#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction
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GhostGaz Week - sweet talk // missed connection
I'm so so so excited to have participated in @ghostgazweek this year! It's the first time I've done an event like this and it's brought me so much joy. To everyone who has read and commented on my work this week, thank you! I'm so excited to play with some of these concepts some more.
CW: Relationships between coworkers, mutual pining, front of house/back of house relations, Phillip Graves (derogatory), kissing, a taste of dirty talk
“Takin’ my ten,” Kyle tells his manager, pulling his phone from his pocket. Price nods, waving him off and assigning Kyle’s tables to Alex and Nova. He swings into the kitchen with an absent wave as he checks his messages and steps out back.
“’M no’ sayin’ ye have’ t’ declare yer love in front o’ the whole bloody team.”
Kyle perks up at the sound of Soap’s voice, but back-of-house gossip is going to have to wait while he tries to figure out what his off-again situationship is complaining about now. Or not - the meltdown in his messages is not worth dealing with. Just as he’s about the round the corner though, the growl of Simon’s voice freezes him.
“That’ll do, Soap.”
Kyle has to bite his lip to keep from gasping. Simon isn’t the head chef - that’s Farah - but he might as well be her right hand. He’s the glue of the weekend dinner rush. Level headed no matter what, rarely raises his voice above a raspy muttering, huge hands that Kyle has seen split an apple in half without a hint of visible effort. Whoever he dates is going to be envied by the entire front of house. Partially because he’s bloody gorgeous. But partly because he’s just the perfect man.
“Nae, yer gonna listen t’me,” Soap insists. “I promise, ‘e’s interested.”
“’E’s not,” Simon says. “Already tried flirtin’ wit’ ‘im. No dice.”
“Leavin’ a note wit’ yer phone number - in a pile of other notes with phone numbers - is no’ flirtin,” Soap says, and Kyle can imagine the despair on his face just from the tone of his voice. “Do you ken ‘ow many o’ those damn notes ‘e gets in a night?”
“Exactly. And he’s got a bird.”
“They broke up last week,” Soap hisses. “She’s shacking up with her ex.”
Kyle would snicker at how close he sounds to pulling his hair out but…
Kyle’s situationship ended last week. Because she moved in with her ex and Kyle doesn’t want to go through that roller coaster, again. And Kyle’s the flirt on shift, so he gets the most notes and phone numbers on receipts…
“’E’s got better prospects,” Simon says. Kyle hears the flick of a lighter. “Gorgeous, competent, charismatic? Kyle could have anyone.”
“And ‘e wants you, ye daft fucker,” Soap groans. “Steamin’ Jesus the two of ye. Just fuckin’ tell ‘im.”
“Tell you what,” Simon grumbles, muffled by his cigarette. “If he comes out here before my break’s done, I’ll tell ‘im.”
“Then ah’ll go in an- Oh you mother fucker! 30 seconds?”
Simon sounds amused when he says, “Tick tock.”
Kyle probably couldn’t ask for a better dramatic entrance, so he rounds the corner with a, “What’d I miss?”
Soap yelps and clutches at his chest like an old woman. Leaning against the wall, Simon looks about as surprised as he ever does, which means there’s a hunted look around his eyes, but he mostly looks tired and resigned. He settles into his thousand yard stare and takes a long drag.
“Gaz-bear!” Soap exclaims. He circles behind Kyle and shoves him forward. “Simon has something to tell you that is of a very personal nature. Do not let him distract you with talk about the kitchen! I love both of ye and ah’m tellin’ Price to fire both of ye if ye don’t talk!”
And then he’s slamming back into the kitchen, leaving Simon and Kyle alone in the alley.
He could play coy, but Kyle’s a bit giddy. “You like me, Simon?”
Simon grunts, contemplates his cigarette as he says, “Wondered ‘ow much of that you ‘eard. But don’t worry, I’ll keep professional.”
“God no.” Kyle can’t imagine anything wants less. “Tell me when you wrote me that note.”
“Dunno," Simon shrugs. "6 weeks after that shit with Graves?”
Two years ago, before Price took over, Phillip Graves had been the manager. He’d been a nightmare, harassing hostesses and firing anyone who dared to point out he was bad at his job. After the tenth straight day of a front of house person running into the kitchen to cry, pursued by Graves himself, Simon had had enough.
“I c’n make this a much more hostile working environment if tha’s what we’re aimin’ for.” The big beautiful bastard had shoved his knife a good quarter inch through a cutting board. The reverberation of the blade had rung through the painfully silent kitchen. All of the back of house looked to Farah for direction. She'd looked at Simon. Kyle, Nova, Alex, and the girl they’d been consoling by the fridges had all held their breath.
“I could fire you,” Phil spat.
“You won’t. You fuck with this kitchen, you’re losing your job,” Simon had answered. The fact that he had looked and sounded bored had scared and aroused Kyle in equal measure. “So ‘ere’s what’s going to happen - Keller and Garick are supervisors now. Pay them like it. You got a problem with front o’ house, you talk to them. Another girl comes runnin’ in here, then I‘m coming out there an’ you and I are ‘avin’ words.”
Graves had sputtered, looked around at everyone gathered, then spun on his heel and left.
Three months later, he’d gone missing. Two weeks after that, Price had arrived, greeting Farah and Simon like old friends and preparing to make the restaurant the best Kyle had ever worked at.
What did it say about Kyle that rumors that Simon had gotten rid of Graves for good only made him more attractive?
“That was more than a year ago,” Kyle says, sidling his way under Simon’s arm and leaning into him. Kyle’s not a short man, but Simon is tall and broad and warm under his work tee. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Simon takes another drag, and looks down at Kyle out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not exactly dating material. And you had a bird.”
“I would have dumped her in a heartbeat,” Kyle admits, startled when Simon barks a surprised laugh. “I would have! Fuck, I could have been sneaking out here with you for seven months? I’ll break up with her again right now.”
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Simon laughs, smashing his cigarette into the wall and dropping the butt into flower pot turned butt bin. He doesn’t move his arm from around Kyle’s shoulders.
“We’re dating now,” Kyle declares. “We’re boyfriends.”
“Movin’ kinda fast,” Simon points out.
“I’ve been in love with you for more than a year. Catch up,” Kyle dismisses. “My lease is up in four months, and I’m movin’ in with you. Now kiss me.”
Simon doesn’t hesitate. His lips are just the slightest bit rough. He smells like cigarettes and spices, and he turns to bracket Kyle against the wall. One large hand finds it’s way to the small of Kyle’s back to pull him in and press their hips together.
“Fuck,” Simon growls when Kyle moans against his mouth. “Pretty, pushy thing. Gonna be this demanding all the time, Gorgeous?”
“I have a lot of time to make up for,” Kyle groans, nibbling kisses along his jaw. “You should let me blow you.”
“Oh, should I?” Simon’s rumbling laugh sends shivers down his spine. “Should let Farah and Price catch you choking on my cock?”
Well, if Kyle was half-hard before, he’s rock hard now. “God, yeah, let me.”
“Not yet,” Simon growls, and that yet sends sparks flying through Kyle’s veins. His next kisses are just this side of too rough, tongue and teeth making Kyle’s lips so sensitive. Finally, he pulls himself away to pant into Kyle’s ear, “Let me take you on a date, huh, Gorgeous? Let me take you out, wine and dine you. Wanna know all about you, wanna talk about something other than work for more than five minutes. Then I’ll take you home and lay you out. Kiss you all over, suck that gorgeous cock of yours, yeah?"
“Jesus,” Kyle hisses. He tries to rock his hips into Simon’s, but strong hands hold him back. “Yeah, okay, yeah. Kiss me again.”
Simon laughs, dips down to give Kyle another closed-mouthed kiss. “Gotta head back in.”
“No,” Kyle pants. “Kiss me again.”
Simon growls into the next kiss and shifts to press his whole front into Kyle. When he pulls back, he presses a thumb against Kyle’s lips. “Be patient, Gorgeous. Gotta get through work tonight.”
He knows he’s pushing it, but, “…kiss me again.”
Simon’s lips are achingly gentle for a moment and then they’re gone as he takes a step back. “’M goin’ inside, now.”
“Thai food after work?” Kyle pants.
Simon chuckles and adjusts himself. “Yeah.” He swoops in for another brief peck. “It’s a date.”
#GhostGazWeek#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#gaz appreciation nation#manic pixie dream ghost#ghostgaz#Gastropub 141#that's this AU's name until I think of something better#because I have a lot of thoughts about this one#simon is a romantic and he has been PiningTM but he's also ready to get nasty#kyle has an itemized list of ways to get nasty with simon (soap has seen it. it keeps him up at night)#he's gonna love being loved by simon
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Slasher Handler
Description from the discord:
My next (first fanfic) project is going to be an AU for charmed!slasher!Simon where reader knows he's dangerous, finds out he's literally a killer, and decides to provide him with ✨enrichment✨ to help him… I dunno? Control his urges? Channel them into good? Meet the need before the distressing behavior starts? They're way over their head.
Part 1 - Meeting Your New Neighbor (SFW)
Part 2 - Grocery Shopping (SFW)
Part 3 - Meeting Kyle For Coffee (Time skip) (SFW)
Part 4 - Consequences (To Meeting Kyle For Coffee) (NSFW)
Part 5 - Reward (For Being So Considerate) (NSFW)
Part 5.5 - After the Reward (From Simon's POV) (NSFW)
Part 6 - Simon's Been Restless (NSFW)
Part 7 - Date Activities (NSFW)(Not Spicy!)
Part 8 - Romance Isn't Dead (NSFW)(Not Spicy!)
Part 9 - Pneumothorax (NSFW)
Gaz Interlude - A look into the medical side of things (SFW)
Gaz Interlude Part 2 - The other side of the medical side of things (SFW)
#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#reader is in over their head#so am i#manic pixie dream ghost#gaz appreciation nation#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction
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@charliemwrites infected me with Charmed!Slasher!Ghost. The dialogue is directly from part 4 of their series.
No content warnings for this installment. Please let me know if you need me to add or tag any.
Slasher Handler Masterlist
Not everyone appreciates optimism. Seeing the best in people, you’ve been told on multiple occasions, is naive at best and dangerous at worst. Someone could take advantage of you. People have taken advantage of you. You’re going to get yourself hurt!
The thing is, you’re not naive. You’re old enough to have experienced the casual cruelty of the world. But being cruel yourself doesn’t help anything. Kindness costs very little, and you’re happy to pay a little toward your karma every day. And when people think you’re an easy, bubbly target, they tend to let their guard down.
No one expects you to be observant.
Your new neighbor doesn’t expect you to be observant.
When you almost run into him the day he moves in, it doesn't take long for you to recognize him as the guy who brought you home from the bar. For one, he’s huge and doesn’t bother to hide it. Secondly, his eyes are this flat, empty, piercing blue until you apologize. And then he smiles, and and his eyes go from lifeless tundra to sort-of-welcomingly-frigid, and you know, you know, that this guy is dangerous.
And then he informs you that he’s moving just next door. You probe a bit, and he tells you he’s not worried about your noise, even as he asks about neighbors. You give him a little vulnerability, see how still he goes when you mention that you’re a bit introverted.
“Anyway!” You chirp, slipping back into the bubbly persona before the last test. “Do you need any help moving things in?”
And your new neighbor’s pupils dilate, ever so slightly, even as all the life in them drains away.
“Thank you, luv," he says in that deep voice, "but I’m almost finished. I wouldn’t want to hold you up.”
You feel your whole body flush as your nervous system screams predator-danger-RUN. You look down and away, try not to fidget.
“Well, lemme know if you need anything! I always forget something important when I move,” you say, and hope he doesn’t take your nervousness as an invitation to attack. “I’m the one on the left.”
He says “call me Riley,” so you do. Don’t bother to give him a fake name back, because if he wants to, he can look at the packages on your doormat and get your full name anyway.
You spend the rest of the afternoon chewing on your bottom lip, thinking. People at the grocery store probably think you’re daydreaming, or really worried about getting the right box mix for dessert. A kindly older woman picks out her favorite brownie mix and tells you its her husband’s favorite, just add a few caramel candies. You thank her, genuinely, and add the box to your basket.
Back at home, waiting for the brownies to finish baking, you let the anxiety simmer. Riley is a predator, yes, and you’re potential prey. But he already lives next door. And the neighbor before him was also dangerous, the way all men are dangerous. Admittedly, that feels like comparing a goldfish to a volcano, but it’s true. So you’ll bring him a welcome-to-the-building gift and endear yourself to him.
Being kind doesn’t cost anything. And if he likes you, he probably won’t kill you.
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#reader is in over their head#so am i#manic pixie dream ghost
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Part 2 - Grocery Shopping
Slasher Handler Masterlist
You’re at the big grocery store, again, in the baking aisle. Your neighbor had eaten an entire pan of brownies, minus the square you’d saved for your self, in a night. He’s large, you reason, so it’s flattering but not surprising. So you grab another box to have on hand and meander to the end of the aisle. Then you round the corner and listen.
Riley Simmons has been following you. He’s very good at being unnoticed, for such a big man. It took more than a week for you to catch on. If he was the only factor, you wouldn’t have. What finally tipped you off was the way conversations around you would lull, then come back to life just a little quieter. Hushed. Careful not to draw attention.
The couple having a rather polite argument over gluten-free box mix go quiet for just a moment. Then they say a couple of things you can’t hear and push their cart in the opposite direction.
You wait three seconds before rounding back into the aisle, and there he is almost on top of you. His face, for a moment, is blank. Not carefully. Not “holding my emotions in so no one can see them.” Blank like nothing is there, except a deep hunger in his eyes.
And then he smiles, and says, “Hello.”
“Hi Riley,” you say with a grin.
“You always shop on Wednesdays?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.
“Most weeks!” You chirp, walking back to the brownie mix and grabbing another box. “When the weather is good, I like to go to the farmer’s market.”
You could withhold your schedule. You could try to throw him off, hide your movements, avoid him as much as possible. You could ask friends and co-workers to walk with you so you’re not alone. You could do everything you should to protect yourself.
Riley has followed you to the grocery store three weeks in a row. He’s followed you to work twice that you know of.
“Did you just get here?” You ask, smiling up at him. “We can finish shopping together.”
He says nothing, just takes the basket from your hand and gestures for you to walk ahead of him. So you go, strolling up and down the aisles with a tiger at your back and eyes firmly forward. You get your usual items, plus two bottles of the good olive oil, since it’s on sale. The glass clinks when you put them in the basket.
“You’re so quiet,” you chuckle. “Maybe these will keep me from bumping into you!”
Riley looks amused and makes sure you’re watching as he wedges cheese between the bottles. None of the other items dare to make a sound.
“Maybe I want you to bump into me,” he says. “Finally give me an excuse.”
What an exceedingly creepy thing to say, you can’t help but think to yourself. And, because your wires are crossed, you can’t help but find it endearing. Charming even. With most men, you have to guess when you're in danger. With Riley, you're certain all the time.
You grin up at him. “Well, I guess there’s still time today!”
Sometimes the best way to protect yourself is to ease closer to danger.
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#my writing#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#manic pixie dream ghost
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Part 3 - Meeting Kyle For Coffee
This is not in chronological order but I needed for this to get out of my head. Takes place after the end of Charlie's Charmed!Slasher!Simon series.
(If you don't want to read it, in the end, Simon does serial killer things. What a rascal!)
Slasher Handler Masterlist
Kyle Garrick is just as unreasonably pretty as he ever was, sitting in the cafe and drinking something hot. He’s a bit leaner in the face than you remember from high school. His jaw is sharper, but his smile is still so inviting.
When he spots you coming, his smile seems to light up the whole room.
You say, “Thank you, for agreeing to meet with me. Give me just a minute to order?”
“I ordered you a caramel latte,” he says with a smile. “You still like them?”
“Yeah, I do,” you admit, and sit down.
“I asked them not to start making it until you got here,” he says, taking another sip of his drink. “Figured you’d appreciate it being made fresh. All things considered.”
You blow out a breath and lean back in your chair. “That’s… actually why I wanted to talk to you.”
“I figured,” he says with a grin. “We haven’t talked since just after graduation. We do each other a favor, then say our sad goodbyes. And years later, out of the blue you hit me up? Looking for another favor. Could break a man’s heart.”
You bite your lip and look at the smiling man across from you. A barista appears at your elbow with an almost overfull mug and places it gently on the table. She gives Kyle a grin before flouncing away.
“Cheers,” he says, lifting his own mug in a gentle salute. He waits until you’ve taken a sip to continue. “So, how big is he?”
“What?” When you look up at him, he’s still smiling. His face hasn’t changed. But his brown eyes are flat and empty. Your heart beats just a bit faster.
“How big is he? I don’t do things the way I used to. I need to know so I can make it look like an accident.”
The last time Kyle did you a favor, the coroner had not ruled it an accident. No one had ever been accused of or charged with the death of David Toole-Kirk. But that amount of thallium doesn’t eat a person from the inside out on accident.
