#Lumi writes

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

folie à deux

or: the toxic ex boyfriend Ghost AU

PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader 

WARNINGS: || 18+ only MDNI || Toxic masculinity || Possessive & obsessive behaviour || Slut shaming || Groping || Gaslighting || Implied & referenced cheating || Mildly dubious consent

w/c: 5.7k (Read on AO3)

a/n: this was supposed to be like 5 paragraphs, so PLEASE if y'all hate it i dont want to know

It starts with a knock on your front door when you’re only half expecting to see Simon Riley.

He even knocks with a sense of entitlement, and it enrages you.  Three hard raps, and that’s it.  He won’t knock again.  If you don’t open the door, he’ll kick it down to get to you—those were rules you’d learnt the hard way.  

You mentally reinforce your motivation when you fling the door open: You’re scared he’ll break your door down, again, and this time, when they try to evict you, Simon won’t be around to terrify them into letting you stay.

How on earth you’d ever found the prick attractive is beyond you in that minute.  Except, no sooner does the thought enter your mind do you dismiss it.  Of course you had—and still—found him attractive.  That had never been the problem.  

He wore his military career on his face, much easier to see than the chest candy he bragged about but no less attractive to you–scars and burns, healing and the not-quite healed bruises plain to see on his face, a cacophony of yellows and purples.  A nose that had spent more time broken than not, its slight curve most likely a combination of never having been set by a professional nor the opportunity to heal without being broken again.  A thin scar dissected his lip, went all the way up the side of his face to his brow, almost like someone had taken a knife to him, carved him up like a piece of meat.  You’d never asked, and it’s not like he’d ever volunteered the information.  

It just sat there along with the three thousand other things he’d deposited in the chasm that stretched between the two of you. 

“You…Jesus,” he breathes, and slams the door shut behind him, making you wince.  “Where are you off to, then?”

“N’ wearin’ that?” He prompts again when you don’t answer, motions to your body with his chin.  

You roll your eyes when he pulls you into him and plants a hard kiss on your mouth, ignoring your squirming.  “Fuckin’ about to spill out, little dove.” 

“Spill?  Simon, I’m sewn into this dress.”  You pluck at his shirt that has deliciously little give where it sits on his hard chest, leaving your palm there as a little treat for yourself.  “You would know.  You capable of wearing shirts your own size, or does the SAS make it mandatory to have your tits straining against them?”

When he doesn’t respond, you push away from him, and step back, crossing your arms against your chest, definitely not pushing your tits up slightly, and he mirrors your movement.  He’s leaning against the wall by the front door now, blocking your exit, and you can only roll your eyes at the foreseeable display of machismo.  

“Your stuff’s in the front room.  Grab it and go, I have to finish getting dressed.  I have plans.” 

“With a pimp?”

Back when you were blissfully ignorant of Simon’s penchant for keeping you destabilised at all times, unconditionally wanting the last word, his crass words would have made you sputter and struggle to respond.  Oh but you know him so much better now.

Now, the blatant transparency in his delivery just makes you laugh.  

You interrupt his next words with a wave of your hand and turn to retreat to your room.  “Get your shit and leave, baby.”  

You hear his harsh exhale at the dismissal, and once upon a time, the repercussions of dismissing Simon in the middle of a conversation would have excited you.  You used to do it to get a rise out of him, instigate him into chasing you around, fucking you silly when he caught you.  Now, you just do it because you can. 

“No need to be a bitch.  I’ll be on my way in a second, just wanted to check on you, little dove.”

Your laugh is breathy, and you have to pull your mascara wand away from your eyes so you don’t end up stabbing yourself with it.  “‘No need to be a bitch’ says the man currently being a bitch about me not telling him my plans.”  Your laugh is mocking when you turn back to the mirror.  “You ever tire of this routine, Simon?  Because it’s tiring to me.”

Your words only make Simon’s eyes soften, and he looks at you almost indulgently, patronisingly, as though you were a child throwing a tantrum to get an adult’s attention.  “Could never tire of you, little dove.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, but he only snorts in response.  

It’s all a game to him, you know that.  He makes it very clear how much amusement he derives from watching you fumble and fall, how much he gets off on the stress he gives you.

