief, the guilt of leaving Olympus behind. She will be ours. Wholly.”
“Ye’re talking about erasing who she is. The things that make her ours. Without them… what is she? An empty soul. A husk. Ye know what they’re like after they bathe in the Lethe. Ye cannae possibly want that for our wife.”
Johnny was right, of course. A million little pieces made up the goddess that you were, and Simon was a selfish being. He wanted every single one.
But now…
Johnny finds you in the bend of the river, limp and unmoving.
You’re almost gone. Simon knows it, can see it, can taste it. He can hear the realm, weeping for you. Your meadow, covered in Narcissus, each flower’s face wet with tears for you.
“Open yer eyes, Persephone.” John shakes you roughly, grip tight with panic, and then cradles your head to his chest like a babe, rocking back and forth. “Come on, little goddess. I’m here, we’re right here. We’ve got ye.” You’re silent. Near death, eyes and skin a thin membrane, everything washed away in the Lethe.
You’re gone. They’ve lost you.
Your heart slows. Your breathing stutters.
He’s been here before. He knows this feeling all too well. The frightening emptiness that even he, Hades, cannot combat.
“Simon.” John snaps. His hand hovers over your diaphragm, more magic, more power releasing into your body, filling you with all that he can give, all that you will take.
They’ve lost you. Before they even had a chance.
Too proud. Too arrogant. A monster on a throne.
He caused this.
“She is not gone, Simon. Help me.” John hisses, tenacious and hopeful. Strong. Simon’s compass in the dark. The brightest star in his sky. Forever buoyant.
Unstoppable John MacTavish.
Ungovernable Persephone.
And… him.
Your skin is cold, ice, and you’re so delicate in John’s arms, so broken, that Simon considers falling into the Lethe himself, just for a moment. “We need to get her inside.” John rocks you, cooing above your ear, trying to soothe the radiating distress, the rattle of your chest. “Sh-sh-shhh. Ye’re safe. We’ve got ye.”
Simon tugs all his power around you and Johnny like a jacket, a blanket tucked snug on your shoulders. It warms you, easing the shivering and jerking, and he holds it there, unleashing the untouched depths of his power, of Johnny’s, of this realm, forcing it into your soul the only way he knows how.
An idea blossoms in his heart. One born of midnight flower, bat orchid and hellebore, black dahlia and elderberry. Framed by the flowering vines that cover the outside of your chambers.
It’s an idea blooming from the very essence of your magic, your goddess-hood.
It’s reactionary. It’s wicked.
Rebirth.
Split your soul, and theirs, again. Merge their power, and yours.
Wed you.
“Johnny.” He whispers. He steps closer, hovering, a hand strong on the back of his neck, the other cupping your cheek.
“We shouldnae.” He shakes his head. “I cannae do it.”
“We must.”
“She will ne’er forgive us.” He cradles you tighter, almost defensively. You moan, the sound wretched and pained, and Johnny pales.
“The Lethe has taken her from us. She is fading, I know you can feel it.” Johnny slams his eyes shut, brow quivering. “Look at me.”
“Si.”
“This is our only option.” For every protest, he has an answer. For every reason why not, he provides an alternative. It snakes forward, through John’s rebuttal, through the time it takes for Simon to pull both him and you into his arms, on the banks of the Lethe in one moment, in the din of their bedroom another.
“She might remember, one day.” John lays you on their bed, the rasp of your lungs only increasing with each moment. “Her magic is strong.”
“Then we will beg for forgiveness and hope her vengeful spirit gentles.”
#reblog#aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasaaaaaassaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
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“why would you write fics for small, unpopular fandoms? you’re not gonna reach that many hits in fandoms not many people know about” ?? because I’m not writing fics for hits or kudos, I’m writing them for me because these characters are my blorbos and I have so many ideas, so much thoughts about them that my brain might explode if I don’t write them out.
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🌅Sea Salt
A quick, tipsy charecter study on The Plague.
"God entered my body like a body my same size."
-???
(tw: literally the bubonic plague, mention of murder and self harm, religious mania, martry complex)
Adiris can feel the sea in her body, churning in her muscles, salting her wounds, rushing in her veins and lungs. Foaming out of her pores in gruesome ways, granting her growth, granting her transcendence.
Her face rots with sacred fever riding her left eye of seeing evil and making her think twice about preaching falsehoods, her skin blooms unable to accommodate god's blessing untill it deflates and settles, painted in gods flourishing green and mesmerising purple.
She has long been more than that faithful little girl, praying at cliffsides for The Sea Goat to hear the voices of their courages and sacred marttries, she grew bigger with the love of her tutor ,then the faith of her god, filling her censer with wood and letting her will be as swift and powerful as the waves that crash on shores, wearing down ancient rocks, letting her tears be as soothing and pourposefyl as they spotted her father's broken, charred face.
By the blood of her severed toe and by the whispers of the beyond she is the high priestesses, her shadow stretching, contorting to accommodate all of her beautiful people His subjects and children that he has elected her to, her voice amplified and granted by the Sea Goat.
So when the sickness spreads and bubbles up from her skin like water from the ground, like blood from a heart she knows that her suffering is not without meaning, she knows this is growth in the most sacred way, for it is with the blessing and guidance of her god who has blessed her with the sea; in her bones, in her movement, in her service to him and all of his subjects.