“I… um. I didn’t ask you here for that kind of favor,” you say. Your hands are burning where they’re wrapped around your mug. You feel like if you take them off, you’ll freeze under his stare. “I was hoping that you could… give me some advice?”
That brings genuine mirth to Kyle’s eyes. “Oh, this aught to be good.”
“I just… there is a guy,” you say. “Just… Do you… still go… hunting?”
Kyle grins and sits back in his chair. “Hunting?”
“Please answer the question,” you groan.
His grin is wide. His teeth are perfect. “No, can’t say that I do. Bit more of the gardening type now, in my old age.”
“We’re not even thirty,” you say, dumbly.
“This guy you know,” he prompts, barely keeping back laughter. “He likes to… go hunting, then?”
“He’s a pretty avid… hunter,” you say, carefully. “But I was hoping that I might be able to help him find another… hobby?”
Kyle Garrick looks almost ready to burst at the seams with the laughter he’s holding in. If you hadn’t had such a recent and thorough reminder not to get complacent with predators, you might have swatted at him. As it is, you can only clench your jaw as you watch him try and fail to keep a straight face.
“I know,” you hiss, “I know.”
“You really, really don’t,” Kyle wheezes. “Oh my god.”
“He says he doesn’t want to hurt me,” you say, looking around nervously. “But he’s taken me hunting twice, and I can’t do that again.”
That’s what breaks him. He bursts into peals of laughter, peppered with “he’s taken you,”s and “oh my days,”s that fill the whole cafe. It shocks you into giggles.
“Will you quit it!” You eventually whisper-shout.
“How did you manage to meet two of us?” Kyle wipes tears from his eyes. “My word. He’s taken you on hunting trips, and now you want to find him a new hobby.”
“Please,” you hiss. “I’m a little bit desperate and a lot at the end of my rope, here.”
And then Simon Riley’s voice says, right behind you, “Garrick.”
You’re a little bit grateful that Simon’s hands wrap around your wrists from above at the same moment, because otherwise you’d have thrown your coffee in the air. His sternum presses against the crown of your head. You tip your head, just a bit, rolling your eyes up to see him. He’s not looking at you. He’s staring at Kyle.
Kyle grins. “Riley. Good to see you, mate. How’s the family?”
“Still dead, you muppet,” Simon says, pulling out the chair next to you and settling in. When you eye him, he’s got that not-quite-blank look that means he might be thinking about smiling. “How do you know my girl?”
“Went to secondary together,” Kyle says with a grin. “She was bloody terrible at chemistry. Luckily, we got paired up. I helped her with a personal project before she went off to uni. It’s been years. Was pleasantly surprised when she reached out.”
“You’re online?” Simon asks, disdainfully.
“Calls more attention not to be,” Kyle points out.
“Told you,” you can’t help but mumble into your drink.
Simon gives a considering hum and his usual answer. “Technically, I’m dead.” To Kyle he says, not bothering to lower his voice. “If you meet up with her without my permission again, I’ll kill you slow.”
You gape at him, and, daringly, slap his shoulder. “You can’t tell me who I can and can’t hang out with.”
He leans in to kiss your forehead. “Sure, sweetheart.”
#my writing#cod#fanfiction#kyle gaz garrick#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#manic pixie dream ghost
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Part 9 - Pneumothorax
Slasher Handler Masterlist
NSFW under the cut.
CW: Accidental injury with knife, descriptions of wounds, wound care, field medicine, allusions/symptoms of lung collapse, blood, ingestion of bodily fluids, gagging
Something your nightmares have never been able to truly capture is just how unnervingly easy it is to push a knife through flesh. The smallest knife cuts through Simon’s skin easier than the MRE packaging. Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes as he looks down at where you’ve pushed the knife into the side of his chest.
Everything is eerily still for a moment. And then he looks back up at you and grins so hard you can tell through the mask.
The knife slips from between your numb fingers. It stays lodged between his ribs for a moment before falling to the ground. You scramble to your feet to stand over his still kneeling form. “Oh god. Simon.”
The way you’d slipped and rolled must have put the knife exactly where it needed to be to slide around his vest. His shirt underneath is ripped enough that you can see pale skin and so much red blood. The wound is bubbling, blood thinning in the cold rain. “Oh, god, Simon, what do I do?”
“Punctured a lung,” he whispers, barely a breath.
“You need a doctor,” you say, and it feels stupid, so obvious, but, “I don’t know where we are. How am I supposed to call for help?”
“’M okay, Precious,” he grunts. And then he stands up, like he’s not at risk of lung collapse. He points at the muddy backpack that flew from your shoulder as you’d grappled with him. “Get the bag.”
The bag? “We’re not playing games anymore!”
“’S got medical supplies in it,” Simon answers. He crouches down to pick up his own pack, and his chest makes a wet sound. “’N another gift for you. C’mon, we’ll go back to the cabin.”
Your heart is in your throat, but at least the cabin has running water. With the medical supplies, you can at least try to clean him up before driving him to the nearest hospital. Wherever that might be. You prop his arm over your shoulder and do your best to brace his good side.“Okay. Okay, let’s go.”
As you start to walk, the edge of the roof is barely in view through the drizzle. You’re so glad you were already on your way back to the cabin when he’d tackled you. Why did you have the knife out? You’d been playing with it, cutting shapes into a big leaf. He should have seen it, he’d run at you from the side. But that’s why he got you something so small, right? So someone attacking you wouldn’t see it, so you could have the element of surprise.
“Call Price,” Simon says, suddenly, knocking you out of your worried spiral.
You look up at him, then at the cabin that’s barely ten meters away. “What?”
“Use my phone. You know the code,” he says again, “Call Price, tell him we’re at the empty north cabin.”
Before you can ask “What?” again, or even, “Who the hell is Price?”, he starts slumping into you. And then all 18 stones of him are in a semi-controlled fall. You try your best to not drop him, gasp when he hisses as your arm presses against the hole in his chest.
The only thing in your head, as Simon slumps into the mud, his blood all over your hands, is that the weather didn't hold out the way you both expected.
Simon’s phone isn’t on him, or in his little knapsack. It’s one of the scariest things you’ve ever done, leaving him there in the dirt to run into the cabin. At the same time, it’s… familiar. Leaving a man to die while you call for help that can’t possibly arrive in time.
This is different. The first time you’d stabbed a man, you’d meant to do it.
The cabin is a little abandoned thing that Simon had fixed up a bit in the middle of nowhere. Outside of the room you’d woken up in, it has a wet room style toilet and shower and a counter with a hot plate. The rest of the weirdly clean little building is just one empty room leading to the only external door.
You hand shakes as you paw through the pile of stuff in one corner of the main room. Simon’s left his battered old phone in the pocket of his jeans, like he always does. Your hands shake as you punch in his passcode. You’re jogging back to his side as soon as you select the only named contact in the phone.
By the time someone picks up, you’re back on your knees by Simon’s side, relieved to see his eyes fluttering.
“Price,” a man answers.
“Hello?” You try not to let your voice get to frantic. “Simon’s hurt. He said to call you. We’re at the north cabin.”
“Empty,” Simon grunts, barely audible.
“The empty one,” you clarify. The line is silent. “Hello?”
“He’s wounded?” Price asks, cool and almost distracted.
“Punctured lung,” you say. “He passed out, but he’s kind of conscious now.”
The man on the other end hums. “That does sound a bit serious.”
“Please,” you insist. “I don’t know where we are, please call an ambulance.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” And then the line goes dead.
Your hands are shaking when you touch Simon’s face. “He hung up. Simon, I’m so sorry, he hung up. I don’t know if I can get you into the car. I don’t know if there’s enough time for anyone to get here.”
“’S fine, Precious,” he says, barely a whisper. He looks just as peaceful as if he was at home, in bed. The mud and blood and burbling chest wound ruin the illusion. “Been in worse shape’n this. Price’ll come.”
“We don’t need him here, we need you in a hospital!” It suddenly strikes you that Simon had mentioned medical supplies. “Should I try to stop the bleeding? Gauze and pressure, right?” You grab the backpack and tear it open. There’s gauze, antiseptic gel, and bandage wraps. You also find a small bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“Splash of alcohol first,” Simon says, closing his eyes. When you slap him, he glares up at you with one eye. “Oi.”
“Don’t fall asleep on me!”
“’M no’. Just restin’ m’eyes.”
“Not that either!” The way his accent is becoming more pronounced, and his words more slurred, sets your already galloping heart racing. You uncap the alcohol and tip it, not at all gently, over the wound. “Stay awake.”
“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell,” Simon growls, followed by a pained wheeze. “Okay. Fuck. Gauze next, you’ll have to hold it down. Don’t have enough bandages and too much mud, besides.”
The first piece of gauze gets soaked with rain and blood immediately, so you open another couple of packages and press. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you tell him over his hissing. Tears finally start catching up to you. “Simon, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Simon.”
“’S fine,” he sighs. One big, muddy hand comes up to pat your shoulder. “Shouldn’a come at you from the left. Better t’ stay low and come at you from the right.”
“I still might have stabbed you,” you protest. “I shouldn’t have had that stupid knife out, I should have known better-”
“You couldn’a known.”
“I should have,” you insist, and the tears are falling even faster now. “I didn’t need to be playing with knives, I knew you were out here, that you’d start chasing me any moment.”
“’S part of the game,” Simon sighs with a lazy grin. “Weren’ supposed t’ stab me in the chest, but tha’s on me.”
“I wasn’t supposed to stab you at all, Simon,” you sob. “I never wanted…! I don’t…!” Simon’s eyes flutter closed again, and you feel your heart break. “Simon, please, stay awake. I’m sorry. Please, Simon. I don’t hate you, I’m sorry.”
You're not sure how much time passes. But you jump when a hand touches your shoulder, whip around to put yourself between Simon and whoever’s come up behind you. A white man with a beard you would absolutely expect to see walking around in the woods looks between you and Simon with raised brows. He brings a cigar to his lips and takes a pull.
“Simon,” the man says. “You broken?”
“No, sir,” Simon says. When your gaze snaps to him, his eyes are bright behind his mask.
“She said you punctured a lung,” the man you can only assume is Price points out.
“Affirmative.”
“John Price,” he finally introduces himself. He offers you a hand up. When you look between his hand and where you’re keeping pressure on Simon’s wound, he chuckles. “Let’s get this drama queen inside, shall we?” Then Kyle appears at his elbow with a grin and an arm full of blue tarp.
“How’s the hobby search going?”
You can’t stop yourself from bursting into tears.
John Price had guided you inside while Kyle somehow maneuvered Simon onto the tarp to drag him the last few meters to the cabin. Now, there’s another tarp laid out on the floor, with Simon’s clammy, pale body on top of it. Knelt next to him, Kyle mutters something to himself, focused but relaxed. He’d complimented you on a clean strike, once he’d gotten Simon inside and cleaned the wound enough to look at it. Apparently, you probably could have done a lot of damage before killing him outright, if you’d really wanted to.
The sucking sound from Simon’s chest as he chuckled had made you run outside to throw up.
“You meet my girl, Skipper?” Simon eventually wheezes. There’s a big patch of of gauze taped over the wound. That side of him, from shoulder to hip, is the only part of him that’s really clean, besides his now-unmasked face. He winces when Kyle does something with the tubing sticking out of his chest. It’s still trickling blood, but that seems to be better than the flood from when Kyle had first pushed a thick needle between his ribs.
“I have,” John Price says, blowing a cloud of smoke. “You haven’t been keeping her here long. Surprised she stuck around to make sure you’d be okay.”
It strikes your ears as… absurd. The idea that Simon had whisked you away to this tiny, sparse little building for, what? For good? Nonsensically, you want to point out that there’s no kitchen, and Simon knows you like to prep and cook when you’re stressed. MREs wouldn’t cut it for long.
And then it occurs to you that John Price knows Simon. Knows him well enough that he expects you to die.
“She’s had Riley here on a leash for half a year,” Kyle informs him. He pats Simon’s cheek condescendingly, ignores his growl of annoyance. “Poor bastard’d been going mad, cooped up with nothing to do since Soap’s been locked up.”
“Eight months,” you whisper. You’re sitting on the edge of the tarp by Simon’s good side. You sip some water and offer it to Simon. He lets you tip the bottle carefully to his lips. “We met eight months ago.”
“Christ,” Price says, rolling his eyes. “I told you to keep a low profile.”
“’ave been,” Simon grunts.
“And, that little excursion at the ski lodge was what, exactly?”
Simon tilts his head to look at you, mischievous smirk under the black makeup around his eyes. “Had to make sure our first date was memorable.”
You want to smack him. The thought makes you feel guilty since you’ve already stabbed him today. You compromise by petting through his hair, right where the scar you gave him sits, then give his ear a little tug when you get to it.
“Hope it was worth it,” Price says. “You going to get rid of her, or am I?”
Simon is up and standing in front of John almost before you see him move. The back of him is still spattered with dirt and blood, silvery scars in stark contrast. You watch his chest expand, hear the whistle and bubble of air and blood through the tube you can’t see. You take one look at Kyle’s startled, worried face and quickly get to your feet.
When you come around his side, you shiver and shrink back a bit. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Simon’s face this frigid. He’s completely closed off as he stares down at Price, doesn’t even spare you a glance.
For his part, John remains completely relaxed. He takes a lazy pull from his cigar and blows the smoke from the side of his mouth, away from you. “Touched a nerve, have I?”
“She’s good people,” Kyle pipes up, coming to stand across from you, so everyone is in a loose square. He keeps his hands in his pockets. “Hasn’t made no trouble yet.”
John doesn’t look away from Simon. “That so?”
You reach out for Simon’s hand, then think better of it. You touch his back instead, in case he needs that hand. You step closer but stay a little bit behind him. “Simon?”
“She’s talked to the police, you know,” John says. “After your stint at the hospital, and again after your little date.”
That startles you. “I never-”
“Hush, now,” John says.
Simon flinches at the same moment that you feel your back straighten. “Excuse me?” You take a step forward into John’s space. “Maybe you forgot, but I called you here to help. If I wanted him dead, Simon would be dead right now. If I wanted him arrested six months ago, he’d have been arrested.”
“Precious-”
“No, Simon.” you interrupt him, staring into John’s eyes. “He practically lives in my apartment. He drugged and kidnapped me literally last night. He made me touch Brandon’s skull, and then I stabbed him this afternoon. I’ve been at the scene of two mass murders and now I’ve almost killed someone else. What the fuck makes you think you can come in here and talk about me like you know anything about me? Like you think I’m an idiot? Why do you think you get to shush me?”
The man doesn’t react except to pull from his cigar again. Your clothes are stiff and damp and uncomfortable, but you resist the urge to fidget. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Kyle look from you to John and back again.
“If you ever have him arrested, he’ll be out in a day,” John finally says. “You’ll be dead before then.”
“Oh gee,” you mock. “I wonder why that never occurred to me. Making the serial killer angry might get me killed. Shocking.”
Simon’s hand gently touches one of your wrists. “Easy, Precious. Price ‘s just lookin’ out.”
You let him take your hand. “He can do less of that, thank you very much.”
Simon reels you back against his front. He props his chin on top of your head and kind of sags some of his weight onto you. “Don’t think he can, love. Fundamentally incapable. Has to take care of his men.”
“Well he’s my man, now,” you grit out. “So you can fuck right off, John.”
For whatever reason, that cuts the tension. Kyle barks a laugh before he can stop himself. John tips his head back and huffs out smoke. Simon just presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Kyle told me you were a little off,” John says. He props a foot on his knee to stub out his cigar on the sole of his boot. “Simon’s been real tight lipped, but I see why he likes you. Not much self-preservation to speak of.”
Of all the stupid conclusions he could have come to…!
Simon’s hand covers your mouth before you can tell John exactly what you think of him. “She’s helping me find new hobbies.”
John just shakes his head. “I don’t want to know. Kyle, how long is he recovering?”
“Three weeks. Two, if he avoids aggravating it,” Kyle answers.
Simon hums. “’M gonna aggravate it.”
“Goddammit,” John swipes a hand down his beard. “Soap’s supposed to be my troublemaker, not you.”
The murderous stalker isn’t the problem child? You snort behind Simon’s hand. Hopefully, you never meet this Soap guy.
“Fun as all of this is, I’m on shift in four hours,” Kyle says, looking at his watch. “Need to get home and sanitize. Riley, usual wound care. Drain’s gotta come out in three days. And you need antibiotics. Seriously.” He looks at you. “Make sure he gets them and takes them. All of them. His feet will fall off.”
“No they won’t,” you say when Simon drops his hand to wrap around your shoulders, just as he says, “Fuck off, Garrick.”
“Take the damn antibiotics,” John says, standing from his seat. “Be ready for a call in three weeks.”
“Affirmative.”
“And you,” John holds a hand out to you to shake. Waits for you to take it and gives a firm shake. “Let me know if you get tired of him hangin’ all over you.”
“So you can kill me.”
He gives you an amused grin. “I’m not in the practice of wasting valuable assets.”
“I’m sure you meant that in a way that’s not offensive,” you answer. “I’ll do my best to never call you again.”
“Smart girl.” He gives Simon a nod, and then he and Kyle are out the front door.