And yet, you’re drawn to him, every single time.  Every single time, you play mental gymnastics to find a reason to write off his bad behaviour because, well, it’s Simon.  He’s…like no one else you’ve ever known.  

Your choices have always been limited between a cruel, mercurial god and inane, paltry men.  

Except today.  Today you hold your response back, try not to rise to the obvious challenge.

“Come on then, I’ll drive ya.”

“Are you insane?” you screech.  “You’re not driving me to my date, you’re not driving me anywhere, what the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?”

A glimpse of his Adonis belt as he stretches his arms above his shoulders and cranes his neck from side to side briefly grabs your attention. 

“Don’t be difficult, little dove,” he gently scolds you, and your eyes snap back to his—yours wide with incredulity, his calm and collected in that beautiful, honey brown.  “What were y’gonna do, take the Tube with y’tits out like that?  If the prick ain’t pickin’ you up, I’ll take ya to him.”  He jerks his chin in your vanity’s direction and plops himself on your bed to watch.  “Come on, love, finish yer preenin’ then.”

“Preening,” you mutter under your breath as you turn back to the mirror.  “Fuckin’ weirdo.”

It’s only when you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears do you catch his eye just as he brings a cigarette up to his mouth, and you squeal.  “Simon!  The fuck are yo—don’t smoke in my bedroom!”

“Our bedroom—”

“What?!”

“—’n ya didn’t care before.  Y’wanna share, ‘s that it, little dove?”

“Oh my god.”  You turn around slowly, your hands against your lips, joined together as though in prayer.  “Simon.”

“Yeah, baby.”

“You don’t live here anymore.  This isn’t your flat, it’s mine.  This isn’t your bedroom, it’s mine.”

Simon just continues to smoke as though he hadn’t heard you, dark eyes taking the slow, leisurely route back to meet yours. “Y’look good, baby.”  His voice is hoarse, the words slow and deliberate and raspy, and…you can’t deny it.  The pull he’s always exerted on you, the undeniably ruinous sirens call—you burn hotter and brighter than accretion, you’re a helpless sailor caught up in his thrall 

“Simon” 

“Did’ya always look so good?”  The way he looks at you as though in a trance…you know he’s not listening, seeming to just be thinking out loud.  When he stands up, you take an automatic step back, then cringe when the vanity hits the back of your legs.  Nowhere to go to escape his looming presence.  “No…not like this. Somethin’s changed.”  He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you around so you’re both facing the mirror.  

The back of your neck feels particularly warm as he pushes his entire front to your back, and you can feel him there, hard and insistent against your lower back.  When eyes meet in the mirror, he looks at you like you’re a puzzle for him to solve.  “Nothing’s changed,” you whisper.  “You’re still a dick.”

“Hmm,” he mutters, then lifts your face up with one hand around your neck, and brings his cigarette around to your lips with the other. 

Your instinctive inhale makes him shift against you slightly, and your eye twitches from how good he feels pressed up against you like this.  How he smells to you—that familiar mix of aniseed and icy menthol, fingers eking that potent hit of nicotine straight into you from where his fingers dig into your skin.  “Definitely somethin’ different.”  He pulls one strap of your dress down, and you exhale as he places one warm, lingering kiss on your exposed shoulder.  “‘S good.  Whatever’s different is good, little dove.”

“We can’t—,” you whisper, and his eyes glint at you with interest and arrogance through the mirror.  “We can’t do this.”  

“You’re so pretty all dressed up like this.  Always were so pretty.  So soft, and—” he inhales deeply at the spot just under your ear “—always smell so fuckin’ good.”

“You can’t,” you moan in response, but press yourself closer to him, anyway.

“But I can,” he responds gruffly.  “‘Nythin’ I like, little dove.  And I know y’like it too.”

“Fuck, just—”  He interrupts you by giving you another hit, and this time you turn around in his arms to exhale in his face.  He doesn’t even flinch.  “What are you playing at, Simon?  What do you want from me this time?”

Simon continues to look at your mouth as you speak, and almost as if on auto-pilot, slips his thumb into your mouth.  You want to bite him for his audacity, you almost kick him in the shin, almost almost almost…  But what you really end up doing is accepting it, licking the pad of his thumb and letting him push it into your mouth.  