She kneels in a cave knees planted in a pool of her own vomit surrounded by her children, granted by him, surrounded by his hands, his breath, stands at the alter with her hands raised preaching his words that he delivers in whispers and shimmery golden fog, she kneels by his remains dressed by his word and pruified by it, she stands washing blood off her hands as the sea splits open on her back, she stands before the elders granted a privilege most honored.
She is pure, she is good this she had always been certain of; so when her vision becomes dotted and her hands clasped in prayer freeze, when her soaked, putried cloak merges with her melting skin, when her followers call out to her, in pained cries and illegible screams she knows there is The Beyond waiting for them; clean and golden.
She sends one last prayer up to him from torn, burning lips barely curling around the words, from a swollen tounge that tastes of salt and acid, from her most obedient, lovin daugter.
"Let our voices reach the beyond-"
She whispers her rings digging into her flesh, the colour of filthy rubies and emralds, fool's gold.
"Us, your sacred children, us your most devoted, us at your feet my great father. Grant whatever wrong doing and sin they have unto me and let me suffer in their place, I will honour you so, this I promise you. Deliver us to your mouth, let our voices reach the beyond."
And as the gentle embrace of her god surrounds her, she takes one last, shuddering breath her followers' voices drowned out in the feverish whispering and the sound of waves against her rotted skull.
#dead by daylight#dead by daylight the plauge#the plague#adiris#dead by daylight killers#dead by daylight fanfic#dead by daylight adiris
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🌇Push/Pull
gn! reader x Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
"The kindness of strangers and the strangeness of everyone I know has just fucked with my heart."
-Flower Face, Honey and Milk
(tw:co-depandancey, unhealthy relationship)
Kyle is watching you get ready. He's watching you put on his favourite shirt, the one that sticks to the shape of your waist, he watches as you sling on the belt that he likes to hook his finger between when his hands get sweaty from holding your waist, he watches you put on the sunscreen, the Chapstick he bought you, the same brand as his ex but different flavour, the flavour he revealed in licking off his lips in the afterglow of your quick, chaste kisses.
And he's seething.
"So Fiona introduced me to some folks and we're meeting at the park today-"
Well maybe seething isn't the right word, maybe off-put describes his feelings better, maybe saying he feels left out or underappreciateed is much more appropriate.
"-and she asked me again why you can't come and I told her-"
"I can't come because I'm still injured from the last misson love, how many times do I have to tell you?"
"Right, that's what I told her and-"
It's not that he doesn't like you going out, he does! He likes to strut around his pretty baby, he glows whenever he gets to show you off to the friends and colleagues that he goes on and on to you about. Whenever they say as long as he's happy he smiles, leans down to kiss your cheek, he's happy he's so happy.
Happier than ever.
Or at least he used to be.
"-and she said we could just sit at a café and talk or do something else but I said-"
"You said I fucking hate coffee right? And that I don't want to be around your group of brain-dead, usless-"
He stops himself takes a deep breath that stings his ribs, forces his disdain down.
"-friends?"
You freeze hands on hold as their buttoning up your pants and he gets to drink in every little shift on your face, once upon a time he had an abundant source of them now he gets scraps.
He knows it's unfair, since most of them are his friends or people from his circle but he'd do anything to get some more of you.
"Something along those lines."
"That's my pretty baby."
Kyle met you in a small, underfunded museum.
As a British patriot he likes to stroll around, check out new art exhibits, museums, statues. He likes to keep his pointer finger on the pulse of things and luckily for him he found you there, tucked behind a birch desk eyes wet and reddened nose pinkish from cold like a little rabbit, shaking ,frozen fingers constantly tucking in your scarf that kept coming undone.
"So we're going to the park to see the new flowers set up-"
By then you were still fairly new to London, to it's frigid, charecteristic weather.
Just a bleak foreign student trying to work and study but you were the most inept, socially incapable thing he'd ever seen.
Try as he might he could never picture you raising your hand in class, asking for notes or showing anyone but him around the displays he couldn't picture you anywhere else either, it was like they had placed you here then built the decaying museum around you.
"-then we're gonna go to that bookshop Mark's been going on and on about-"
You were stuttery, overly apologetic, the only attendant in a cramped museum where half the displays were badly kept and the rest were moldy due to the leaking roof but Kyle liked you, he liked the way you talked the way you gushed on and on about the exhibits in that fast paced, high pitched voice of yours like you were desperate for anyone to listen to you, like any attention shown to you, like you were desperate for anyone's light to stay on you long enough to warm your clammy skin.
He liked that. Like feeling important, big, sought after.
"-then we'll probably visit the mall where you first introduced me to them, since its the anniversary of our friendship and all!"
He cringes at the over-emotional sentiment.
Then you moved in with him, Kyle was used to living with someone he often boosted about his independencey but he had first moved out with his childhood sweetheart who he was sure he'd marry and then there had always been someone to keep the house alive when he was away working and you had easily filled that role.
"It's so nice being able to go out in public without feeling like I'm gonna heel over and die y'know?"
"Tell me about it."
You stayed inside most of the time but you did your best to contribute to rent and keep the house in order, you often cooked for him too and Kyle realized the whole bit about soldiers and the way to their hearts wasn't that far off.
He doesn't remember when the two of you started dating it wasn't a big deal it was the natural conclusion of things, you moved from the floor mattress to the couch to his bed.
And he restocked his diwindling supply of condoms.
"Are you...mad? Kyle ,you know I can stay in if you don't wanna be alone or if this is bad day or-"
"Did I say that?"