The shower head sputters and spits, but eventually produces surprisingly warm water. Not hot, but warm enough that you don’t feel bad herding Simon in to get clean. Warm enough that you groan when you step in with him.
There’s a silicone bulb hanging from the tube in Simon’s armpit, compressed to create some kind of vacuum. It’s pink with blood and other fluids. It doesn’t seem to bother him, so you use your hands to gently wash you both with a generic body wash. When you start rinsing dirt and an errant piece of leaf litter from your hair, he smirks and leans in until your back is pressed against the cold tile.
“Fuck,” you can’t help but panic. Your hands go to his hips in case he’s losing his balance. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer, just braces the arm on his wounded side over your head. The drain site looks a little red, but not concerning, so you check the edges of the waterproof bandage Gaz placed to make sure it’s still set.
That’s why you don’t realize what he’s done until a splash of his blood hits your cheek and drips into your mouth. You can’t really rear back, trapped against the wall. All you can do tilt your face away and sputter as he empties the drain onto the side of your neck to drip down your collarbones.
He grunts a disagreeing sound when you lift your arm, catches your hand before you can lift it very far. His hand comes up to your cheek, two fingers touching where his blood has dripped to your chin. He pushes his hips into you, and you can feel where he’s getting hard.
When he speaks, it’s little more than a whisper. “You were supposed to slash my arm, you know.”
“Wha-”
He’s not gentle when he shoves his fingers into your mouth. For all that he was laid out on the floor less than an hour ago, you can’t force his hand away with both of yours. It’s all you can do try to fight the urge to gag as you barely hold him at bay.
“Knew you’d like the gifts,” he growls down at you. “But you were s’possed to slash, hm? That’s what a good girl like you does, chased in the woods. Easy to drop a knife that way.” He uses his fingers in your mouth and thumb under your chin to make you stare up into his eyes. “Where’s a sweet thing like you learn to keep a knife close to the body? Felt you let it slide, flat. Felt you push.”
Had you? You hadn’t felt it, just the anxiety spike of being attacked, the cradle of his hand shielding your head from the ground. Just his huge body and that skull mask, on you suddenly, without warning. You can’t answer, can’t even try without gagging. Simon gives your jaw a little shake.
“You could have killed me, today.” He grinds your body between his and the wall for a moment, before stepping back. He drags you under the spray of water, other hand cradling the back of your head. You struggle to cough, try to turn your face down. Your heart races as you do, knowing it’s only because he let you.
And then he slips his fingers from your mouth and brings your face to his chest. He holds you as you cough, pets over your back. You cling to him, because what else can you do? When you finally look up at him, his pupils have all but swallowed the blue of his eyes.
“Fear looks so good on you, Precious.”
Taglist: @mishaglass, @oceanicexolorer, @whitetiger846, @iknownothingpeople, @fruitdoom, @achillesquartz, @hindi-si-ikay, @ahopelesspedantic
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#cod#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#simon riley x you smut#manic pixie dream ghost#gaz appreciation nation#price is right#this one was a monster and fought me every step of the way#but it's finally here#i did a lot of research for this one but i'm not a doctor
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Forming the Pack - Part 1
Autumn Embers Master List
Pheromones aren’t everything, of course, but you’ll get more cohesive group dynamics if everyone has scents that go together. Scent blockers and diffusers are everywhere in common spaces, so it’s not like people who’s scents don’t mesh can’t be around each other. Lots of people with subtler or hard to pin down scents only go au naturel on special occasions with family and their special someone.
Of course, the military is a whole other beast.
Almost every person serving active duty is an alpha, which lends itself to clashes. And alphas, who already tend to have stronger scents, put out even more aggressive pheromones in close proximity with one another. Industrial strength scent diffusers can only do so much. It results in proximity packs forming, alphas who are scent compatible spending more time with each other.
The 141 doesn’t form because of scent compatibility. When Price finds Simon and forms the task force, he doesn’t much care about what they each smell like. Their scents being on wildly different parts of the spectrum is better than if they were too close, Price reasons. His gear smells a bit spicy, Simon’s always has an earthy undertone. It’s easy to avoid squabbling, and only made easier by the way Simon readily assumes his position as John’s second. No muss, no fuss.
The first year passes. It’s hard work, but Simon makes it undeniably simpler. The Ghost has a presence that demands deference from the temporary members of the task force. And because Ghost follows his captain, that deference extends to Price. The two times someone had tried to upset the balance, Simon had reacted with such swift ferocity that Price hadn’t known there was a problem before it was resolved with a neck under a boot.
“Stand down, Ghost,” Price says around his cigar, the third time.
“'S soon as he acknowledges his superiors, Skipper,” Ghost rumbles, staring down at the sergeant who’s face is going an interesting shade of purple with shame and a lack of oxygen. “Yield, corporal.” The sergeant frantically taps Ghost’s boot. Ghost gives him just enough room to heave a breath, and snarls down, “Yield to the Captain.”
“Captain, I yield,” the young man gasps.
“You ever flout orders again, I’ll kill you myself,” Ghost growls.
After that, the mission had gone smoothly.
Days later, it’s just the two of them again, walking home from the pub. It’s a nice enough night for it, and they’re both too jumpy to call a car. Simon follows without comment, just lights a cigarette and falls into John’s wake, like always.
Four blocks from the base, Simon says, “Gotta piss.”
John snorts. “What, you didn’t go before we left? Hold it.”
“Alright,” Simon drawls. Without breaking stride, he lights another cigarette.
Of course, within another block, John becomes too aware of his own bladder. If Simon hadn’t said anything, he could probably have made it. Annoyed, he steps into an alley and behind a dumpster. His nose does not appreciate the assault on his senses, but he’s a soldier, he’s smelled worse. Simon stands guard at mouth of the alley as he does his business.
When he emerges, he tips his head. “Goin’?”
Simon quirks an eyebrow and exhales a cloud of smoke. “Am I?”
Price hums, takes in Simon’s relaxed posture. Without the skull covered balaclava, he’s softer. Not civilian soft - he’s still almost 2 meters of alpha, hardened by military training and torture. But where most military As balk at taking orders when they’re not in the field, Simon looks for ways to let Price lead.
Simon will do what ever John tells him. It’s a realization that probably shouldn’t thrill him the way it does.
John waves him into the alley. “Be quick about it.”
Without comment, Simon hands his half-finished cigarette over and steps into the alley. John contemplates it as Simon does his business. He prefers cigars, but he takes a drag and tells himself it’s just to keep it lit.
But when Simon re-emerges, John doesn’t hand it back. And Simon doesn’t ask.
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#poly 141#omegaverse#autumn embers verse#simon ghost riley#captain john price#manic pixie dream ghost#price is right#(in my heart) simon likes a hierarchy#but he never wants to be at the very top of it#(this was part of a larger document that has been sitting in my files for some time)#(posting to remind myself that I don't have to be perfect)#(i'm allowed to put my own stuff on my blog even if it's not finished)
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Part 8 - Romance Isn't Dead
Slasher Handler Masterlist
NSFW under the cut.
CW: Bones, flashback, high anxiety/panic, violence and gore, brandon being brandon (assholery), crying, manic pixie dream ghost (assholery), MREs, descriptions of knives/multi-tools (not in use)
You can’t fucking breathe. It’s like your diaphragm is frozen and you can’t pull air into your lungs. Your vision is tunneled onto the skull in the box, the bright blue scrap of painters tape with Simon’s messy scrawl. Behind and under you, you know he’s saying something. All you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears.
The last expression you’d ever seen on Brandon’s face flashes before your eyes.
A big hand closes over your mouth and nose.
You flail. Before you even know you’re doing it, your elbow comes up to slam against the man behind you. The hand disappears. Using the momentum of your swing, you pitch yourself sideways. But a huge arm wraps around your waist. You’re trapped. You’re trapped. The killer is at your back and you’re trapped.
Simon’s voice cuts through the panic. “Stop squirmin’ before you hurt yourself, precious. Or I’ll make you.”
Every muscle in your body locks up. You burst into tears.
It’s awful, the way he coos at you. But when he gathers you in this arms and cradles you, you can’t help the way you cling. You’re torn between burying your face in his neck and being too terrified to close your eyes.
Images from that night at the ski lodge flash behind your eyes. Finding Stacy bleeding out from her shoulder, already too weak to stand. Your manager, propped against a wall with his guts spilled in his lap. Amber, her throat slit long before you and Brandon stumbled across her. Brandon, who’d followed you downstairs as you looked for matches and candles. The same Brandon who had been trying to convince you to share a bed with him when the power went out.
“To conserve warmth,” he’d said, with that that stupid smirk on his face as he followed you into the kitchen area.
“No, Brandon,” you’d finally hissed at him, whirling on him with a long, unlit white candle in your hand. You poked him with it as you whisper-shouted, sick of his shit. “No. No. Fucking no. What do I need to say to get you to get it? I don’t sleep with my co-workers. And even if I did, I wouldn’t sleep with you because you’re an asshole who can’t take a hint. Go find Amber if you’re so hard up. She’s actually interested in you.”
“Amber’s a slag,” Brandon said, not bothering to whisper. “What, you’re not actually fucking Riley, are you? Won’t fuck a co-worker, but you’re fine shagging a neighbor.”
“I’m not fucking Riley,” you’d snapped, still at a whisper because you weren’t about to be goaded into shouting.
“Then what’s the problem?” Brandon’d snapped right back. “Stop being so stuck up. I bought you drinks, I walked you home more than once-”
“I told you not to!”
“-I’ve brought you flowers and chocolates. I got you coffee from your favorite spot, and a pastry-”
“You think I’m interested in dating you because you picked up a danish on your way to work?” You’d wanted to pull your hair out. Wanted to wrap your hands around his throat and shake. “Brandon, I fucking hate cherries and you-! No, that’s not even the point. I’m not interested. I’ve never been interested. Leave me alone.”
His fingers closing around your upper arm, tight, had made you push him away. Not as hard as you could, just enough to startle and put some distance between you. But he’d slipped in something on the tile and fallen to his knees.
“Shit,” he’d yelped. “What the fuck? Ugh, the floor is wet. You’re lucky I didn’t break something.”
You had snorted, turned your back and picked up the matches that were laying on the counter. Lighting one, and then your candle, you’d turned back as you heard him getting up. You’d opened your mouth to say something scathing, but… “Brandon, what… is that?”
There’d been something dark and wet on his hands, his sleeve. Whatever it was, he’d slipped on more than a trickle of it, coming from under the table. And when you rounded the table, there she was. Amber, in a pink pajama set and a pool of her own blood.
Yours was the first scream of the night. Brandon’s had been the last.
And now the man that had killed both of them is petting your hair and shushing you. You gasp as you pull yourself from the flashback, teeth chattering with remembered cold. A wave of goosebumps sweeps over you. You’re very aware of the gloved hand that rubs up and down your calf.
“A couple of deep breaths now,” Simon murmurs. You can feel his lips on your forehead through the cloth of his balaclava. “Deep breath in, there you are, precious. Let it out. Slow yourself down. That’s it. There’s a good girl.”
Another memory flashes through your body. Simon’s hands holding your hips steady as you rode him, just last night. His voice smoky and soft, “Easy, easy. There’s a good girl. Let me do all the work, yeah?”
You’re wracked by another wave of sobbing.
Eventually, you tire yourself out. Your limbs are suddenly just so much dead weight. Your eyes are so sore it hurts to blink. Every hitched breath shakes your whole body. You don’t fight it when Simon makes you tip your face up so he can see how puffy and red your face is. Only let out a shaky breath when he lifts the bottom of his mask just enough to let him taste the tears on your face.
“That was the worst night of my life,” you rasp.
Simon hums at that. “Worse than the hospital?”
“I thought I could trust you,” you say. You sniffle, then continue. “I knew you weren’t safe. But I thought I could trust you.”
“Can’t you?”
You think about that for a long moment. Have to concede, “Don’t think you’ve ever actually lied to me. Well… you lied about your name. Fae rules.”
He chuckles at that. “Callin’ me a fairy?”
“Equal opportunity serial killer,” you murmur. If you weren’t so tired, it might have been funny. Right now, it feels like the words are all that carry you from one moment to the next.
“Cute.”
He lets you sit in his lap for a little while longer. It reminds you of being locked in his apartment that first week after the lodge. You’d sobbed yourself empty so many times. Felt hollowed out just like this. You’re going to need water, soon.
Finally, you put your feet on the ground, so you’re perched on Simon’s knee. He lifts a water bottle to your mouth, tips a mouthful at a time for you until you feel ready to hold it yourself. When you look at him, the skull is less menacing than in your memories. But his eyes are just as cold and dead.
“You’re fucked up,” you say to him. “You know that?”
The way his eyes crinkle at the edges means he’s genuinely grinning. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“That’s good, clever girl. Can you tell what I’m thinking?”
You shrug. “Any time I try, I get it wrong. So tell me.”
“I’m thinking,” he says, leaning in to kiss your cheekbone. “That you have eleven minutes left.”
Everything in your body freezes. “What?”
“Haven’t found the key,” he says, kissing your cheek again before pulling his mask back down. “Clock’s still ticking until you’re out of the cuffs.”
The urge to burst into tears again wars with the urge to scream. You take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out slow. “Why are you like this?”
“Probably all the trauma,” he drawls. His hands lift you to stand and he pats your ass. “G’won then. Key’s in the box. You have plenty of time.”
Looking back at Brandon’s skull makes you feel ill. “Can I have the key you have?”
“Too late for that, precious. Don’t have enough time left to trade.”
“You fucking fucker,” you mutter around a hitching breath. A few deep breaths and you make yourself look at the skull again. Try to look at it as an object, a pile of shapes, not the remains of a person.
It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to step closer to the box. But you do. And you realize that the skull is on top of something. Cloth is folded up under it. On the left side of the box is a small, black hard case. You step over to that side, crouch down to pick the box up. Avoid the profile of the skull as much as possible. It has simple clasps. You take a deep breath and hold it before you open it.
Inside, surrounded by foam lining, are what look like three folding knives.
“It’s not in there,” Simon tells you. “Once the timer stops, you’ll have plenty of time for those.”
You don’t bother to answer, just put the case down next to you on the ground. The only other option for looking for the key is to move the cloth and, by extension, the skull. You clench your hand into a nervous fist, take a deep breath, and let it out. The cloth, when you touch it, is stiff. A gentle tug wiggles the skull a in place, just a bit.
You put your hands on the edge of the box and close your eyes for another few deep breaths. Fight the urge to vomit. Try to think.
Simon put it there to get a reaction out of you. Labeled it so you’d panic and cry. He knows you, so he probably knew you’d have to interact with the skull with a time limit. The key is in the box, somewhere, under all of that cloth and the skull.
The key… is under the skull.
Before you can let the nausea set in, you open you eyes and reach out to poke the skull hard with one finger. It tips, the bulk of it falling away from the jaw. And there’s the key, taped to the palate. A tiny metal cylinder, just like the one around Simon’s neck.
Even though you know the answer, you ask, “Do I have to touch it?”
Simon, of course, doesn’t say anything. You tug the cloth closer to yourself so you don’t have to reach too far and lay your fingers on the cheekbone. It’s cold, solid, and dry. You’re not sure why you expected different. You use your thumb to pick at the tape, focusing on that and nothing else. It comes away remarkably easily. The key falls from its spot with a soft clack against a tooth and lands on the cloth.
Unlocking your cuffs feels anticlimactic after all of that.
“Three minutes to spare,” Simon says. He sounds impressed.
You sniffle a bit as you rub your wrists. “New personal record.”
“You did yourself proud, Precious.”
The truth bubbles out of you before you can think better of it. “I can’t think of a reason not to hate you right now.”
“That’s because you’ve got some sense in your head,” Simon says. He stands, turns his back to you to go to the table. He picks up two of the MREs, reads off, “Chili with Beans or Mexican Rice and Bean Bowl?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Gotta eat more than crackers,” he says. “Might as well have some while I tell you about the rest of our little adventure together. Come sit at the table.”
You stand, look at his back where he’s picking grapes from the bag. “What’s outside the door?”
“The not-so-safe zone,” Simon says, without turning. “You go out that door, the next part of the game starts.”
Hunting trip three-point-oh. You sigh and walk across the mattress to the chair at the table. “Mexican rice, please.”
He passes it over. “Good choice.”
He’s quiet while you reacquaint yourself with the heating element and examine the rest of the package. He opens his own MRE and cracks open a bottle of water, offers it to you first. You use it to start the heating process, watch him do the same.
“So,” you huff, crossing your arms. There are a few minutes until the food will be hot. “What’s the next part of the game?”
“We’re gonna play a bit of capture the flag,” he says. “You ever been paintballing?”
You stare at him, jaw dropped. A headache starts to form under your left temple. “Have you lost your mind?”
It’s not often that Simon looks affronted. “Paintball is fun.”
You can’t help the disbelieving laughter. “Then why didn’t you take me to paintball?”
“Gotta train you on gun safety first,” he points out. “And most places make you play on teams.”