Your initials on the space between the base of his thumb and index finger catch your eye—it’s a new tattoo, and you know this entire game is a ruse to draw your attention to it—but you don’t react.  You may be stupid horny for him, but you’re not stupid.

“Always such a good girl for me,” he praises, and it brightens you up on the inside, sparks hot and bright under your spine.  “Tell me, love…still me you think about when you touch your pussy?”

Your harsh exhale and slightly narrowed eyes are the only indication you give of having heard him at all.  In response, his thumb moves slightly deeper, sitting heavy on your tongue, and you let him.  

Your stubborn silence makes him chuckle, and he stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray you (still) keep on your vanity, pushing your dress up over your ass so he can grab your cheeks possessively.  The movement is so quick, so fluid that your protest turns to ash on your tongue when he finds bare skin and squeezes hard.

“Forgot somethin, did ya?”    

“No.”

“No?”  His hands grip you tighter and pull you harshly into him.  The angle makes you grind into his cock, and you know that he’s not even half as unaffected as he pretends.  “Gonna put out on the first date, then, like a slut?  Don’t remember you givin’ me any the first time I—”

“It’s not my first date with him.”

Simon pulls back to look into your eyes, and you’re graced by the first genuine smile on his face all evening—the most brilliant of Rayleigh scatterings put to shame.    “It is your first date, love.”

The blunt, matter-of-factness in his words gives you pause, your mind still coming to terms with what he’s just said, your heart starting to race at the barely concealed confidence about your whereabouts.  “How do you—what are you saying to me right now?”

“Truth, little dove.  Like I promised.”

The casual, off hand remark to one of the most devastating conversations in your life gives you whiplash and you have to physically shake your head to get rid of the feeling of something crawling up the back of your neck.  You put your hands firmly on his chest and push him away, and he steps back easily.  

“Are you…Simon.  Are you having me followed?” 

“Don’t need to.  I know you, little dove.”  He takes another step back from you and cocks his head at your dazed expression.  “Put some knickers on.  The white ones, y’know ‘em.”  When you don’t move, he motions towards your underwear drawer with an expectant expression—as though you’re frozen because you’ve forgotten where they are rather than because you’ve just learnt that your ex boyfriend’s stalking you.

When he crosses his arms, you’re jolted to action.  In a daze, you pick up the first pair your hands grab and pull them on.  He thrusts your purse at you, and leads you out your front door with his hand clasped tight around yours.   

You wish you could say that your ex boyfriend driving you to a date with another man is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you, but that’s not realistic for a life lived around Simon Riley. 

***

The drive is silent, but one big hand remains on your inner thigh.  His fingers are so long that they almost touch the seat on either side of your leg.  It feels invasive but it’s also familiar, so you don’t say anything.  Classic— he never had to try hard to get what he wanted from you.

When he asks you for a smoke, you light one up for him and stick it into the corner of his waiting mouth, and he kisses your fingertips as they retreat.  You still don’t say anything.  Instead, your eyes stay determinedly on your initials tattooed on his skin, his warm hand almost a brand on your thigh, and you think about your life with him in the .

The implication that things were normal in the before is wildly misleading, and a genuine disservice to the shit he’d put you through.   

Once upon a time, you’d been delusional about your place in Simon’s world; now it just leaves a bad taste in your mouth.  He threw special forces and taskforce and lads need me in your face every opportunity he’d gotten, and worse. Simon Riley was not a man who did or could be convinced to do something he didn’t want to—and you’d hardly ever asked for any explanations from him but still, the excuses were on the tip of his tongue, ready to be flung at you at Mach speed.

You’d bargained with yourself for weeks—oscillating between wanting to proactively end the relationship yourself or allowing its inevitable heat death.  He was one of a kind.  No one had ever made you feel like he had.  No one had fucked you like he had.

No one had fucked you over like he had either, but on good days, you show yourself some grace and let that thought slide.

***

You find yourself falling into old bad habits easily—you wait inside the car until he’s on your side, opening your door for you and practically lifting you out of his car.  

The warmth of his hands seeps through the material of your dress, through the skin on your hips, superheating the bones underneath.  He squeezes the flesh there appreciatively, and though his expression remains hidden to you, you can safely guess the smirking just by the creased skin by his eyes.  

“I never want to see you again.”