You quickly went from being the tiniest, most pathetic thing he'd seen to being a inconsequential thing with benefits then before he knew it you were the thing that pulled him out of bed every morning, the thing that gave him purpose, kept him warm and full of hope like light crawling out from under a doorway. He associates you with warm bedsheets, the last candle during a power shortage, breakfast for dinner, home; he doesn't dare wonder what you associate him with.
Then your first panic attack happened.
"Did I say one bloody thing that even mildly implied that lovely?"
"Well no but-"
It had been a regular morning till he saw you curled into yourself in bed breathing heavily, eyes unfocussed.
He hadn't even needed to ask what was wrong, he just wrapped his arms around you and pressed his nose to the side of your hair, breathes in the smell of your anxious sweat, listened to your sharp quick breaths.
He remembers feeling this intense sense of gratitude, of privilege. He was the only one that got to see these, got to see you. He was trusted, entitled.
He was loved and loving.
"Then don't pull shit out your ass."
It was addictive, you were addictive.
Never before had he a lover so colorful, so twitchy and moist, you made life fun and he was cold when he met you.
He desperately wishes now that he had kept you to himself, that he hadn't introduced you to his friends ,his colleagues he hadn't wanted you to go on searching for new horizons he had just wanted to show off his perfect lover, his one in a thousand that followed him home.
"I-I know Kyle I'm sorry, I really am."
"I know you are, you always are, go hang out with your dumb mates, remember to pick up groceries on the way back, yeah? Miss your cooking."
"Oh already did yesterday, with Burns! Pasta dinner tonight?"
And now you're leaving him, leaving him sprawled and injured on the bed as you go on and expose his precious to other people, he tries to be happy for you and he is.
He's happy that you're better , that you're back in the cycle of life, back in the crowd like any other civilian but what about him?
You bend down placing a hand on his chest as you press firm, sweet kisses all over his face starting from his brow and ending on his lips, no one reaches for him like you do, no one makes him as warm ad you, he's aware he only has a small pocket of light left before his vanity wears off.
He lays there soaking it in, you pull back too quick.
"I'll pick up our meds and some pesto for you while I'm out okay?"
He nods as he watches you leave but when he licks his lips it's not the familiar taste of artificiall cherry that he'd grown accustomed to, it's apple.
#cod x gn!reader#cod x reader#kyle gaz garrick#kyle gaz x reader#kyle gaz x you#gaz x reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#tw codependency#kyle x reader
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🌃 Mercurial Masterlist 🌃
About: Ghoap x male reader
Reader: Male, very vauge descriptions
T.W List: Unhealthy relationship, kidnapping, obsessive behaviour, unreliable narrator, self-hatred, (always check chapter tags please)
Status: Ongoing
Inspiration: @peachesofteal (Dead Disco<3)
Old game, new rules
Chapter One: Abstain
Chapter Two: Hunger
Chapter Three: Devour
Chapter Four: Nasuea
Chapter Five: Restless
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🌃 Mercurial
ghoap x male reader
Chapter Four: Nausea
"I will poison all your happy times, I will love you like the ashes in my cigarette box."
-The Crane Wives, Tounges and Teeth
(money insecurity, unhealthy relationship, implied homelessness, anxiety)
The on the road life is better suited for you, you feel more secure with the peeling, old wallpapers of whichever hotel you end up in than the walls you had painted with Johnny the beds reeking of mildew feel more familiar than the wide warm one you used to share with them.
Faces forgotten before you can commit them to memory, places gone with nothing to mourn them by, nightly vigels to the best thing that ever happened to you spent anxiously looking out foggy windows for any silhoutte resembling theirs, listening for uniform footsteps louder than an earthquacke and as familiar as the little compartment you've sewn in your backpack, containing a new ID, fake passoport ,ever-changing burner phones and your unstable money supply.
You're in your element when no one knows you, when people don't commit your face to memory, when they're ingenuine and changing. it's familiar and homey when you know every escape route and every card in the deck, it's not so familiar too with the ever present threat of being found breathing down your neck, you know too well how attached they are and how many strings they have to pull, you've seen it firsthand.
Even then you can't blame them, they fell for someone they thought was good and from this distance it's easier then ever to paint yourself as the villan, the one who stirred the water when all was well, pushed buttons he knew he shouldn't have pushed, tested boundaries that had been set in stone when they were finnaly comfortable, when all was finnaly well.
It started out small, just a way to relieve your tension, just a way to adjust and get some breathing room;
It was the small ritualistic details you started neglecting at first, not stocking the pantry, keeping the house messy before they came home from deployments, not kissing them goodnight or goodbye. They didn't get mad, they didn't even notice, John stepped up readily when you neglected the house and Simon happily went out for groceries whenever you 'forgot', and that set you off worst. The little things you'd built your life, your place in the relationship around where unimportant to them, just something someone else could do without much fuss.
Then it was keeping the door unlocked on the night you knew they'd be coming home, sleeping on the couch by yourself with the excuse of 'feeling smothered', going out and not telling them whene you were going or when you'd be back knowing you were leaving then anxious and frazzled worried for your safety and nothing else, they were good, too good for somone like you. So good that Simon sat you down and explained that he understood you needed some space and that them being gone one day and then then being so present and loud could be hard to get used to.
"Me 'n Johnny just want ya safe angel."