“And the guns aren’t real,” you counter. “That’s the real reason, right?”
He shrugs, “I prefer knives. But yeah, I’d want you to have something real.”
That reminds you. “What are the knives for?”
Simon goes to retrieve the little carrying case, snags his chair on the way back. He places the box on the table, turns it toward you and opens it. He picks up the leftmost blade and flicks it open with a quick motion. He hands it to you, black handle first as he takes a seat.
The handle is thick and the whole thing is a bit heavy. You turn it in your hand and realize that it’s a multi-tool.
“This is a Leatherman Free K4,” he says. “Decent multi-tool, lots of uses. How does it feel in your hand?”
How are you supposed to know? “Fine? It’s a knife.”
“Show me you can close the blade?”
You find the mechanism pretty easily, close the knife without incident. Simon nods, presents his hand, so you give him the knife back. He fiddles with it for a moment, and out pop a pair of scissors. And he hands it back.
“This one,” Simon calls your attention to the second item. It has a black handle as well, but the frame is open so you can actually see the tools. “is a Leatherman Skeletool CX.”
It’s impossible for you not to poke around. There are 8 little tools attached the the knife, including the scissors. A few you don’t really understand, but there are three separate screwdrivers and a bottle opener. You can think of a few times in the last couple of years a multi-tool like this could have come in handy.
You snort. “Skeletool?”
“Hush,” he chides you, smile audible in his voice as he hands it over. “This one has pliers, and a few other tools the other one doesn’t. Shorter blade, a bit lighter.”
“I can kind of feel the difference?” you offer.
“Don’t worry too much about it. Open and close it.”
You do. Pliers first, because you can. Then the blade. “Cool.”
He hands you the last one, a tiny thing that’s all silver, as he takes the second from your hand. “This one is the Skeletool KBX.”
You flick it open and closed without him asking. “Itty bitty.”
“That one’s very straightforward. Just the blade and a bottle opener on the handle.”
You pick up the little package of pretzel nuggets that came with your meal and cut into it. The plastic splits like butter. “Dangerous.”
“I dunno,” you admit. “I haven’t used them yet. You gonna tell me what they’re for?”
Simon hums, a noise you secretly have categorized as one of his “happy tiger” noises. You look up to see he’s got those eye wrinkles that mean he’s pleased. He’s looking at the little blade in your hand.
“Do you like them?”
“They’re gifts,” he says. “One for your usual purse, one for your backpack. The little one for the next time you want to go out dancing. After lunch, I’ll show you how to hold them.”
Staring at him, you think that you’d call the way his shoulders come up toward his ears bashful if he was anyone else. “Did you get me romance knives?”
“Skull’s got me in the doghouse,” he mutters, picking up his now-hot food. “Gotta give you something nice to balance it out.”
“Drugging and kidnapping me got you in the doghouse,” you correct him. “The skull has you under it.”
“I’ve got experience digging myself out,” Simon says with a shrug. “Eat.”
You grab your food and start extracting it from the heat pack. “You want to get back into my good graces? Tell me what the fuck happened in 2007. What the fuck does Roba mean?”
Simon chuckles. “That’s not a story you want to hear while you’re eating, sweet thing.”
“You made me touch Brandon’s skull,” you point out as you tear the packaging open. The smell of hot food makes you suddenly aware of how hungry you are. “So you had better start talking.”
“Promise I’ll tell you more when we’re home, Precious.”
“Swear it.”
“Cross my heart,” he says, flat blue eyes staring into yours. “Hope to die.”
“The whole story.”
“Promise you a summary that won’t make you vomit more than once,” he offers. “And I’ll rub your feet.”
You scoop a spoonful of rice and pop it in your mouth. “You’re going to rub my feet regardless.”
Simon gives a dry little laugh as he pushes his mask up over his mouth. “Yes, ma’am. Now eat. I’ll tell you the rules of capture the flag.”
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#simon riley x you smut#manic pixie dream ghost#fun fact - in the charmed slasher ghost series by charliemwrites ghost doesn't lie to the reader. only brandon
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Really Good Neighbors
NSFW under the cut
CW: 18+, f!reader, embarrassment, dead batteries, mentions of falling in the shower, oral and manual stimulation (reader receiving)
It hadn’t even been a bad day. Tiring, sure. A bit tedious. It wasn’t until you dropped your keys as you were trying to unlock your door that you realize you’re on the verge of tears. You stare down at them for a beat that turns into three.
“You good?
The voice startles you. You look up and see Kyle, one of your favorite neighbors, at his own door. He must have arrived home from a deployment, but you didn’t know he was back. He always looks good, but right now he looks good-good, skin glowing and hair freshly cut, so he’s been home at least a day.
Kyle has always been really nice to you. Always helping to carry your groceries when he’s in town. Flirty, in a young and confident and kind of pushy way, but sweet, too. He’s invited you to the roof for “wine dates” so often that you actually bought some string lights to decorate. He’s never done more than buzz a kiss against your cheek, so you know it’s just good fun. You’re glad he’s back. Maybe you’ll invite him up to the roof this weekend.
The curious look on his face gets a bit concerned and you realize that you’ve missed your cue to answer.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” you say, with a smile that doesn’t feel at all convincing. “Just… you know. A long day. Work is… yeah. You know?”
He gives you an easy grin. “Yeah, I get it. You need anything?”
“An uncomplicated orgasm, a nap, and a burger,” you say before you can stop yourself. It’s the mantra that’s gotten you through the day. As soon as it’s out of your mouth you want to die. “Oh, god, please ignore me. I’m so sorry.”
He cracks up, which you guess is not the worst reaction he could have. You dive for your keys and unlock your door as quickly as you can. You toss him a little wave before retreating into your apartment.
The first order of business is a shower, to wash off the frustration and embarrassment. Of course, you only realize you’re out of the good body wash after you’re already under the water. Which is fine until you realize that you also forgot to grab a towel. You do an awkward waddle to the laundry and grab a towel for your body, and shamefully mop up your drippings using and hand towel and your feet. At least your hair isn’t wet - a single towel will get the job done.
After toweling off and lotioning, you discover that your favorite sex toy isn’t charged, and you forgot to put batteries in the backup. The cord to the plug in is on the fritz and you haven’t had the money to replace it. So you have to dig up the third runner up. The simple bullet vibrator turns on, thank god. It’s not the best, but it'll have to do. So you retrieve another towel to lay out on the bed and get ready for an indulgent evening.
As you scroll through your favorite site to find something just right, you feel like maybe today doesn’t have to suck. In fact, as you cue up one of your favorite videos, you sigh out almost all of the tension in your body.
And then the batteries in the vibrator die.
You feel like screaming and throwing something. Unfortunately, the thing you throw is the toy, which clatters against the wall, falls behind the bed, and starts buzzing away as if to mock you. You grab a pillow and yell into it long and hard before going to fish it out from under the bed.
You try really hard not to think of the fact that you share this wall with Kyle. Hopefully he was heading out and not coming home.
A knock on your door, just as you’ve finally caught the damn thing and turned it off startles you. You spin in place for a moment, caught between the urge to answer the door, the realization that you’re still naked, and needing to wash your hand and the dusty vibrator.
You throw the vibrator in the bathroom sink and rinse your hand before grabbing the still damp towel from the rack and wrapping it around yourself. Another knock makes you put on a burst of speed and wrench the door open. “Yeah, sorry, what?”
Kyle is on the other side of the door, hand raised to knock again. Behind him, a very tall, very muscular blond man blinks down at you. He’s vaguely familiar - a friend of Kyle’s you’ve only seen in passing. You can tell he’s smirking even behind his black surgical mask.
“Just wanted to check and see if you were okay,” Kyle says, giving you an obvious once over. You're very aware that your towel is not bath-sheet sized and you’re flashing a lot of skin. “Kind of sounded like you were having a hard time, thought you might have fallen in the shower.”
“Nope!” you exclaim. When the blond’s eyes scan you from head to toe, you kind of wish you had. “All good! Thanks!”
“What place?” The huge blond man asks. He pulls his phone out of his pocket.
You answer with an ever intelligent, “What?”
“You said you want a burger earlier. What place did you want the burger from?”
You feel your face flush. “Oh, you heard that? No, it’s okay. I don’t-”
Kyle interrupts. “Hey, you’re having a real rough day. Simon and I can treat my favorite neighbor to dinner.”
“The place doesn’t deliver here,” you say, helplessly. “Really, it’s fine.”
“Didn’t ask if they deliver, love,” says the blond giant named Simon. His brown eyes are amused when they meet yours. “Just asked where.”
Your legs are quickly getting cold in the breeze from the hall. That has to be why your knees are suddenly shaky. “Lucky Chip?”
Kyle grins. “Perfect. Love that place. You like the El Chapo, right? Side of garlic aioli?”
“Why do you know that?” you ask helplessly.
Simon finishes whatever he’s doing on his phone and glides away on long legs. His back is so broad, you’re not sure how you managed not to see him if he was around earlier. Over his shoulder, he says, “Back in a tick.”
“Copy,” Kyle answers. He grins at you. “An orgasm, you said? Just the one?”
“What?” You’re saying that a lot today.
Kyle’s smile is gorgeous as he leans his shoulder against the door jam. “Simon’s getting you your burger. I’m offering you that uncomplicated orgasm.”
Maybe you did fall in the shower. Bouncing your head off of the tile is the only way you can explain your brain coming up with this scenario. “You want… to have sex?”
“I want to eat you out and finger your cunt until you’re nice and relaxed,” Kyle purrs. His grin gets wider when you blush and stammer at him. “Then, you’re taking a nap. Simon’ll be back with your burger. After that, you let us know. He definitely wants a taste, though.”
All you can manage is, “What the fuck?”
“If you’re not into it, I can leave you alone,” Kyle assures you. He leans closer and takes the hand that you’re using to brace against the door jam. He brings it up and brushes his lips against your knuckles. "Won’t mention it again. I’ll be a perfect gentleman. But we’ve been playing this flirting game for almost a year now, so I’m pretty sure you want it.”
“Of course I want to! But-! You’re… I’m not-!” You grope for words and finally settle on, “I’m really not at my best.”
“Not real fussed about that right now, babes. I’ll take you on a proper date tomorrow night if you like. For right now,” he leans in, uses your hand to draw you close. “I just want to see if you taste as good as I imagine.”
Kyle kisses like he knows what he wants. One hand cradles your chin as he guides you a few steps backward into your apartment. The hand holding yours draws your arm up over his shoulder, and then his hands are everywhere. You have just a moment to realize what’s going to happen before your towel falls. Kyle groans into your mouth. His hands are gentle but firm where they glide over your curves. And then he takes a handful of your love handles in his palm and moans.
His hand catches your chin as he stares in your eyes. “Couch or bed?”
It takes you a moment to understand. “Bed?”
“Let’s go, then,” he practically growls. He turns you with his grip on your hip and slaps your ass. You jump. And then he’s herding you down the hall. He doesn’t waste any time pushing you up against the wall to kiss, though you half expect him to. He does, however, crowd you down against the bed with kisses until you’re on your back under him, legs spread around his hips.
His body feels even better than you’d ever imagined it would under your hands. Even through his clothes, he’s muscular. You can feel the power in his triceps as he braces himself over you. Which makes sense, but you never thought you’d ever experience his strength firsthand.
He pulls away to pant against your mouth. “Can feel you starting to think. Guess I’d better distract you.”
Before you can ask “what?” for the umpteenth time, his lips are on your neck. The contrast between the gentleness of his hands against your ribcage and the sucking kisses on your neck makes you moan.
It’s been a long time since your body felt this lit up, this quickly. Just minutes ago, you’d been sure the universe was conspiring against you. Now, you’re gasping and moaning and too caught up to be embarrassed. Every time you think you’re getting more control of yourself, he surprises another sound from you.
He doesn’t spend much time on your chest. A quick kiss to each nipple, and then he’s making his way down your stomach with kisses and bites. His hands are firm and keep you from squirming away when he buries his face in your stomach for a moment.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” he says as he slides off the side of the bed and onto his knees. “Swear, the thought of you got me through this last deployment. Can’t-”
Whatever he was going to say is lost because he practically dives into you. His mouth would be too much, too fast any other time. Right now, though? It’s exactly what you need. He’s a bit too preoccupied to comment on how wet you already are, thank goodness. At the same time, his appreciative groans and the obscene sounds his mouth makes against you are so loud that your ears burn.
When he latches onto your clit and works his tongue against it, you almost levitate off the bed. Your hands grab onto both sides of his head. “Kyle!”
He pulls away just long enough to ask, “Fingers?”
All you can do is nod. His lips are back on you before your head can fall back onto the bed. He presses two fingers into you, carefully at first, then all at once when your body opens for him. He thrusts a couple of times, but switches to massaging your g-spot with immediate accuracy. You don’t even have time to think, Holy shit!, before your orgasm is rushing up on you.
You expect him to pull away completely. Instead, he eases you down from your peak with gentle kisses. He’s whispering something you can’t hear over the rushing in your ears. All you can do is pant at the ceiling.
The force of it knocks the breath out of you. You’re pretty sure you wheeze something along the lines of wait, or god, or Kyle! For his part, he keeps groaning as he rides out your writhing. His tongue doesn’t stop, his fingers just keep going until you’re frantically tapping at his hair, his hands, struggling for breath enough to ask him to let up.
He stands to smile down at you, facial hair wet with you. You realize that your eyes are having trouble focusing. “You alright, beautiful?”
A full body shiver has you clenching on the fingers that are still inside of you. Words escape you, so you hum an affirmative. And then yawn so hard your jaw cracks.
Kyle just laughs. “Oh, yeah, you need that nap.”
“Sorry,” you whisper.
“No, babes, nothing to be sorry about,” he says, gently extracting his hand from between your legs. He hushes you as you whine and lifts your legs to get you settled on the bed. Then he climbs in beside you. “There, that’s better. Just need to be taken care of tonight, huh? Had a rough week?”
Sex doesn’t always make you emotional, but now you’re blinking back tears. Your voice is wobbly when you say, “Y-eah.”
“I know babes, I know,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your temple. “Let’s have a cuddle, and you can take a nap. I’ll wake you for dinner. Won’t have to worry about anything.”
You’re asleep before he can finish talking.
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#gaz appreciation nation#manic pixie dream ghost#kyle gaz garrick smut#really good neighbors#poly 141 x reader
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Part 7 - Date Activities
Slasher Handler Masterlist
NSFW under the cut.
CW: Non-descriptive mentions of torture, numbers and math, brief nudity, allusions to cannon-typical violence (Ghost's backstory), red herrings, bones
“Where ‘m I?” You slur around a dry tongue. Struggling to balance your weight on your hips, try to wrap your arms around yourself. Too late, you realize that there’s not enough slack on the chain to complete the motion. “Where‘re we?”
You want to scream. You want to cry and hide your face. You’re horrified to realize that you want Simon, your version of Simon, to materialize on the edge of the bed and comfort you. Unfortunately, all you can do is blink and sway.
“If you’re dizzy, you should lay back down.” Simon’s voice from that jaw-less skull is so disconcerting. In your nightmares, the skull mask sounds inhuman. Distorted, echoing. The burning bush overlap of every person who’s ever made you unsafe. Now, it’s just Simon’s measured speech.
But the rest of him is just as big and dangerous as you remember. He’s dressed like he expects to have to fight someone. His black jacket is covered by some kind of utility vest with a bunch of pockets. A handgun sits in a thigh holster, and on his other hip is the Big Knife. He’s not wearing his usual boots, these are heavier looking. If you weren’t so overwhelmed, you’d be terrified.
The masked killer on the other side of the room tilts his head and regards you for a long moment. The weird silence is such a Simon thing to do that you let yourself take your eyes off of him enough to take a quick look around the room. His chair is by the only door, a solid looking wood. To the left side of the room, there’s a bare folding table. On it, from what you can see, sit bottles of water, a bag of grapes, and some brown packaging. There’s another folding chair. At the foot of the mattress, there’s a huge, black hard case. The kind you’ve seen in action movies.
“Right now,” Simon finally answers. “You’re in the safe zone."
You blame the drugs in your system. It’s the only reason you can think of to look him in his eyes and blurt, “That’s not a fuckin’ answer, you cryptic asshole.”
You’re glad you’ve learned to read his eyes, because they’re amused when he stands. Even across the room, he towers over you. You clutch at the blanket to, what? Protect yourself? But Simon just crosses to the table and picks up a bottle of water and a sleeve of saltine crackers. He chucks both of them at your legs before returning to his seat.
“Sip the water, eat slowly,” he instructs. “And I’ll tell you the rules of the game.”
You can’t think of a reason not to, so you struggle for a moment with the bottle cap before bringing the bottle to your lips. Your mouth feels gross and fuzzy, but the water is cool. The crackers, when you finally tear the packaging, are exactly what you needed. You wish you had some ginger ale.
“You told Kyle that I’d taken you hunting,” Simon starts. “But I hadn’t really. First time was a happy coincidence. Second time, you planned the date activity and I kind of hijacked it, yeah?”
If your neck wasn’t so thick, I’d strangle you, you think. You take another sip of water.
“So I thought to myself, what parts of hunting might my sweet, clever girl be interested in? How can I make sure she’s having just as much fun as me? And I remembered your little cubes.”
You narrow your eyes at that. The Rubik’s cubes were one of the first signs that he’d been breaking into your apartment. By now, he knows that you know how to solve them. Two weeks after he’d moved in next door, though, he hadn’t figured that out. It had made your skin crawl to come home from work and see the colors in the wrong places. Now, sometimes, he’ll present the cubes for you to solve while you talk. When you hand him the completed puzzle, he scrambles it up and hands it back.
“You didn’t kidnap me to make me solve a giant Rubik’s cube,” you say.
“No,” he answers. If you could see his face, you think he’d be smirking. “But the first part of the game is a puzzle. You have to get out of the room.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, you want to scream. Instead, you slowly eat your way through the crackers and sip your water and think. The metal cuffs on your wrists are far enough apart that you can easily reach the locking mechanisms. They’re just tight enough that you can’t wiggle out, but they’re not uncomfortable. You can’t see where the chain to the ground is latched, so if there’s a clasp on that end, maybe this will be more simple than you think. You doubt it.
Daylight is streaming in through the window behind you. The shadows of the bars are very obvious, so the only way out of the room is going to be through the door. Simon’s sitting on the hinge side, but the only way you’ll get out before he blocks the way is probably if he’s on this side of the room. Facing the table, maybe. Preferably not standing.
Maybe you can strangle him with the chain.
You freeze as soon as the thought enters your mind, cracker halfway to your mouth. Wrapping the chain around the neck of that death mask only makes sense. But the idea of killing Simon makes you feel like vomiting.
When you look back at him, his eyes are as heated as they ever get. “Don’t worry, precious. I made you a promise last night. No killing, no wounds. No “Saw” puzzles. Just a little escape room. Told me you like those.”
Had you? That sounds like something you would have said, back in the beginning, to see what he would do. You take another sip to clear your mouth and settle your stomach. You’re already feeling better. “What are the rules?”
“You’ve got ninety minutes to get out of the cuffs and get into the chest. Once you’ve done both, the timer stops, and I explain the next part of the game.”
“Can I ask you questions once I get started?”
“Of course,” Simon says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.
You bite your lip. “When does the timer start?”
“You tell me when you start,” he says. “We’re not in any rush.”
“What’s in the chest?”
“That,” he answers, eyes crinkling with an obvious grin this time, “you’ll have to find out for yourself.”
That is not an answer you want to hear, but there’s nothing to be done about it. You rack your brain for any more questions. There are, of course, about a million. But the one that sticks out is, “Why were you so nice to me, last night? You could have just drugged me. You did, anyway.”
Simon doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looks at you. He holds eye contact, so you don’t look away. After a full thirty seconds, he hums. “You said you missed me. That you wanted to be with me. You asked me to stay. I liked it.”
The way he says it, warm voiced and slow and soft, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. There’s a spark of something in his eyes that you don’t want to examine. You’re too afraid to look away. But then he blinks and lets his eyes drift up and away from you. The breath you didn’t know you were holding whooshes out of you.
“Guess I’d better get started,” you say.
When you stand to the side of the bed, you find that you’re wearing one of his shirts, a pair of underwear, and a pair of socks. The room isn’t unbearably cold, but it’s not comfortable. The chain to your cuffs is much longer than you expected. You think it’s long enough for you to walk all the way around the room, unimpeded. If so, it’s long enough to get out the door, with a little extra slack. It’s locked to a loop bolted into the floor with a key lock.
You walk around to the table to get a good look at everything. There’s the water. The brown packages are four MREs, which you recognize from camping trips back when you were a teenager. There’s actually a few different fruits - grapes, apples, bananas, a bowl of chopped watermelon of all things. All of that is gathered on one side of the table. The side close to the empty chair has a manila folder. A glance inside shows printouts, three pages of text and forms, with some of the information redacted.
You let the folder fall closed and walk over to the chest. There’s two combination locks, each with four dials, one with numbers and the other with letters.
That’s two wrist cuffs, the lock for the chain, and two locks on the chest. If the cuffs share a key, this might be doable. If not… “Two or three keys, and two combinations?” you ask.
“Two keys, two combinations,” Simon confirms.
You do a quick calculation in your head. “A little more than 20 minutes per puzzle. That’s pretty tight, but doable. What happens if I don’t get it done in time?”
You turn to look at Simon and catch him looking at your legs. When he meets your eyes, his are smirking again. “You lose time in the second part of the game. And you’re going to want that time.”
With a sigh and a shake of your head, you walk to the wall across from the table. There are some cracks in the paint, a couple of scattered, discolored spots. But it doesn’t seem deliberate. So you leave it and head back to the table. The folder is tempting, but obvious, so you start with the fruit.
Bag of grapes, three apples, five bananas. You open the package of watermelon and poke around in it. No keys. Not in the bag of grapes, either. The apples and bananas are whole. But one of the bananas has a series of numbers followed by Xs written on it in black ink. 11 21 32 XX. You pry it from the others, carefully, and take it over to the folder.
The metal chair is cold when you use your hand to pull it out. You turn back to the bed and grab the thin blanket to cover it, then have an idea. You shake the pillow from the pillowcase and strip the sheets from the bed. No key, but the pillow has another set of digits and Xs written on it. 7 13 26 XX. You lift the mattress to look under it, but there’s nothing else, so you let it fall.
“Can I have a pen?” you ask, absently. You’re surprised when Simon plucks one from his vest and holds it out for you. You snort as you walk over to take it. “Can I have the key to the cuffs, while you’re at it?”
Simon’s eyes do something complicated as you take the pen. Then he tilts his head, reaches up, and pulls a thin chain from under his shirt. On it dangle two keys, one a tiny cylinder of a thing, the other a proper key. He lets them both drop against his collarbones.
You dart your eyes between the keys and his eyes. “Are you serious?”
“’D prefer if you opened the folder,” he says with a shrug. “But I do have the keys. Cost you… 15 minutes for one.”
“Did you just make that number up?” You laugh. Then it hits you and you glare. “You’re distracting me and stalling.”
“You asked,” he points out, chuckling as you whirl on your heel to go back to the folder.
That is neither disputable or worth responding to, so you don’t. You drop into your seat and open the folder. The first thing you do is jot down the numbers and where you found them on the inside. None of the numbers are repeated, so you leave them for now. Then you pick up the first sheet of paper.
It’s the service record for one Simon J. Riley.
A lot of the information is redacted. Most of the page is blacked out lines. But you see that he enlisted in 2001, had some kind of redacted gap from 2003 to 2004, then resumed his service. Then it jumps out at you. 2007, KIA. You can’t help but look up at him, and find him watching you already. You scour the page for any other information, but there’s nothing. So you flip the page.
This one is some kind of tactical… memorandum? Too much is redacted for you to be able to get much information about who the report is for, so you just start reading.
Mission to Mexico. Drug cartel, name redacted. Compromised leadership. Someone got double crossed. You start feeling sick at the description of torture, but most of the details are obscured, so you push through. Then a line makes you pause, and you have to re-read it. You flip back and forth between Simon’s service record and the report.
“Simon,” you say slowly. Your stomach is really twisted in knots, now. You’re afraid to look at him, but you make yourself meet his eyes. “Were you buried alive?”
He says, “Yes.” Your heart breaks.
The next few lines are blacked out. You really don’t want to ask, but, “How did you get out?”
“Blood, sweat, and tears,” he says, vaguely. “Probably not something you want to think about, sweet thing. Don’t want to waste time.”
“I need to pause the game,” you tell him. “because I just read that you were buried alive.”
“An explanation will cost you an hour,” Simon offers. His eyes are crinkled like he’s smiling.
“Simon.” Your voice is sharp to your own ears. “What the fuck?”
“Tick tock.”
You know from past experience that getting any more information from him will be like getting blood from a stone. So you make yourself read on. There’s a confusing bit about… brainwashing? Without the full context the report is a mess. Multiple civilian casualties, then… mission objective complete? Lots of blocked out text, surrounding a single word. ROBA.
You jot that on the lower half of the folder, then skim through the documents again for any numbers. Besides the years in the service record, there’s nothing that jumps out. So you jot down 2001, 2003, 2004, and 2007.
You decide this is a good enough place to start with the puzzles. The numbers on the pillow seem simple enough. You’re not good at math, but you’re good at patterns. You eliminate a few possible addition patterns, recognize it probably isn’t pure multiplication. Considering who Simon is, you gamble that there’s probably no fractions or decimals involved, so it’s probably going to be some combination of multiplication and subtraction. And as soon as you think of that, you see it. Times two, minus one. So the last number is 49.
The the second puzzle, from the banana, tickles your brain because you know you’ve seen it before. The numbers aren’t doubling. And it’s not simple addition. Adding in sequence seems to work. Adding 10 to 11 makes 21, then adding 11 works to get to 32. Plus 12 would make the next digits 44. That seems almost too easy, but these kinds of puzzles usually are. And it is a possible answer, so you write it down.
The only other potential numbers are the dates. If you pick the last four digits, that’s 1347. Another code. Unless it’s 2222. Or 0000. Or 2020...
Now you have a few potential 4 digit codes, and a possible 4 letter code.
“Time check?”
Simon looks at his watch. “Sixty-two minutes left.”
You hum an acknowledgment, and flip the pages in the folder, and the folder itself. There’s nothing else, so you leave the papers on the table and take your notes over to the crate.
Simon makes an interested noise through his nose. “That was fast.”
“Haven’t found the keys, yet,” you answer, “Gotta get a move on.”
You start with the letters, because it seems straightforward. And then you’re a bit stumped, because the lock doesn’t have a B available in the third slot. Or an A in the first. So you’ll have to find a cypher or something before you can tackle this one. Disappointing, but you still have time. You move over to the other lock and hope you have what you need. 4944 doesn’t work. Neither does 4449, 9444, or 4494. 2222, 0000, and 1347 are all a bust. You make your way through 1374, 1437, 1473, 1734, and 1743 before you give up.
“Fuck,” you grumble.
Crouched as you are, you have a new vantage point to consider. You scuttle your way under the table without putting your knees on the ground, and look at the underside. Sure enough, there’s a doodle of two bananas with a pillow in between. The dates were most likely a red herring. Or they’re the cypher to the letters.
“I got the numbers wrong,” you grumble.
“You’re a smart girl,” Simon says. “You can figure it out. Fifty-seven minutes.”
You scoot from under the table and make to stand up, but something on your leg catches your eye. Dropping onto the now bare mattress, you lift the edge of your shirt, Simon’s shirt, and see writing on your inner thigh, upside down so you can see it easily. Four digits, 01 10, and another fucking banana.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groan.
Simon snickers from his chair.
You grab your folder and pen and jot the new string of numbers down. 01 10 11 21 32 XX. Obviously, adding in sequence no longer works. It’s gotta have something to do with the number of 1s in the sequence, so you try to let go of math related assumptions. The first two numbers swap their digits. Then two ones. Then a two and a one. Then a three and a two. Zero plus one is one. One plus zero is one. One plus one is two. Two plus one is three. Three plus two is… five as the first digit? Sliding the tens to the ones place is one, zero, one, two… three. 53.
Banana pillow banana, then, is 5493.
Before you go to check, you stand up to lift your shirt up to look at your belly, then higher to look at the skin of your breasts. You ignore the low wolf-whistle Simon makes to do a quick inspection. Nothing jumps out, so you let the shirt drop a bit and pull your underwear away from your hips. You feel a bit silly staring at your own crotch, but it’s Simon so you figure nothing’s really off limits. And you’re rewarded with the discovery of a piece of tape with a doodle of a heart on it. The tape is garment quality, which explains why you didn’t feel it.
The heart doesn’t really give you much, but you pull it out and slap it on the folder anyways.
“Forty-nine minutes,” Simon says when you look up at him.
Back at the chest, you click the dials to the number sequence you identified and grin to yourself when the lock gives an easy snick as it opens. The other lock is still a mystery, but you’ve got one down, and still plenty of time to request the cuff key if needed.
You turn to look up at Simon from where you’re crouched. “How much does a hint cost?”
He pretends to think for a moment. “For that lock? Flash me your tits again.”
“Nasty,” you roll your eyes as you stand up. You lift the shirt up to your neck and are startled when he sits forward to rest his hands on your hips. The skull mask gets even closer, and then he’s kissing over your heart, eyes locked on yours. He leaves his lips against you through his balaclava, thumbs rubbing over the place where your hips meet your belly.
You stare down at that bone face from less than two inches away. You used to hope it was plastic. Now you know for a fact that it is not.
And then he lets you go and sits back, crossing his arms over his large chest. He looks at his watch.
“Forty-six minutes.”
You gape at him. “Where’s my clue?”
“That was your clue.”
“That’s the least helpful clue ever,” you complain.
“You found all the other ones,” Simon points out. “But I’ll tell you the solution if you let me fuck you.”
You scoff. “I don’t need you to tell me. I can figure it out.”
“I know,” Simon’s grin is easier to make out this close. “My clever girl.”
You grumble, but you can’t help but grin as you try to think of what the four letter sequence could be. On a whim, you try TITS. The letters are present, but that’s apparently not the combo. Heart has too many letters, but maybe has something to do with feelings. The lock doesn’t have the right letters for LOVE, forward or backward. Same with HATE. You try SRSK for Simon Riley the Serial Killer, but that’s not it. You’re on a date, so you try combining his initials with yours where it fits, but that’s not it either. In a fit of pique, you try TITS again.
Then you take a deep breath and think about Simon and you. Your relationship. DATE, KILL, and CARE are a bust. AMOR, EROS, HOLD, BOND. None of them work.
You’re getting antsy because you still need at least the key for your handcuffs and you're running out of time, but you make yourself take a deep, slow breath. SLOW and DEEP don’t work. And then you pause and look up at Simon’s face. At the skull.
BONE.
Nope. But it was worth a shot.
But thinking about skulls and bones makes you think of skeletons. Dead bodies. Cemeteries. Simon’s service record, breaking your heart.
BURY.
The lock clicks open.
You’re giddy as you swing the lid of the chest open. And, almost immediately, you scramble backwards, shoulders colliding painfully with Simon’s knees. Without thinking, you clamber up until you’re perched in his lap, staring in horror at the human skull grinning up at you from atop black cloth.
A piece of tape is on the right temple. In Simon’s scrawl, it simply says BRANDON.
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#simon riley x you smut#manic pixie dream ghost
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Part 5 - And here's the reward.
Slasher Handler Masterlist
NSFW under the cut.
CW: Under-negotiated kink, impact play (spanking with hand, impact on vulva), use of gag, brief knife play, fear play, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, forgotten safeword, afab reader, feminine terms used for reader, manual penetration, piv penetration, brief blood mention (not reader's)
Your ass and thighs hurt, in that weird floaty way things tend to hurt when you work out too hard, too fast. You almost let your eyes flutter closed when Simon pets gently over your belly. But then you remember that it’s Simon, so you force yourself to keep your eyes open. The knife he flicks open with his free hand makes you jolt. The aborted flail-freeze you do makes him chuckle.
“Easy, luv,” he coos, still petting, finger dipping into your belly button. He pushes your shirt to bunch up over the top of your bra. “Just gonna get you ready for your reward.”
Not my pants, is all your addled brain can think of, staring at the knife. You’ll be mad if he destroys your shirt and panties. Frustrated as all hell if he slices through your on-its-last-legs bra. But the idea of shopping for jeans is enough to make you tear up all over again. You moan through the gag and shake your head, try to work your pants off with clumsy movements of your feet.
“You’re finicky today,” He hums and skims the flat of the blade from your ribs to your belly button. The sharp tip dips in, and you freeze again. “Used to let me do whatever I want. Now every other thing is a no.”
You force yourself to even out your breathing. It’s so hard to resist the urge to suck in your stomach, but you do. You fight through the fog to try to figure out what to do. There’s a right answer, you know, even if he’s not actually asking you a question. You look up into his face, look between eyes that are flat, but not bored. You wonder how long he could stay here, crouched, blade poised over naked flesh, waiting for you to decide how the night is going to go. You know for a fact he can outlast you.
You slowly reach for his hands with your own. The empty hand, you guide down over your mound. The hand with the blade, you nudge upward. You’re relieved when your trembling doesn’t translate to him at all. The blade maintains its steady, just barely scraping pressure. You guide his hand up past your diaphragm, over your ribs. Up until the blade of it is pressed against your left breast through the thin fabric of your bra. The point presses just enough to dimple the skin of your other breast.
Simon’s eyes are nearly all pupil. The empty hand dips lower, until his fingertips are just between your thighs. His index finger grazes over your clit. He leaves his hand there.
You risk taking a deeper breath. The point of the blade hurts, but rises and falls with you.
Then he chuckles. “Sweet girl. This is supposed to be your reward, not mine.”
And then the knife is gone, too fast for you to track it. Your breath leaves your body all at once. When he twists the hand between your legs, you part them as much as you can. His fingers pet over where you’re wetter than you expected. And for a long few moments, that’s all he does. Just pets you and stares into your face.