Simon and that understanding smile on his face, always considerate and understanding to the people he loved like a wise parent lecturing a misbehaving yet well meaning child. You spat in the face of that.
"You both are overreacting Si, I know y'all got this skewed view of the world because the military n shit but I'm an adult, I don't need bodyguards."
His face fell, John turned around momentarily to check on the conversation.
"It's not like that, 'n you should know by now. We love you, we want you safe, you're the one with the skewed view and if you keep this bullshit up there's gonna be reprucussions-"
"Simon."
John cut in walking over to the kitchen table and giving him a look, Simon deflated running a hand over his face and you felt the familiar pain of being a disappointment, of misguiding and upsetting. It was wose when you know you love them and do it anyway knowing the things they'd been through.
"Sorry.."
You mumble, his dark eyes soft as they met yours. His bare hands clasped on his lap, he's rubbing his own knuckles.
"Jus' - jus' be safe yeah? Take care o' yourself when we can't, keep our heads clear? For us, angel."
You nodded knowing full well that despite your guilt you had found a nerve and you weren't the good person you had cruelly convinced them you were. You revealed in uncertainties and tension, you hadn't been anywhere this long since your teenage years when you got kicked out. You weren't deserving of this care, this love so you were doing the right thing driving them away or perhaps you just liked being cared for in such avident and raw way either way you were dead weight at best and a parasite at worst.
The tension rose when you kept doing it, John was the first to snap when you introduced them as your friends to some work acquaintances. He broke down, screamed raw and bloody, punched a wall and pulled out his hair as Simon desperately tried to play mediator.
"How could ye?! How fucking could ye, you ungrateful, lying cunt!"
John screamed as you stood leaning against the wall his knuckles were still kissed white and bleeding from the hole they had left in the drywall. His aquamarine eyes squinted and wet, his breaths quick and shallow like a wounded bird.
"We live together! We sleep in the same god damn bed, that's my sweater on ye back, 'n ye sit there and call us your mates?! Yer buddies?! I swear to fucking god ye better have brain damage or I wi-"
Simon grabbed him by the shoulders before he could go on any further. You understood why he was mad, he had opened his heart out to someone he had trusted for so long not knowing he was a snake in the grass, he wanted his love, his safe space, his importance in your life validated especially after all the anxiety you had put them both through with your planned recklessness.
And you broke, in retrospect it could have been so much better if you hadn't, maybe then you'd have some resentfull exs instead of this manhunt with every card stacked against you.
You sobbed, apologized over and over again, promised you'd be better, promised you'd behave, you loved them, you really loved them, the pain in Johnny's voice was unlike anything you'd seen and you meant it too. You didn't wanna be stranded and drifting again, by yourself in the world.
"Ye know we won't ever let ye go angel, promise."
You broke your promises time and time again, they snapped and you broke, but guilt wasn't enough to scratch this constant itch under your skin. Waiting, salivating for when they finnaly got fed up with you like everyone else, it enraged you when they didn't.
Shit hit the fan when you spent two nights at a friend's house and kept your phone on silent, came home with her perfume spritzed on your neck, then you ended up in the cabin and realized some bonds had to be severed phisicaly.
So here you are now, in the roadie lifestyle you're used to, overgrown beard and bloodshot eyes, feet bloody and swollen in your shoes, always cold, always tired, never quite clean. Walking home with a measly paycheck in your pocket and TV dinner in a shopping bag, you're always tense, always on edge knowing full well they've most likely moved on, hopefully.
Life on the road isn't as secure as it used to be, not when their love made you soft and comfortable.
You miss warm beds, you miss a stable job and your warm clean home but most importantly you miss them, you miss them like an amputated limb, like you can reach out and feel the muscles hanging loose, the veins burst and drooling where you hacked them off; it's easier to deal with when you remind yourself people like you don't deserve things like that.
You're just outside your hotel rooms door when some primal, animal instinct straightens your spine, something isn't right.
You look inside from the windows check inside, your measly possessions are all where they ought to be, just when you're about to close to door you see them.
Footsteps, on the snow, big, bigger than yours and deep, pure snow filthied by mud somone tried to cover them up but they're still there.
You can't tell if they're combat boots that John favoured or the hiking shoes Simon sweared by but it sets you off anyways, primal fear and anxiety, restlessness churning in your gut as you pack all of your belongings.
Same game, new rules.
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#ghoap x reader#ghoap x male reader#cod x male reader#mercurial#cod x reader#john mactavish x male reader#john mactavish x reader#simon riley x male reader#simon x reader x johnny#tw poverty#tw implied abuse#tw violence
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🌃 Mercurial
ghoap x male reader
Chapter Three: Devour
"I can be good, I can be true
You know I don't love anyone, but I love you"
-Nicole Dollanganger, Chapel
(tw: poverty, dishonest reader)
You don't like it, you don't like it a damn bit.
You don't like the bandage on your bottom lip, you don't like the smiley face doodle next to their supposed names, you don't like that your front door is locked with the only key of the shitty, rental sitting safely on the cracked tile floor.
It makes you feel small, it makes you feel pathetic; like a small thing desperate for help the feeling claws away at you twitching your fingers as you punch their numbers in and thank them, lashes out your throat when the same snobby kid comes into the shop with the same posh car he's brought in four times this month.
It makes you restless, it makes you damn near resentfull to these two men who in no way deserve it, they just helped some poor bloke get home after a night out, they probably never thought about it again or maybe they did; maybe they still do maybe they think about how needy you are as you three text back and fourth.