“Be honest with me,” he says. You hate when he asks this of you. It’s always a trap, but he only ever tells you to be honest when he means it. “Do you like when I hurt you?”
You start to shake your head, then pause. Do you like it? The obvious answer is hell no. The practical answer is that when he’s hurting you, you know where he is and what he’s doing. You know he’s not going to kill you. The screwed up answer is that whenever he hurts you, you get wet. And he always makes you feel good afterwards.
All of this would be easier to communicate without a gag in your mouth. So you give him a shrug.
“Not a no, but not a yes, hm? That’s fair.” The hand not between your thighs pets over your hair. “Poor thing. ‘S confusing. I don’t make it easy.”
“You’re an asshole,” you try to say. Your message must get across, because he gently raps his knuckles against your cheek.
“Tell you what,” he says, suddenly pushing his middle finger into you. “I’m going to give you your reward, and you can tell me afterward how you like it.”
He presses deep, which forces his fingers against where your ass still stings. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit, too. It’s too much too fast. You try to curl into yourself on instinct. Of course, he doesn’t let you. The hand on top of your head comes down, palm over the gag and fingers hooked under your chin to force your head back.
He stops fingering you grab the pants around your shins and force your feet closer to your ass. When he lets go of your face and gathers your hands between his, over your head, he replaces the hand on your pants with one of his knees. The result is a position that feels more exposed than if he’d stripped you bare. The way he keeps staring down into your eyes somehow makes it worse. And then he slaps at your clit, a sharp, bright sensation that makes you yelp. You twist, knees slamming inward against his hips.
Then he sinks into your body with two fingers. Before everything, you used to be fascinated by his hands. They were so big and broad and dexterous. Now you’re intimately familiar with how much bigger two of his fingers are than even three of yours. The stretch makes you wheeze around the gag. He doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s rolling his wrist, teasing your clit and fucking into you with a steady intensity. It’s horrible how fast your body gives over to him. It takes embarrassingly little time for him to coax you toward an orgasm.
As soon as you start tightening, he dips his face down to drag his nose against your cheek. “Pretty girl.” And he pulls his fingers out and slaps your clit.
You choke on your scream and jolt as he just. Keeps. Slapping at you, fast and just this side of too hard. He coos and shushes you, but you can barely hear him. The sensation confuses your body. Your hips stutter up into his hand and away.
When his fingers finally plunge deep again, it’s relief and torment in one. Your clit feels like it’s on fire when his palm grinds into it. The pressure of him inside is everything and still not enough. When he hooks his fingers up and in, your right leg tries to kick out as your orgasm rocks through you.
Simon almost seems to take your orgasm personally. His breath is hot on the side of your face when he growls something else you can’t quite hear. His hand doesn’t slow down or soften. Your peak stretches on and on as you whimper and whine back at him. After the barest dip in pleasure, he brings you right back to the edge again faster than you feel should be possible.
The second orgasm is overwhelming for a split second, and then Simon’s hand is gone again. Your hips chase him before your brain catches up. So your legs are spread even farther apart when his fingers slap down again. Where his fingers had been focused on your clit before, these strikes hit your whole labia. He doesn’t let you close yourself off at all, and something about the whole experience brings the pleasure roaring to the surface again. It’s the best-worst orgasm of your life.
Next thing you know, Simon is carrying you. You ragdoll a bit in his arms, dizzy and weak, but try to make your feet cooperate. It’s not much help, since he barely lets your toes touch the floor. So you try to focus on breathing and not choking on your own spit.
You’re not surprised when you’re dropped unceremoniously onto the side of your bed. Your knees knock a bit against the bed frame, which shakes some of the haze from your head. Before you can drag yourself up, his hand pushes your chest back down to the bed. With one hand, he unhooks your bra and tugs at your shirt. You cooperate as much as you can, proud when you get the shirt over your head and shake it free from your arms. You get your elbows under yourself and and try to make your feet figure out how to work with a floor again. But then Simon’s foot is standing on your pants. You have a moment of slow confusion with the top of one foot stuck to the floor.
He slaps your thighs apart, and you spread your still tender legs with a hiss. Then you yelp and try to escape up the bed as Simon slaps at your pussy. A part of you recognizes that it’s not as hard as it could be. The rest of you is overstimulated and overwhelmed. You kick and squeal. You reach around to grab at his wrist where he’s braced against your shoulder. He cracks his hand down on your ass twice.
When he finally hauls you onto the bed by the shoulder and one of your thighs, you yowl like an offended cat. He digs his nails in to make you do it again, then positions you so your hips are higher than your shoulders. Three fingers get pushed into you as he clamps his hand down on the back of your neck. You flail your feet, relieved to realize that you’re finally free of your pants.
Simon pulls his fingers free and drapes himself over your back, and you have a moment to wonder when he took off all of his clothes before he’s notching his cock at your entrance. It hurts, sore and stinging in a way you’ve never felt before. As he sinks in, you can’t help but moan. The stretch and fullness is everything you wanted five minutes ago. The usual too much of him is amplified by how puffy and swollen you must be.
“Drop it,” he growls in your ear. His fingers squeeze into the hinge of your jaw. You gasp as the gag falls to the bed, can’t help the way your spit drools from your mouth.
“Oh, god,” you moan, lips clumsy.
He snarls against the side of your face. “Say my name.”
“Oh, god,” you moan again. He chuckles and jostles his hips forward, pushing just a little bit deeper. “Oh, fuck! Simon!”
“That’s it,” he says, tilting your face so he can bite at your lips.
The pace he sets is slower than you expected, but hard. Now that your mouth is free, you whimper and whine as he grinds into your sore ass and thighs. The feeling of him pushing in and out is so intense that you claw a hand into his hair with a gasp. Suddenly, you jolt as his finger grinds into your clit and makes you sob.
And then he turns on the vibrator.
You shriek against the hand he slaps over your mouth. You aren’t sure you don’t levitate both of you off the bed trying to get away. There’s no escape. The orgasm is ripped from you before you can catch your breath. He rides out your shaking with a growl of his own, grinding deep. You shake and clench and flutter around him with a sob. And then another orgasm rocks through you.
It’s like your peak never ends. You’re strung from one orgasm to the next, until your limbs can do nothing but quake. You’re sobbing, begging, calling Simon’s name helplessly around the fingers he’s dipped into your mouth. It’s barely a relief when he finally pulls the vibrator away because that’s when he really starts driving his hips into yours.
“Please,” you gasp, nonsensically. Can’t find your fingers to snap once, let alone twice. “Simon, I can’t, please let-! I can’t. Please let me-”
“Oh, sunshine, of course,” he coos between grunts of effort. “’S your reward. Take it.”
“I can’t,” you sob.
His arm wraps around your throat, flexes to almost cut off your air supply. “You will. Because I say you will.”
The next orgasm is a full body contraction that whites out your vision. You’re distantly aware of your wheezing cries and digging your fingernails wherever they can get purchase. You feel Simon stiffen over you, snarling something under his breath. You have just a moment to realize what’s about to happen before you pass out.
When you wake up, you groan. Everything from your diaphragm down is sore. You’re flat on your belly. Simon is on his side beside you, petting up and down your spine in long strokes. When you flutter your eyes open, he leans down to press a long kiss to your eyebrow.
There’s a lot you want to say, but English fails you. “Guh-uh.”
“’S ‘at so? Interestin’,” Simon answers. He cocks his head and you realize there’s blood in his hair.
“Muh?” You want to reach up to touch it, see where your fingernails damaged him. Your arms aren’t cooperating.
“Made a mess of me,” Simon confirms with an easy grin. “Got a towel, but we’ll need to change the sheets.”
A towel? How bad did you get him? You try to sit up, with mixed success. “That much?”
He makes an affirming noise. “Surprised me.”
“’M sorry,” you slur. Words are so hard. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Simon’s eyes crinkle. His eyes aren’t warm, but they’re as close as they ever get. “Go to sleep, Precious.”
You hum. With effort, you work a hand out from under yourself and get your fingers up to his collarbones before you’re too weak to go any further. “Stay.”
He chuckles as your eyes slip closed. “You’ll never be rid of me, luv.”
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#simon riley x you smut#manic pixie dream ghost
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Part 2 - Work Introductions
Autumn Embers Masterlist
CW: Mentions of child loss, mentions of medical neglect/abuse, mentions of reproductive abuse, mentions of pregnancy complications and death, mentions of racism, sexism (in an omegaverse way), Brandon (unfortunately living), real world references
Data entry and analysis isn’t the most exciting job in the world, no matter what kind of fancy title you’re given, but it pays the bills. Working on a military base isn’t ideal, but the benefits are nothing to sneeze at. And most days, you get to sit alone and uninterrupted, in your own office, instead of in a cramped cubicle.
On Tuesday, you’re startled out of your audiobook by a gentle knock on your desk. Sherry, your immediate superior, gives an awkward little wave and waits for you to finish your line and mute your music.
“Hey, I’m so sorry about this,” she says, as soon as your headphones are clear. “You remember those port reports from Honduras? Some of the senior analysts have some questions for you? They’re currently in a meeting and requested some clarification…?”
You wait, but she doesn’t say anything else. “…what do they want to know?”
“Oh, they didn’t tell me, I’m sorry,” Sherry says. “They asked if you could… Well, they need you to attend the meeting. Right now.”
“Do I even have the clearance for that kind of meeting?” You stand without waiting for an answer and disconnect your laptop from the dock. With it tucked under your arm, you grab a notebook and pen, as well as your water bottle.
Sherry leads the way out of the office. “I know you submitted these reports two weeks ago, and your notations are excellent. I think the problem is with one of the flagged ship manifests, but they wouldn’t clarify why they were concerned. Couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”
Her apologetic air suddenly makes sense. “Brandon’s in there, isn’t he?”
Sherry grimaces. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s him and a few alphas. There’s an American CIA agent as well.”
“So I absolutely don’t have the clearance for this meeting,” you sigh. “Great.”
A short elevator ride and two halls away, you take a fortifying breath before you step into an occupied meeting room. Brandon’s is the first face you see, and when he sees you the corners of his lips turn up in an infuriating smile. Next to him, another senior analyst’s eyebrows pop up, but Andrew actually looks happy to see you.
Before the door can close behind you, a blonde, American alpha stands and offers her hand in a no-nonsense shake. “Kate Laswell. We appreciate you being so prompt.”
“Of course,” you answer. Unfortunately, your attention is a little torn. All four members of the 141 are sitting at the table, looking at you curiously. Sergent MacTavish grins like a wolf. Captain Price tips his chin up just enough that you know he’s scenting you. Lieutenant Riley, face covered from the nose down in a black neck gaiter, gives you a quick once over that makes you want to shiver. But you’re a professional, so instead of fleeing you take the nearest seat, across from a smiling Sergent Garrick. You fold both of your hands on top of the table, the very picture of accommodating and helpful, “What can I assist you with?”
“Why’d you flag this shipping manifest,” Brandon asks. The projector at the front of the room switches to a document that would be barely legible, even without the distortion of zoom.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” you tell him, flipping your laptop open. “What’s the file name?”
“Honduras,” Brandon says, Port Cortez.”
“Puerto Cortes,” you correct. And seeing as it’s the largest seaport in Central America, I’ve combed through literally hundreds of manifests, you think, but don’t say. “I’m going to have to ask you to be a bit more specific. The projector isn’t easy to read.”
“You flagged this manifest for a Korean ship.”
You jump when Sergent Garrick says, “Christ, mate, just give her the file name.”
Lieutenant Riley gives a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. You think you see MacTavish still grinning at you out of the corner of your eye. Laswell rattles off the document name without looking.
As soon as the document loads, you know exactly why Brandon and Andrew are confused. And you know that the following conversation is going to be so unpleasant that you shoot off a quick email to take the rest of the day off once this meeting ends.
You take a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The manifest is inconsistent with previous patterns from that particular port and that particular captain and crew. As I noted, the four containers from Venusian Pharmaceuticals wouldn’t have made it on the ship do to political and economic pressures.”
Brandon doesn’t bother to look at you when he asks, “What pressures?”
Laswell interjects before you can answer, “Leaked internal communications provided evidence that Cloudstone Pharm was selling tampered heat suppressants and birth control in various black markets. The 4B movement in South Korea had been calling for an investigation for years by that point. A lot of omegas were killed because of mis-labeled medications. Pregnancy and birth related complications.”
“I remember that. It was, what, five, more years ago?” Lieutenant Riley asks. “Had an entire re-brand. Cloudstone to Venusian. Everything went from blues and whites to greens and yellows.”
“Okay, so the containers had a bit of extra security to get onto the ship,” Brandon says, before you can get over the shock of two alphas in a room who know anything about even the broad strokes of omega health care. “There’s protesters at every major port for one thing or another.”
“Even if they’d gotten on the ship, they wouldn’t have made it to Puerto Cortes,” you counter. “The captain lost two of his kids because of their medications. He’s had his crew dump the containers and alter manifests before. He was investigated for it, but his crew wouldn’t speak against him.”
Brandon frowns. “How do we know he didn’t get paid off?”
How do we know the omegas weren’t worth less than a cash payment? Your throat feels like closing in on itself. You keep your voice as steady as you can. “He wouldn’t have been.”
“How do you know?”
Andrew, eyes darting between you and Brandon, tries to interrupt. “Well-”
“Because he made the autopsy reports for both of his sons public,” you answer. You have to force your jaw to unclench. “Along with pictures and videos of how sick they were before they passed, before anyone knew what was really wrong with them. And the executives of Cloudstone, an American company, laughed. Called them slurs and ignorant animals in emails and meeting memos that were later leaked to the public.”
Across from you, Garrick is not smiling anymore. “That’s… disgusting.”
“Cloudstone struggled to recover in eastern Asian markets, even with the re-brand,” you continue, then take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And all of this was in my report.”
“Your job isn’t to provide those kinds of references. You’re not trained for it. There were a couple of links to articles,” Brandon dismisses. “Not enough to-”
“One of his sons experienced total organ failure,” you interrupt, closing your laptop. You know your scent must be all over the place, but the subject matter was already touchy. Now he’s questioning your work and misrepresenting your job duties? Oh, fuck him. “Because he was on incorrectly administered fertility treatments that were disguised as birth control, he had a high-risk pregnancy with multiples. And then his medications were switched with heat inducers. His other son had rapid onset neuropathy and multiple strokes within a week. Neither of his sons wanted to have children. One of them couldn’t, biologically, because it would have killed him anyways. And their partners decided that they didn’t care.”
Brandon wrinkles his nose at you. “No need to get so worked up.”
You practically feel the way your scent goes hot and acrid. Where most omegas have a distress scent that is sickly sweet, yours is much closer to an alpha’s shock scent. Your parents used to call you “Wildfire” because of it. You watch the hairs on Garrik’s arms stand up.
You can barely smell Andrew’s nervous distress over your rage. “Okay, yeah, that’s plenty. The captain wouldn’t have taken the containers.”
“Is there a reason you didn’t consult the references I added into the report?” You know the sudden calm in your voice, the relaxing of your posture, is at odds with the way your anger scent gets stronger. You’ve been told it’s a sensory nightmare, so you only do it when someone tells you you’re not calm enough. You fold your hands on the table again. “Because I included original and translated sources, according to the standards of the department.”
The room is silent. All seven alphas are agitated. You can only pick out MacTavish’s scent, muddled and frustrated. Andrew opens his mouth, closes it. Finally says, “I didn’t receive the references.”
“Senior analyst Lawrence received the full report directly,” you say, holding eye contact with Brandon. “But I know how emails can get lost. I would be happy to send them again. I’ll CC you, and request that your access to the full drive be confirmed. Sir. Is there anything else I can assist the team with?”
Laswell scrawls something on a sticky note and passes it over to you. “Please also include me on those emails.”
You give her your most demure smile. “Unfortunately, Agent Laswell, I don’t have the clearance to send reports outside of the department. I would be happy to help you coordinate that with senior analysts Lawrence and Bennett.”
You pluck the sticky note from her hand, stand, and gather up your laptop, notebook, and water bottle. When you have everything, you pass behind her to where Brandon and Andrew are sitting. Deliberately putting yourself at Brandon’s back, you hand the note to Andrew with a placid smile. “Agent Laswell requests that you provide her with the full report.”
Brandon smells disconcerted, trapped in his seat with your scent roaring as you stand just inside of his blind spot. Andrew, for his part, only hesitates for a moment before taking the offered sticky note, looking from you to Laswell to Brandon and back. “Thank you.”
“Of course, sir.” Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“I… believe that will be all…?”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.” You cement your little performance with a perfectly deferential partial curtsy to Andrew, then to the rest of the room. “Please do not hesitate to let me know if there’s anything else I can do the support the team.”
As the door shuts behind you, you hear Captain Price’s voice for the first time. “Goddamn. That is a woman capable of murder.”
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#poly 141#omegaverse#autumn embers verse#there's some meta to come#just a heads up
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Autumn Embers Verse
Omegaverse AU where people who are compatible have complementary scents.
Your friends assure you that the bar they’re dragging you to is nicer than it looks online. You highly doubt that, but you’re willing to go along until the three of them get bored and decide to get a car to the club district. And they will get bored, because you recognize the name and address that they’re trying to go to. You’ve never been, but some of your new coworkers on the base have invited you out for drinks and pool.
When Christie flounces out in a bright pink mini-dress, you can’t help but grin. “You look great. Super cute. But I don’t think that’s the vibe of the bar.”
Admittedly, you’re dressed a bit less conservatively than the bar might call for. But you feel cute in your black skater skirt and white top. Styled with floral lace stockings, boots, and silver jewelry, it’s more dressing up than you’ve been able to do in the last 6 months.
“I’m not dressing for the military bar,” Christie says, checking her makeup in the hall mirror before dropping on the couch next to you. She tosses her brown hair over one shoulder and pulls out her phone to order a car. “I’m dressing for when Mel and Jack decide they’re done shopping for alphas and want to go to the club.”
“Military packs are already cohesive,” Jack sniffs, emerging from the hall in cute jeans, a mesh top, and a sensible jacket. Behind him, Mel is dressed very similarly, though they’ve opted for cargo pants. “It’s not impossible that we might find a couple of someones who might be interesting.”
“If nothing else, they’ll buy you drinks,” you concede. “Pretty sure they have pool tables. If there’s one open, maybe we play a couple of rounds. Give Jack a chance to bend over and show off.”
The car, when it arrives, is a little small, but the four of you pile in gamely. You sit in the front, since your hips need the room. The driver gives a smile and a nod through his cloth mask and starts driving as soon as your seatbelt is secure. You reflexively drop the window a bit, though it’s already open. It makes sense - driving groups around all night definitely lends itself to a lot of conflicting scents.
In the back, Chrissy’s floral omega scent plays well with Jack and Mel’s sweet beta and omega mix. The very subtle floral notes of your own scent don’t clash too badly, but the base note of charcoal does sometimes leave people’s noses a bit confused. You catch the moment the driver catches a hint of your scent and darts a look at you, but he doesn’t say anything. You occupy yourself on your phone for the fifteen minute drive, tuning out Chrissie and Jack’s complaints about work.
When you arrive, the bar is just about what you expected. Run-down in a lived-in kind of way but clean. Dim and quiet. The exact opposite of Jack and Chrissie, but that doesn’t stop them from swanning in through the doors and making their way immediately to the bar. You and Mel follow behind. You make eye contact with a couple of people you kind of recognize, give a quirk of a smile as a greeting.
By the time you’ve decided what to drink, Chrissie and Jack have already charmed a trio of alphas into conversation and a promised game of pool. Mel leans into Jack’s back and introduces themself in their quiet way. You give your name with a wave before ordering a whiskey sour.
“Put their drinks on our tab,” one of the alphas says. He holds his hand out to you to shake. “Daniels. I’ve seen you on base before, yeah?”
“I’ve been working admin for a couple of months,” you confirm as you shake his hand. He’s polite enough not to try to rub wrists on a first meeting, at least. His scent reminds you of the bakery near your house. “It’s not a bad job.”
Once everyone has their drinks and the group makes their way over to one of the open pool tables, you think you could have a pretty good night. Daniels and his friends, Bennet and Bakshi, are actually pretty fun. They’re obviously flirting with Chrissie and Jack (and Mel, by extension), but they’re not ignoring you. Daniels and Bakshi, at least, include you in the conversation and ask questions about your job, how you all know each other, where you’re from.
When Bakshi manages to pull Mel into a conversation about video games and cyber security, you and Chrissie excuse yourselves to the restroom.
“I should have worn jeans,” she sighs. “This is really fun, but kind of a waste of an outfit.”
You’re about to laugh when you pass by a table and make eye contact with a man you’ve only seen in passing before. You recognize Sergent MacTavish by his mohawk, and give him a little half smile. Then you notice Captain Price and Sergent Garrick. The blond in a skull themed cloth mask can only be Lieutenant Riley. You give all four of them a startled little nod of acknowledgment, and then Chrissie is tugging you into the bathroom.
You’ve never met anyone from Task Force 141 before. Any time you’ve heard of them, at least two have been sent off somewhere across the world. You don’t have the clearance to deal with any of their reports, but you know enough to understand that they’re practically rock stars.
“Five quid, Jack and Mel have all three of their numbers by the end of the night,” Chrissie interrupts your musing as she checks her makeup in the mirror. As usual, she’s perfect, and you hear her take a selfie.
“Ten quid, Bennet asks for yours,” you counter from the stall.
“No bet, he’s already asked.” Chrissie answers. “But he’s a tool.”
“You like tools.”
“That’s true. It’s the muscles.” she agrees. “If he asks me on a proper date, I won’t say no.”
“Not a waste of a dress, then,” you point out before flushing and making your way to wash your hands. “Is he wearing scent blockers? I can’t get a bead on him.”
“He’s a subtle bit of tobacco leaf. Bakshi is nutmeg and Daniels-”
“Daniels smells like fresh bread,” you finish.
“Oh, ho, ho,” Chrissie chuckles, leaning her hip on the counter as you wash your hands. “Took notice did you?”
“We shook hands.” You roll your eyes. “Kind of hard not to notice.”
When you step out of the bathroom, you’re startled to see Sergent MacTavish leaning against the wall on his phone. His eyes snap up to yours and he stands up to his full height. He’s bigger than you expected, and you find yourself helpless to hold his stare. When he smiles, you feel yourself flush.
“Evenin’, bonnie lass,” he says, after a moment. “C’n I get a moment of your time?”
Chrissie practically skips the couple of steps away to stand at the entrance of the hall leading to the bathrooms. She doesn’t quite abandon you with a strange alpha, but she does turn her back and pull out her phone.
Before you can comment on her absence, or introduce yourself, or even think about what to say, MacTavish has stepped close. His scent, something warm and earthy and somehow also floral, floods your senses. At the same time, he leans down to hover his nose just short of touching your temple. You can’t help but blush harder at how bold he’s being. The way he takes your scent into his lungs is just this side of vulgar.
“So it has been you we’ve been scenting around base,” he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back and leaning back against the wall again. He crosses big arms across his chest and smiles. “Gaz’s been tying himself in knots trying to catch more than faded hints near the caf’.”
What are you supposed to say to that? “…Sorry? I’m new to the base.”
He grins. “Well, I’m glad you’re around. Sergent MacTavish.” He doesn’t offer his hand, but considering the how rude he was before, it’s not like he needs to.
You stammer an introduction and decide to make your retreat. “It was, um, nice to meet you, Sergent. I have to get back to my friends.”
“Be seeing you around, hen,” he says, and doesn’t move as you make your retreat.
As soon as you’re clear of the hall, you make the mistake of looking that the 141’s table. All of their eyes snap to your face as soon as you’re visible. You almost freeze under their attention, but Chrissie rescues you. She takes your arm and practically marches you across the bar to rejoin Jack and Mel, who immediately pull you close to drag you into some debate about music.
You can’t contribute much to the conversation. Thank goodness for Chrissie, who gleefully carries the discussion. You’re too distracted to do much more than give vague agreements for a long time.
At the end of the night, when you and your friends leave the bar, you chance a glance toward the 141’s table. Four pairs of eyes stare back.
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#poly 141#omegaverse#autumn embers verse#named after the fragrance oil i looked up to decide the 141 pack scents
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Part 4 - Consequences (To Meeting Kyle For Coffee)
Let's keep this party going.
Slasher Handler Masterlist
NSFW under the cut.
CW: Under-negotiated kink, impact play (spanking with hand), use of gag, fear play, afab reader, feminine terms used for reader, brief manual penetration
The ride back to your apartment is silent. Eerily silent, because Simon is making so much noise. You can hear him breathing, deep and even. His fingers tap idly on the steering wheel and gearshift. The radio plays something jazzy, a singer who’s voice he likes crooning about being in love. He hums a couple of bars.
“How much trouble am I in?” you whisper, halfway home.
“That depends, luv,” he says. “Why’d you schedule to meet him this morning?”
You bite your lip, consider the consequences of lying. Decide to tell the truth. “You tell me you go to the gym on Tuesdays, but you don’t. You follow me to the park.”
Simon makes an amused sound. “Do I?”
“You make the dogs nervous,” you tell him. “And sometimes the squirrels run up from behind me on the path, if they’re not in a tree already. So… I thought I’d ask to meet him. I thought he wouldn’t say anything if you were right there. And,” you admit. “I thought you’d try to keep me from meeting him, if I told you.”
“So you did it, knowing it was against the rules,” Simon says, serene like a glacier.
“It’s not against the rules,” you point out, crossing your arms over your chest. “You said I have to keep my routine. Tuesdays are my mornings out of the apartment. You said not to do anything reckless, so I met an old friend at a coffee shop. You said not to do anything without your knowledge, and you have been going through my phone and reading my messages since before your last lesson. You knew, Simon Riley, and I haven’t done anything against the rules.”
By the end, your voice is high and frantic and there are tears welling up. You hate it. Hate that he loves your eyes full of tears, so you turn to face out of the window. You’re so tired. Staring down the inevitability of the push-pull of trying to keep control, knowing that the rules don’t really matter if he doesn’t want to play by them, you barely restrain a sob.
“Aw,” Simon drawls, and you can see his smirk in your mind’s eye. “What are those tears? Haven’t even punished you yet.”
When you do make it to the apartment, you’re slow to get out of the car. You dally before entering the building. You hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. You watch Simon watch you think about running. You shouldn’t run, you know, but you turn halfway, look back at the improbable escape route, each time. He tilts his head and gives a rough equivalent of an indulgent coo. You want to punch him in his smug face. You take the first stair.
Simon matches your slow pace, two steps behind and hugging the wall. Even if you didn’t know you were walking to your (hopefully) metaphorical death, it would be a deeply disturbing experience. When you’re not facing him, you almost can’t hear him. The stairs barely creak under his weight. Every now and then, you think you can feel him touch your back, your sleeve. You refuse to play that game with him. The refusal doesn’t make it feel less dangerous.
You stop at your door. Simon gives you a solid nudge toward his.
You’ve only ever been in his apartment once before. Four weeks ago. After the ski-lodge-turned-blood-bath.
Just like the first time, you’re surprised and disturbed by how normal it is. A mirror flip of your unit, the kitchen and living room are bland off white and beige. Simon shuffles you over to the big, brown couch, hand firm between your shoulder blades when your feet don’t want to move.
“Sit,” he says. So you sit. You hate how nice the cushions are. He stares down at you, head cocked, eyes cold, before stalking away into his bedroom.
The last time you were here, shaking and crying, he’d put a cuff around your ankle. You’d been chained to the foot of his bed, an anchor point under the couch, or, bafflingly, his own leg. The cuffs had been thick leather, with a very soft lining. You only tried to escape once.
It had been a miserable week.
When Simon emerges again, shutting the door firmly behind him, you think you recognize the brown leather strips in his hand. But when he holds it out for you to inspect, you feel the color drain from your face. One of them is a collar, with a shining silver tag. The other is a ball gag.
“I’m not wearing those,” you say, automatically, then cringe.
“I think you will,” Simon answers, “because if you don’t, your punishment will be doubled.”
You clench your jaw before looking up into his eyes. “That’s not fair. I didn’t break the rules.”
He chuckles, smooths a thumb over your cheek. “Stop being so cute.”
That makes you pause and narrow your eyes at him. You try again. “I don’t want to wear the gag.”
“Your apartment isn’t soundproofed, luv,” he points out, like he’s open to bargaining and being reasonable. “So unless you want to play here, in the guest room with Brandon…”
You try to snatch the collar and gag from his hand, but he catches your wrist, unnaturally quick. You glare up at him, anxiety roiling the coffee in your stomach. He caresses your face again. His hand is so warm, and his eyes are a frozen lake.
“Up,” he orders, forcing you to stand with an iron grip on your jaw. Instead of putting the collar on, he hustles you back out into the hall, then to your own door. Arches an eyebrow and says, “Well? Let us in?” like he doesn’t have a copy of the key, hasn’t been keeping you from opening your own door every day for the last month.
When you enter, he takes his time to shrug off his coat and boots. Lets you do the same. He tells you to drink some water, so you do. Dawdle by getting him a glass before following him to where he’s sat on your couch. He’s laid the collar on the arm of the sofa and is running his fingers over the gag when you approach.
“I’m going to spank you,” he says, matter of fact, without looking at you. “For drinking something offered to you by a man who knows how easy it is to poison a person.”
“It was fresh!”
“That silly, stupid little barista would have done anything Garrick asked,” Simon counters, drawing you into his lap. “Because Kyle is just that kind of man. And if you ended up in the hospital, he’d have unfettered access to you. And then you and I would have to be in a hospital again. Seems a bit soon to be repeating dates, don’t it?”
“I knew what I was doing,” you protest, but you don’t fight when he tilts your head to kiss the corner of your mouth.
“I know, you did, luv,” he agrees. “And I know Garrick - you’re not his type. But you still drank the coffee. And you still did something you knew I wouldn’t like. Spirit, not the letter, and all that. So I’m going to spank you. Then I’ll give you a reward.”
Your eyes snap to his. “R-reward?”
“Oh, I’ve got your attention now,” he chuckles. “Asked for advice for your man, didn’t you. No silly little articles about better blowjobs for you. Went to ask a killer about a killer, to help me find a hobby. Precious.”
You flush hot, all the way to your toes. “If he stopped, then you can.”
“He hasn’t stopped,” Simon says.
“He’s…” You frown. “He said he doesn’t do that anymore. He took up gardening.”
Simon wraps a hand around your throat, dead eyes boring into yours with a smile. “Not everyone likes going all the way to a ski lodge in the middle of nowhere, luvie. I wouldn’t’ve if you weren’t so damn sweet. Garrick works at a hospital because hobbies are so much easier in your backyard.”
He gives you a few quiet moments to think back, play Kyle’s words back in your mind. If you’re honest with yourself, it’s not a surprise. You’d hoped, and you heard what you wanted to hear.
“Open your mouth,” Simon instructs, when he’s done waiting.
“How will I safeword?” At his unimpressed stare, you double down.
“I’m not playing without a safeword. It’s bad for both of us.”
“You are the most stubborn, odd, little duck,” he says, and kisses the corner of your mouth again.
“I want to feel safe,” you insist, without pushing him away. You remember how his pupils had practically swallowed his irises once, before everything went wrong, when you told him he makes you feel safe. After a moment of thought, you add on, “Safer. Safe-ish.”
He arches an eyebrow. “You think you’re clever.”
You arch an eyebrow right back. “Pretty sure that’s why I’m getting punished.”
That gets him. Simon barks a laugh, and some of the tension leaves both of you. “Snap your fingers twice and I’ll check in with you.”
You snap your fingers twice. “And then you’ll stop?”
“If you’ve learned your lesson,” Simon answers cryptically, bringing the gag to your lips.
Simon being cryptic means you’re back on familiar ground, so you open your mouth. He dips his thumb in to press down on your tongue, unexpectedly, and doesn’t let you flinch away. When he leans in to lick into your mouth, you let him, even open your mouth a slight bit wider. He rumbles his approval, kisses at your upper lip like that, until your spit is dripping down his wrist. Then his thumb is gone and replaced by solid rubber that sits behind your teeth.
He makes quick work of buckling it in place, careful not to pull your hair or secure it too tight. His care is familiar, in an odd terrible way. Back when he was just your weird neighbor, he’d been very careful to never hurt you. In his apartment, he’d never hurt you except for very intentionally. Once, the third week after the ski-lodge, you’d cut yourself with some cardboard packaging and he’d been so gentle and meticulous in cleaning and bandaging you up. He’d choked you on his cock, later that night, the whole time holding your hand up and away to keep it from getting dirty.
Now, he holds up the collar for you to see the tag. It’s a heart. Now that you can see it properly, it’s not really a dog tag, more of a simple pendant. You’re looking at the back, where it’s simply stamped with his phone number. He flips it to show you the stone inlaid on the front, a pretty green. Then he wordlessly secures the soft leather around your neck.
When he’s done, he just breathes against the side of your face. His hands knead at your skin, one where your neck meets your shoulders, the other on your inner thigh. You feel where he’s hard against your hip. You shiver.
“Sweet, precious, clever thing,” he whispers, moving one hand to wrap entirely around your throat. “See the good in everyone. My kind-hearted girl.”
And then you’re up in the air, flipped, and over his lap so fast you get dizzy with it. Your heart rate rockets, and you try to get your legs under you. He’s there, of course, elbow between your shoulder blades and one hand yanking your pants and underwear down to mid thigh. You kick, uselessly, startled when he runs a hand over the sensitive place where your ass meets your thighs.
He starts without preamble, hand cracking down hard, but not as hard as you know he could. Tears instantly jump to your eyes, and you clamp your teeth down on the gag around a quiet groan. His answering groan is loud, appreciative. And then he hits you again, and again, and again.