You feel as like you owe them and it kills you inside, so you decide to repay them.
'hey off work this Sunday wanna hangout? :)'
And then it began, looking back now, from this distance, you can see the way you'd twisted the narrative, convinced them they could love you, that you were good.
It was awkward at first, then it was friendship, then you were sitting cross-legged on the bed getting invited into their relationship. At the time it had seemed too erratic, too fast, no time to sit and think, no time to second guess but from this distance you can see how you wiggled your way into a place meant for them, carved a space out in hearts desperate for stability and already occupied, for someone like you, somone who didn't know how stay.
It was always transactional on your part, or at least it was supposed to be.
You would help them out for the grace they had shown you that night and you would prove to them that the help they gave you that night was justified you would lead them into thinking you were a person deserving of good things. You had no ill intension despite the driving force behind these actions being festering, putrid emotions. And then you'd leave once the cards were even, your feathers smooth. You'd skip town like so many times before and leave them behind with good, happy memories.
But you stayed.
You showed up on time to planned hangouts, you cleaned up after yourself when you stayed over and cleaned up the flat they shared with the spare key Ghost had given you half a year into knowing you and stocked the pantry with foods you knew they liked, listed on a little notepad while they were on what you used to know as business trips.
You were overstepping boundaries, you were too much, you were restless. You were appriciated.
Then you let them in after they got kicked out from their flat because John got into a fight with the nosy landlord. You took notice of their likes, dislikes, the things that set them on edge wrote themn down and acted accordingly.
You gave the neighbours fake names and vague answers whenever they asked about them, you kept scotch in the kitchen closet and sleeping pills behind the cracked bathroom mirror, you kept the door barricaded with a chair at night and didn't even think of unlocking it untill you confirmed it was them.
In turn they opened up to you about their profession, their pasts, their relationship, their insecurities their desires.
You were ingenuine, you were too obedient, you were smothering.
You were becoming irreplaceable.
You were sitting by the window sill with John ,Simon out on an errand, when he said.
"Ye ken, we uhh- we appreciate you a lot hare. Wit' what we do 'n how we can be I ken we ain't the easiest folks to be around."
You snorted into your morning tea shaking your head as you knocked your shoulder against his.
"And I'm just the dew on morning grass ain't I? It's lovely to have y'all around, needed me some reliable mates for a while now anyways. And don't I owe you?"
John turned to you recently plucked eyebrows raised.
"Owe us? Fer what?"
"Y'know, that night by the pub, I'd have probably become a headline that night without you two."
It's his turn to shake his head in disbelief, giving you that lovely smile you're slowly becoming accustomed to.
"Don't ye think that score's been settled a few dozen times by now?"
And before you knew it the three of you were saving up money for a new flat (you should have said no, you shoul have told them you always kept your suitcase packed for when you were finnaly sick of things too familiar, too comforting, too yours).
The scotch and the pills are replaced with fresh strawberries from the farmers market and melanin gummies in the new fridge Simon cleaned every Sunday, days of biting your tounge against customers were now full of work at a different shop with encouraged and nurtured patience and a customer service smile half genuine with the thought of going home to them. Nights out at pubs were slowly becoming dates, vauge answers and calculating looks were confessions and and eyes soft in the light spilling through the tall window of your new apartment.
Someone smoothes their hand down the expanse of your back as you're putting up curtains, it's early but you want it done before you head off to work so all three of you sleep better in the privacy and shade it provides, so the new apertment feels more like home.
Simon's smiling at you, his face is bare and his hands warm, they just got home yesterday, none of you sleep well in new environments, you're glad the new bed has enough room for them to toss and turn.
His cheeks are flushed from sleep.
"Bit short for the job angel, let me help?"
You step down from the stool and hand him the end of the thick curtain, marine blue with patterns swirled on it like puffs of smoke.
"Always nice havin' tall lads at my disposal."
You joke watching his muscles flex and his hands work as they slide the rings on. You lean your head onto his thigh.
"It's warmer here, don't ya think? Real airy too, lots of room for us."
You nod, you haven't lived in a place so nice in years.
"Better when it's with you two."
Ghost and John became Simon and Johnny then Simon, you and Johnny.
You had dug yourself into a hole you did not deserve, built yourself a place not meant for people like you, filled it with the care and concern that had once been so calculated and planned before it became effortless, natural.
Your home, your safe heaven, your boyfriends; with your old suitcase rotting in a landfill somewhere.
Before you knew it you were restless once again.
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#ghoap x male reader#ghoap x reader#mercurial#cod x male reader#simon x reader x johnny#simon riley x male reader#john mactavish x male reader#john mactavish x reader
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📋Compartment Syndrome
gn! reader x Captain Price
"...I had to kill it to keep it, framed it afterwards, above my bed so I could see it each morning."
-???
(tw: unhealthy relationship, phisical violence, mentions of drugs, minor mention of reader 'being the other woman')
You served John divorce paper today.
He's sat at the kitchen table blunt nails drumming against mahagoney as he look at you, then the documents, less surprised or heartbroken more expectant.
And it baffles you how a man so big can look so small, how a man that fills up doorways and commands the air around him like second nature can slump his shoulders, hide his tears with coughs.