Around the twelfth hit, you realize that he never told you how many he was going to give you. Your ass is on fire, tears and drool and snot streaming down your face. His hand is unrelenting. Worse, there’s no pattern, so the strikes are unpredictable. And you have no idea how long you’re going to be here.
You’re suddenly seized by a thought: Will he actually stop if you snap your fingers?
The first hiccuping sob shakes your body, and just like that, you lose control. You can’t stop sobbing, and he gathers you somehow closer into his body. He’s hard against your ribs. The hand not spanking you grips bruises into your opposite hip. He growls something you can’t hear over your own moans and sniffles, and then his hand is no longer spanking but rubbing. His fingers find where you’re slick, rub down and forward to find the bump of your clit.
You buck in his hands with a startled cry, and he slaps at you, gentle but startling. He hikes your hips up, and it’s awkward. You’re balanced in his arms, braced on his left leg and one foot when he pushes a finger into you. He bites, too hard, at your ass, and you squeal, thrash.
And then he’s taking his finger out, lowering you back down to his lap with gentle strokes up and down your spine. You get your breathing under control enough to hear him shushing you, praising you. You try to gulp air, eventually figure out how to regulate your breathing around the gag.
“Pretty girl,” Simon eventually coos. “See, didn’t need to tap out. Not that kind of lesson today.” When you whimper, he turns you and gets you settled on your back on the couch. He crouches down between the couch and the coffee table to wipe your eyes and nose with a couple of tissues. He leaves your mouth messy.
With a kiss to the apple of your cheek, he says, “I think you’ve learned your lesson.”
You nod with a whimper. You’re not 100% sure what lesson you’ve learned. But you’ve learned it.
“Good girl,” he praises. “Then lets get you ready for your reward.”
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#simon riley x you smut#manic pixie dream ghost
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Part 6 - Simon's Been Restless
Slasher Handler Masterlist
NSFW under the cut.
CW: Oral sex, manual penetration, piv penetration, multiple orgasms, afab reader, feminine terms used for reader, brief blood mention (not reader's), heavily implied non-con intox
It’s not unusual for you to wake up alone, but it’s been happening more frequently. There was a period of about two months after Simon punished and rewarded you where you always shared your bed. But after that, he’d tapered off to his usual four or five nights a week.
Once, after he’d tucked you into bed and while he stared at you from across the room, you’d decided to ask about it. “What are you doing, when you’re not sleeping here?”
“Serial killer things,” he’d answered, flatly.
Most of the time you wish you could pretend it was a joke. But that night, right on the edge of sleep, you had thought it was the funniest thing he’d said in weeks. “Sharpening your knives and practicing your menacing voice?”
“Checking the acoustics of abandoned buildings,” he’d said, dry as a tundra. “For the screams.”
The next morning, he told you that you’d commanded him not to get tetanus. You don’t remember that part.
Over the last three weeks, Simon has only slept in your bed once. You’re a little irritated with how much it’s thrown you off. Part of it is that you feel paranoid when you don't know where he is. But it's mostly that you've gotten used to sleeping with him. He’s so damn comfortable. All of that muscle has just enough give to make a good pillow. As cold as the inside of his head is, his body throws off heat like a furnace.
And, you’re horrified to admit, you miss the sex.
After dinner, you throw a leg over both of his on the couch and drop your hands to his shoulders. He makes a curious noise, wraps a big hand around your thigh. It takes a little wiggling to get comfortable, but eventually you’re settled close and sharing breath. When you run your fingers through his hair, he presses his nose to your temple and takes a subtle (for him) sniff.
After much consideration, you’d decided that your first time initiating sex would start with nibbling on his collarbone. He makes a soft rumbling sound at the first feeling of your teeth. You feel like that’s a pretty good sign, so you keep at it, add sucking kisses to his skin. That gets you a big palm wrapped around the back of your neck.
“What’s this, then?” he asks.
“Miss you,” you answer back, between kisses. After another minute, you sit back to look him in the eyes. “You haven’t been around.”
“Been busy, luv,” he answers.
Too busy for me? You barely resist asking. Instead you say, “Too busy to sleep over?”
“Been sleeping during the day,” he answers with a shrug. “You’ve been nappin’ on me.”
You try not to pout too hard. “It’s not the same.”
“Thought you’d like having your own space,” he chuckles. “Used to like your privacy.”
You give him the driest look you ever have and tilt your head to look directly into the hidden camera in one of your plants. “Oh, yes, the privacy. So much of that happening.”
He chuckles and takes the opportunity for a gentle bite to your throat. “You need to see me giving you attention, then? Not enough to know I’m watchin’?” He drags biting kisses up to your ear. His voice rumbles through you when he says. “Wanna watch with me, sweetheart?”
The thought makes you flush hot in an instant, but you push through. “I just want to be with you. Stay with me tonight?”
Simon takes a moment to consider. Eventually he says, “Got a project that’s almost done. Could be done tonight if I’m not distracted.”
Sitting back to look into his eyes, you ask, only partially joking, “You’re not killing people, are you?”
He cocks his head with an amused curl of his lips. With the flat voice that makes your hair stand on end, he says. “No.”
Your body cools remarkably quickly, “Are you torturing people, Simon Riley?”
He drops a peck on the tip of your nose. “Not yet.”
“Simon!” you yelp, slapping at his shoulder and leaning away. “You can’t torture people!”
“You like a little bit of torture,” he mutters, easily overpowering you to pull you close enough to kiss at your chin, your throat, your collarbones. He snickers, asks, “Can’t a man have a hobby?”
“You need a new hobby!” you gasp, wiggling to get away. The part of you that loves his dry humor is drowned out by near panic. “I’m not having sex with you if you’re planning on killing people.”
That declaration is a miscalculation on your part. Next thing you know, you’re on your back on the couch. He’s caging your body under his, with one hand around your throat. The other hand easily catches one, then both of your wrists as you try to squirm away.
“Make you a deal,” he drawls, not an ounce of strain in his voice as he holds you down. “I’ll stay with you tonight. Give you all the attention you’ve been needing. And tomorrow, I show you what I’ve been working on.”
Brandon’s terrified face flashes behind your eyes. You fight back tears. “No, Simon!”
“I won’t kill anyone,” Simon coos. “I promise. Not even wounding anyone. Won’t be nobody but you and me. Been working on it for almost a month. Was gonna show you next week, but the weather’s gonna be real nice tomorrow.”
For all that he’s an absolute psycho, Simon has always kept his word. You stop squirming, hiccup, “You promise?”
“Cross my heart, precious girl,” he purrs. “Not planning on torturing anyone but you for a long time. And last time, I was the one bleeding, remember?”
At the reminder, you tap at his chest. Obliging, he drops down so you can kiss his scalp, right where your fingernails had dug in. It’s a ritual you started the day after you’d scored him, when you finally got a view of the damage. Simon had been a content and satiated polar bear while you’d fluttered around, horrified. He wouldn’t let you bandage it properly, but seems very happy now to let you kiss the spot whenever you want. The pattern helps to calm you down.
“I don’t like being tortured,” you whisper against his hair.
“You love to take what I give you.” Simon pushes you back down to the couch by your neck. His lips brush against your cheek as he growls, “Got you all scared right now, and I know you’re still so wet for me.”
When his lips meet yours, they’re surprisingly gentle. Everything about him softens. The hand around your neck starts petting you, while the other releases your wrists and makes its way down to your waist. His fingers inch under the hem of your shirt before tickling their way up your ribs. It would be so easy to relax into his touch, but you’re not fooled. He’s still Simon.
“Let me make you feel good, pretty thing,” he breathes against your lips as he pets at you. His hips rut down against yours, slowly, letting you feel where he’s hard and wanting. You can’t help but grind back. “Been missing the way you taste. Can give you a couple fingers before my cock. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
It does sound nice. Too nice. “You’re up to something,” you moan.
“’Course I am,” he agrees, easily, pressing fleeting kisses to your lips. “Gonna make you cry, sweet girl. Gonna make you bleed me again. Show you you’re mine, and that I’m yours.”
“I just cut my nails,” you sigh, scrubbing your short fingernails through his hair. “And crying sounds a bit intense for tonight. Can we… the rest sounds good. Can we do that?”
Simon hums as he kisses your mouth again. “Alright. Can I eat you out right here? I’ll wash the blanket tomorrow.”
That’s a downright reasonable compromise, so you nod. It doesn’t take long for Simon to divest you of your clothes, but he doesn’t actually move things along further. Just kisses you and kisses you for a long few minutes. Gradually, you settle in for a rare, extended make-out session. And as the tension eases out of you, Simon goes almost boneless with a happy purr.
By the time he pulls away to start kissing his way down your body, you’re warm and languid. It wouldn’t be Simon if there were no teeth, but the little nibbles and biting kisses he gives your breasts are gentle. His hands gently coax your legs up as he makes his way to the floor, on his knees. He’s gentle as he gets you angled so that he is holding up one of your hips without pulling the rest of you off of the couch.
His eyes are piercing when you look at him between your legs. He holds your gaze as he leans down to press gentle kisses to your mound and lower. His tongue is slow and indulgent when it makes its appearance. When his lips purse to create gentle suction over your clit, you let your head drop back. He hums when your fingers pet over his head, and sets to.
Sex with Simon is always overwhelmingly good, but he doesn’t usually give you both time to savor the experience. Tonight is different. After a half hour, you’re most of the way to orgasm before he slips a finger into you. You’re so wet that it’s barely a stretch.
“More?” you sigh.
Simon gives you another finger, easy as anything. He’s almost reverent when he curls them both up and forward. It makes you gasp and clench around him. He groans, but doesn’t speed up, doesn’t change his pace at all. Lets you wind tighter and tighter for long minutes before your peak rolls through you. He keeps going, stringing you along for a long, perfect moment. Then he gentles you through it until you’re panting.
“Another one?” he murmurs against your pussy. “Or my cock now?”
You roll your neck to look at him. “Another?”
“’F course, precious,” he says. And gets to work.
The second orgasm is just as easy and sweet as the first one. He gives you one more finger when you ask for it, calls you a good girl for asking. His other hand is large and hot, holding you close to his mouth.
Once you make your way through the waves of your peak, he climbs back onto the couch. You’re pulled into his lap and against his chest before he eases you down onto his cock. Even relaxed as you are, he feels so big inside of you. You mewl against his throat. He rumbles back and pets both hands down your back.
When you grind your hips down into his, he makes a gentle shushing noise against your temple. “Easy, easy. There’s a good girl. Let me do all the work, yeah?”
He keeps talking, praising you, as his hands guide you into a slow back and forth roll that leaves him buried deep. When he does start rocking under you, he barely withdraws an inch before he’s plunging back into you. Every few thrusts, he holds you down, coaxes you to rub yourself against his chest and belly. And then his hands are enticing you back into that effortless grind.
“Simon,” you moan, after a small eternity of this. You can hear the way your hips are slip-sliding together. “’M gonna come again.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead for a long moment before answering. “You want to?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Then you should, precious,” he rumbles. “Want me to keep fucking you after? Keep going? I can, you feel so good.”
You can’t imagine doing anything but agreeing. When you nod, he draws you into another kiss. Underneath you, he shifts, changing the position of his hips until you gasp into his mouth. The new angle, even without changing the pace, pushes you to the edge and over it before you really know what’s happening. You moan into each other’s mouths as you clench down. Everything is so slick and he doesn’t stop. Just keeps grinding your clit into his body while his cock fills you just right. Just keeps talking you through it.
It’s only when he’s getting close himself, a long time later, that his touches get a little harder, his pace a little faster. But even then, his hands are big and warm and hold you reverently. One of his palms holds your head so your face is pressed to his throat. The other holds you up by a thigh so he can thrust up into you. If you weren’t so hazy with pleasure, you might have been embarrassed by how wet everything sounds. But all you know is the next orgasm that is rushing up on you and the sound of his voice as he calls you perfect, precious, mine as he shudders and comes.
Later, he brings you a glass of water and coaxes you to finish it all before he climbs into bed behind you. He’s not going to sleep for a while, you know, but he seems content enough to cuddle you and hold one of your hands in his.
“That was really nice,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
“Wasn’t bad,” he rumbles.
“You didn’t like it?” You twist to look at his face.
“Don’t worry, pet, I liked it plenty,” he reassures you. “’S nice, you being so soft for me. ‘S just different.” When you nod your agreement around a yawn, he chuckles. “All worn out from being spoiled? Sleep, sweet girl.”
“Been busy these last couple of days,” you protest, pulling his arm closer around you.
“I know,” he says. He squeezes you like a teddy bear. “Been working real hard at your new job. And I’ve not been here to help you sleep.”
“Yeah,” you agree, eyes heavy. “Sleep better when you’re here.”
He says something else, but you don’t quite hear it. You feel him press a kiss to your temple and hear, just before sleep takes you. “Sleep well.”
When you wake up, you’re cold and your sinuses feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. Simon must have opened the curtains for you when he climbed out of bed this morning, there’s so much light shining through your eyelids. You lift a hand to block some of the light out. Something clinks.
When you open your eyes, your heart starts racing immediately. You’re not in your room. You’re not in Simon’s room, which would be scary enough. You’re on a mattress on the floor, under a rough, dingy blanket. Your hands are cuffed together, with a chain that goes over the side of the mattress.
When you push yourself to sit up, your vision swims for a few seconds before settling.
“Morning, precious.”
You get so dizzy when you whip your head around that you’re afraid you’ll fall back over. When your eyes are able to focus, your stomach drops.
Sitting on a metal chair across the room, Simon’s eyes peer out from a skull mask.
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#simon riley x you smut#manic pixie dream ghost
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Part 5.5 - After the reward, from Simon's perspective
Slasher Handler Masterlist
NSFW under the cut.
CW: Blood, bodily fluids, genitals, aftercare and cleanup, afab reader, feminine terms used for reader
When you finally go limp in his arms, Simon pants against the back of your head for a full minute. Holding you steady as you thrashed and cried, calling his name, calling him God, had taken more out of him than he’d expected. And that was before your nails scoring across his scalp blindsided him. The pain had knocked him into the kind of orgasm that makes a man worry about cramping.
He’d like to stay buried in you forever. But that’s not very practical, so he unwraps his arm from around your neck. It takes him longer than he would ever admit to be able to brace on his shaking arms and sit back on his heels. He allows himself a moment to roll his neck and shoulders while he takes stock of the both of you.
The sheets are a mess. He’s a mess, thighs and pubic hair soaked and tacky from the way you’d squirted. You’re no better, wet and shining down your legs. Your thigh is burning hot when he pushes your legs apart to get a look at where he’d come inside you. There’s no damage to your intimate parts when he uses gentle fingers to part your swollen folds, but you are puffy and hot. Seeing you dripping with him makes him lick his lips.
Blood drips from his eyebrow to land in the curve where your ass meets your leg.
He brings a hand up to swipe at his face, amused to find just how much blood is flowing from his hairline. Head wounds always bleed so damn much. He absently wipes his blood across your back before heaving himself up to stand next to the bed.
“Fuck,” he groans, looking down at himself. Your fluids are running down his leg.
He grabs a couple of towels from the closet in the all. Gives himself a perfunctory wipe down and applies pressure to his scalp as he retrieves water from the kitchen. When he returns to the bedroom, you’re shivering, in little bursts. It’s the work of a couple of moments to lift your hips enough to spread a towel under you. Then he climbs back over you, tucking you close.
Something in his chest turns over when you make a little noise and nudge your head a little bit closer. A drop of his blood falls to the side of your mouth. He smears it over your lips with his thumb.
Ten minutes later, you give a full body shudder and whine just at the edge of his hearing. He drops the towel he’s been propping his head against and leans down a bit to look at your face. It scrunches the way he’s seen you do when your alarm goes off. Then you’re groaning, shivering your way through what would normally be a full body stretch but looks more like the worlds least effective twitch. He doesn’t fight the urge to kiss your eyebrow when your eyes open, nuzzles the top of your head to smear more of his blood on your face.
You work your mouth for a few moments, obviously searching for something profound. You settle on, “Guh-uh.”
Not for the first time, Simon finds himself helplessly charmed. “’S ‘at so?” He tilts his head to better watch the way you lick his blood from your lips. “Interestin.’”
Your face scrunches up, and you give an aborted wiggle. “Muh?”
“Made a mess of me,” Simon continues, like you’re actually talking to him. He grins at the thought of how much you’ll stammer and blush when you get a good look at the bed. You’ve undoubtedly stained the mattress. “Got a towel, but we’ll need to change the sheets.”
Your sad kitten eyes are so full of emotion. “That much?”
Simon lets himself make a soft sound and an understatement. “Surprised me.”
You surprise him again when you slur, “’M sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
So you did notice the blood. He feels his face go soft. “Go to sleep, Precious.”
You hum and shut your eyes. He thinks that’s the end of it, but one of your arms twitches and flops its way up until your hand is over his heart. “Stay.”
His blood burns. “You’ll never be rid of me, luv.”
#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction#cod#fanfiction#simon ghost riley#dark fic#simon riley x you#slasher handler#simon riley x you smut#manic pixie dream ghost
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