İt was a few years in the making and even then you feel bad, this is the man you love, loved; you used to stay up at night waiting for his footsteps on the front lawn. You have to remind yourself that was over five years ago, back when he actually bothered with you and the home, the love he had vowed to build with you, left high and dry like an abonded building spiderwebs in the corners and illegible graffiti on the walls, suffocating dust clouds merging with ominous shadows.
You used to hotbox in buildings like that, you and what few friends you had back in the days he wouldn't even look your way.
"And-"
He lifts the first paper pretends to take a look at the one below that and pushes them away from him, a muscle feathers in his jaw.
"-your reasoning for this? I'd like to think you wouldn't ruin us over something petty luv."
He knows and you know that he knows, you've argued about it often, you wanted him to be home more, you wanted him to be safe, you wanted him to at least bother interacting with you beyond sex, dinner and whenever he couldn't find the remote.
It wasn't even about his job at this point the day you had married that bright eyed, headstrong young man you knew you'd always be the other woman to his job you just desperately want his shadow out of your home at this point.
You clear your voice ,eyes on your weathered house slippers.
"Look I don't want to offend you, I don't even wanna cut you off completely! I just think-"
"Straight to the point, sweetheart."
He emphasis the word sweetheart, today of all days, knowing how it makes you feel.
"Neglect."
You answer, his eyes widden ,nose flaring.
"Neglect? Oh please we've been over this honey, I don't neglect you I'm not home kissing your feet all the damn time because I have a fucking job to do! I'm the one who keeps a roof over your head and defends this country while you sit at home and twiddle your thumbs! God you're fuckin infuriating, this is why you can't find a damn job, you braindead homebody-"
"I started working at the new school, the one that opened last year, you didn't get my messages?"
He falters, runs a hand over his overgrown beard.
"You did? That's- luv that's amazing! How's the pay? Are your colleagues-"
"Let's- let's just stay on subject, please."
You tell him doing your best to keep your voice even and cold.
He deflates, leaning back in his chair as he sighs. He looks awfull, unshaven, hair greasy, shirt dotted with blood and one of his arms in a sling you'd said that it was important that you couldn't wait for him to change or shower, less you chikcen out like the first five times it used to feel impossible to leave him once, he was bigger than life with each little bastardized segment leading up to him in some capacity.
"Luv, listen I know you're frazzled I've been gone for a month and I was barely home for a week before that, I understand ya wanna pick at me and get ya anger out but I've had a long ass month, okay? I just want a shower, your cooking then I want to cuddle up to the love of my life, yeah? Give an old man a break and for fucks sake get rid of these."
He gets up with a groan and pushes the papers towards you it always suprises you, how quickly he can dismiss arguments you've spent hours thinking through, how small he can make you feel.
"Price, look-"
"What the fock did ya just call me?"
"-I know it's painful to think about but this relationship obviously isn't serving either of us anymore, you're too busy for it and I don't think I ca-"
He has you against the wall before you can even react, shoulders and chest crushing you against the smooth, pearly white surface as his humid breath warms your cheek, your arm twisted across your back in the grip of his good hand; pain like coke sparking cruel stars in your visom.
"Shut. The fuck. Up."
He growls in your ear mashing his nose against your cheekbone.
"There is no reason for us to be together, just listen to me for a second-"
You hiss in pain as he twists your arm further, your ring finger -adorned by his mother's heavy, heirloom ring- brushing against your shoulder blade.
"I love you and you love me, that's plenty reason to stay together. Isn't it?"
It's marvellous how much conviction he can put into that excuse when you're pretty sure it's his hundredth time saying it, slightly different context, same words. You almost miss the times you'd jump through hoops for a smile from him when he was indifferent to you because he had no reason to treat you any way else.
"Isn't it?"
You nod, cheek rubbing against the wall as your eyes water.
He relaxes his grip on your arm, presses firm, moist kisses against your face.
"That's my baby, I know you're upset, I know and I'll make it up to you, I promised 'n I always keep my promises don't I?"
Your face is sour with all the promises he broke, all the times he let you down, left you alone as you nod.
"Use your words luv."
You take a deep breath, trying to find your words through the pain of your twisted muscles, your straining elbow, your back straight and stiff as a cutting board that your arm is pinned on.
"Yes, John."
He clicks his tounge, sharp sigh brushing against the side of your face.
"I just got injured ya ought to be a little bit sweeter."
"Yes,-"
You take as deep a breath as his crushing body allows.
"Yes, honey."
He smiles, letting go of you and stepping back allowing you- granting you space to breath, to turn around and rub at your burning arm something too close to guilt for comfort in his eyes. You stay like that for a few moments, feeling his eyes across your skin; slow and heavy like his hands like something you have to work to keep on you.
"One last thing?"
You look up, his eyes are wet. He hands you the divorce papers. Your lawyer will be so disappointed.
"Rip them and think about what you're doing next time, how your actions affect me."
You take them, the pristine paper shaking in your hands as your rip them, barely seeing through your tears you walk over to the bin.
He looms over you, broad shadow blanketing, eclipsing yours, swallowing it. He wraps his good arm around your waist when you're done, presses his barrel chest against you stil-stiff back and flutters kisses from the base of your neck up to your jawline.
"Y'know I love you."
#call of duty x reader#captain john price x reader#cod x gn!reader#angst#tw codependency#tw marital abuse#tw neglect#captain price x reader#captain price x you#hurt/angst#hurt/comfort#ig?
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Neil posted a new instagram story
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🌃Mercurial
ghoap x male reader
Chapter Two: Hunger
"...you had these compelling magnetized eyes you must've lost when you got older."
-The Taxpayers, I Love You Like An Alcoholic
(tw: aftermath of violence, poverty, alcohol, implied past addiction)
It started in an alleyway your aching back against the cold bricks, blood from your nose ruined three times over slowly dripping onto your lap, staining threadbare jeans, headlights occasionally blinding your left eye.
You don't look around, you keep your dry, itchy eyes on the filthy floor wondering if they'll finnaly fire you for missing work tomorrow or showing up looking like a battered street cat, you wonder if you'll be able to keep the lights on with whatever measly savings you've got left, you wonder if mom will clear out the basement for you, you wonder if you'll need the E.R if you can even afford that.
The thought of prescription pain meds brings about that familiar spike of excitement, of desperation you thought you had burried a while ago but it's short lived. Your head is fuzzy, almost cloudy with the rush of the recent bar brawl, if you can even call it that when in reality it was little more than you running your mouth in a place you knew not to when in reality it was you getting battered and thrown out of your fifth pub in this town. This is what happens when you stay in one place for too long, you get restless, you get mean. İt's no excuse, it's just how you are.
You hear footsteps approaching and before you can look up a hand is under your scruffy chin lifting your face up.
The first throughout in your head is 'He's beautiful' and he is. Blue eyes and thick baby cow lashes, a well sculpted face, overgrown stubble, thick shoulders and a surprisingly fitting mohawk.
"Ye alive laddie?"
He asks, thick accent and scotch on his breath but all you can focus on us the scar curled like a snake nestled in the scruffy stubble of his chin then you notice the other man behind him, taller or at least you think he is, you can't tell where he ends and the shadows begin untill a headlight passes over, illuminating a juvenile skull mask, thick shoulders, wide arms straining against the sleeves of his jacket.
He seems like a guardian angel, like the grim reaper himself.
"Yeah, thanks mate,"
You groan throat scratchy and dry as you pull yourself up, no energy to dust yourself off as you pat his shoulder.
"Looks like ye could use some help, we'll drop ye off."
You shake your head instinctively
"Nah, thanks, not my first, 'be fine."
He frowns, it's akin to a pout and you're stuck with the thought that he can get anything he wants when he does that.
"Nah, yer in no state to be walkin' home by yeself, plus we insist, don't we?"
He turns to the man behind him who shifts either nervous or stiff and nods.
"Yeah, we do, c'mon."
His words are clipped, voice gravell not that much of a contrast to the other man's like sniew and heartstrings.
You haven't got much left to lose and help is always appreciated -never really deserved - so against whatever better judgement you've got left you let them hold you up by the shoulders and half march, half drag you home.
They're strong, much stronger than you and they carry you with an ease that embarrasses you, you do your best to not look desperate between them, not look needy.
The first one -John- fills the awkward air with small talk and jokes, the other one watches as if he's thinking you through, writing down the pros and cons and although you slur and stumble through your words and laugh way too much you dare to think a favourable judgement has been passed on you when you wake up to a band aid on your busted bottom lip and a note with two numbers on it signed John and Ghost.
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#cod x male reader#cod x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x male reader#john Mactavish x reader#john mactavish x male reader#tw violence#tw alcohol#tw poverty#tw implied addiction#ghoap x male reader#ghoap x reader#simon x reader x johnny#cod hurt/comfort#hurt/comfort#meet cute#ig?
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🌃Mercurial:
Ghoap x male reader
Chapter One/Prologue: Abstain
"I found you, I found the door."
-Mitski, I Want You
(please mind the tags, I don't know how the UK train system works, English isn't my first language apologies for any mistakes <3)
You kiss them goodbye on the doorway, you make sure their jackets are zipped up, you promise to keep the windows locked and to not go out at night, Simon smiles, his eyes crinkling above the surgical mask.
"Gonna be good for us, hare? Sure hope so."
It's half joking, half threatening and desperately hopeful.You focus on the spot between his eyes as you nod, stomach twisting into knots and hands sweating.
You press your ear to the metal door and listen to their footsteps fading away then you rush to the balcony and watch the black, truck you repainted last month go down the road, through the U turn and disappear, your knuckles white against the railings your forearms stiff, eyes so wide and unlinking untill they water and force you to blink. You're scared that any moment now the other shoe will drop, they'll turn the car around and John will ask you if you really took them for such fools as Simon rumages through drawers and wardrobes laying every bit of your pitifull escape plan on the floor, like a wolf gutting a hare. Then you'll be driven back to the lonely, stuffy shack in the woods in the trunk, hogtied and gagged, feeling every bump on the road.
The trunk opens and you shut your eyes against the onslaught of white hard light, nose stinging from the cold as you curl into yourself out of both fear and well deserved shame, guilt. They're talking above you, familiar voices blurring together and becoming white noise. You feel like an insect pinned down, getting dissected.
Someone places their hand over your eyes, rubbing at your red, runny nose with their calloused thumb.
"Oh lovie."
"Carefull Si, cannea back out now."
There's silence for a second and you know they're exchanging the kind of look that saves their lives out on the field, the kind of look that explains and understands.
"Gotta let him learn his lesson ,hmm?"
"No other choice left."
Simon runs his hand over your face and rubs at your neck, that still smells of someone else. Mature and cold with hints of narcissus.You can see his internal conflict in his darkned eyes and see you can see his attachment, his love, his despration winning out.
You look up at them at Simon's wide set face and his unfocussed eyes dried out from lack of sleep, John bends down and picks you out of the truck setting you down on aching feet, still clad in socks as he flicks his knife out, a flash of fear goes through you, gutted by the same knife you had bought for him on his birthday, how fitting.
"Run 'n I'll break ya legs,."
"Last resort Si, might never heal proper again."
"Wouldn't tha' a good thing by now?"
You hear a sigh, both exasperated and heartbroken.
"Hope not."
Simon holds you in place by the shoulders as John cuts the ropes away, his jaw is set but his sweet blue eyes are wet, tired and you can't help the immense guilt you feel at putting them through this, for pushing them so far, for staying when you knew you'd do this.
Then you lift your face and see it, the cabin it's a box really, no windows and only one heavy door, John had mentioned his father had built one for hunting ,you wonder if it's the same one. You look over the dark wood walls and the door padlocked from the outside, your fear snowballs, all consuming and rattling your ribs. The idea of being trapped in the small, dark space is nauseating, it terrifies you in a way so primal, so reflex you think you'll bolt for a second, you think you'll beg scream, anything, anything. John straightens up and caresses your face.
"Just for a little while hare, just 'till Si n' I are back from this misson, then we'll come 'n get ya, promised we'd never leave eachothe, remember?."
He rips the tape off your mouth and gives you a soft sweet kiss, familiar lips failing to settle you for the first time, well groomed stubble scratchy against your moist skin, Simon presses his cheek against yours.
"It has everything ya need and we'll be back before you know it, just behave yourself and you'll never have to see this place again."
His voices is gravel against your skin, his breath smoke but you can't focus on them pressing against you on either side or the ropes laying undone on the grass.
All you can see is the cabin, the padlock, the wardens, the convict.
You had stayed for a long time in that cabin, long enough for your food to start running out, long enough to grow both lovesick and resentfull, long enough to get yourself together and fix the old, busted hunting camera you had found shoved between the wall and the bed.
You bought two flasdrives a week ago before their deployment and hid them in your tool box, on one you upload images of the cabin, of chains, of bruises, dents in the wall and your room ransacked time and time again.You know it's not a strong case and it's not meant to be. It's supposed to be a reminder for what you did, what you're running from, your sentencing.
On the other flash drive you upload all your happy memories, screenshots of loving wordsand jokes, selfies together, pictures of gifts and vacations, the apartment you saved up for with them. To keep you warm, souvenirs from the last place you settled in, from the last place you let yourself be loved.
You tuck them into the struddiest back pack you own, four changes of clothes, underwear, very basic toiletries, some fancy jewellery you'll have to pawn off later on. The money, fake ID and passport you had hidden in the inner lining of one of the coats John's forgotten about a long time ago, discarded at the back of his closet.
You pack the bag in under ten minutes just the way you practiced, the hard part is the note, you write over and over again palms sweaty and hands shaky eventually you settle on;
'Stay safe, I love you, goodbye.' Flowery language and false promises feel ingenuine when you're leaving everything the three of you have worked for, everything they'd tied their hearts to , it feels cowardly when you're running away. You leave the crumpled up notes on the top of the trash and your shared card on the table. You keep your promise ring in your pocket.
The walk to the train station is torture, every loud step is Simon, every wide shoulder or brown jacket is John, you feel like you're drowning in a pool filled with snippets of them, like driftwood caught in a storm much bigger than he'll ever comprehend. You either dread the day they'll be nothing but memories or salivate for it, you can't decide with the overwhelming panic, the sick excitement.You buy a day pass and a burner phone before you throw away your cell phone.
The bus ride is calmer, when you don't think about the pub you met in, the small flower shop you routinely bought foxgloves and bluebells from, the record shop Johnny loves, the workplace Simon insisted he drove you to whenever he could; the lufe you're betraying, the blessings you're running from.
You sit arms crossed and face hidden under your hood as you watch the city flash by, the further away from home you get the more guilt you feel; guilt for letting them in, guilt for misguiding them, guilt for aggravating them again and again and again untill either one snapped, guilt for leaving when you had just convinced them you wouldn't even think of it.
You swallow it down and watch the city speed away colors blurring like oil paint.
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#cod mw2#cod x reader#cod x male reader#ghoap x reader#ghoap x male reader#ghoap x reader AU#tw toxic reader#tw implied cheating#tw codependency#tw controlling realtionship#tw implied abuse#tw first fiv ever basically#fic#Mercurial#tw mentions of starvation#flower symbolism#i researched too much for#tw shitty writing#call of duty x reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon riley x male reader#john mactavish x reader#john mactavish x male reader#simon riley x john mactavish x reader#angst
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🌃 Mercurial Masterlist 🌃
About: Ghoap x male reader
Reader: Male, very vauge descriptions
T.W List: Unhealthy relationship, kidnapping, obsessive behaviour, unreliable narrator, self-hatred, (always check chapter tags please)
Status: Ongoing
Inspiration: @peachesofteal (Dead Disco<3)
Old game, new rules
Chapter One: Abstain
Chapter Two: Hunger
Chapter Three: Devour
Chapter Four: Nasuea
Chapter Five: Restless
#mercurial masterlist#masterlist#mercurial#ghoap x reader#ghoap x male reader#ghoap x you#toxic reader#will be reblogged regularly#will be updated regularly#ghost x reader#soap x reader#soap x ghost
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