The words make Simon pause.  He considers you for a second, the smirk never dropping.  “Go’n, give us a kiss, then, if this is the last time.” 

“I would never,” you insist, finger poking at his hard chest, and he retreats from you, puts his hands up in mock-surrender.   “You’re a manipulative bastard, Simon,” you hiss at him.  “And I’m going on this date.”  With your piece said, you walk away from him.

“Never stopped ya, little dove,” he calls out, a hint of an aggravating laugh in his words.    

 You flip him off without even turning around.  “Drop dead, Simon.”

To your great disappointment, your words don’t inspire the heavens to smite him where he stands immediately, and when you quickly shoot one last look back at him over your shoulder, he stands against his car, arms crossed, looking for all the world like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Asshole.

It wasn’t even that Simon was a bad boyfriend to you—though he was certainly the fucking worst—it was the fact that a) he was a bad person and b) you’d become a bad person by osmosis.

Case in point: you wanted to leave your date mid-meal, battling the intrusive thought of just putting your drink down and walking out the front door, but you couldn’t even say why.  Your date had kindly acquiesced when you’d insisted on the worst table on the floor.  The one overlooking the car park.  The window overlooking the only car parked there—the massive black one, with illegally tinted windows and a suspiciously missing owner.

At least the bar was nice.  Great ambience, dim lighting and pretty interiors, it should have been the perfect first date.  Your date himself was fine too—nice enough with a sweet smile he flashed at you, politely having taken to talking at you when you’d made it clear with your apathy that talking with you wasn’t going to happen.  

After just two drinks, you start to have flashbacks—even an hour spent in Simon’s company clearly manifesting as literal madness—which was disconcerting by itself, but the uncharacteristic subject matter has you really worried.  Every time you blink, you see Simon’s face…or his cock…and when your date asks if you’d like to share dessert, you answer, “Simon…” before hearing yourself, and feeling the heat of shame dance on your cheeks.  Your date just looks confused.

A quick glance outside the window shows the empty car park and…nothing else.  No car.

Had he fuckin’ left?

The thought incenses you, and the irrational nature of the anger makes you feel even more shame.  Why should you care?  When had he ever done what you’d expected of him?  And when had he ever been there for you when you’d needed it.

Fuck it, you think.    

Maybe you were finally free of Simon and his toxic, shameless, unbreakable hold on your life.  Maybe it was time to move on.

You allow yourself a satisfied smile when, in what feels like divine approval of your plan, your date offers to take you home.

***

There are cracks in your ceiling that you’d never noticed before.

You resist the urge to wince, then try to moan but give up when it gets stuck in your throat, and your date misinterprets your sigh of boredom and discomfort as one of pleasure, choosing to go down on you with more enthusiasm than before.  Things could not be worse for you—the man between your legs is clearly in need of a compass and a map and trying so hard that you feel guilty about the whole thing—but you’re determined to tolerate it.  So that the point is made.     

When your date finally leaves, your shaky smile and poorly concealed look of relief convinces neither of you of a second date.  You suppose you should be grateful that he left without a fuss, but you’re just relieved that he’s gone.  You’re contemplating—holding your head in your hands while your elbows rest on the kitchen counter—when you hear him.

“This is pathetic, even for you.”  You turn around, and yep.  It’s him alright.  Sitting at your dinner table, your flimsy chair all but invisible behind his massive frame.  “Breaking in, Simon?  Seriously?”

“Y’gave me a key, little dove.”

“Yeah.  When we were dating.  A key that you’d returned?”  

When there is neither a response, nor any change to his posture, you turn around and start to pour yourself a glass of water.  Then change your mind and grab two whiskey tumblers and your decanter.  “Pathetic,” you repeat.  “How long were you planning this?”

His sudden breath on the back of your neck makes you exhale harshly, and he steadies your trembling hands by placing his on yours.  Together, you pour two glasses of whiskey, but his hands don’t leave yours even when you’re done.

“How was the date?”

“You tell me, Simon.”

“Wasn’t invited, was I?”

“It didn’t stop you.”

He places a small kiss behind your ear in response.  “No.”   His hands knead at your breasts and your head falls back to his shoulder with a sigh, and he grinds into you.  “Feel that?  What even your fake little noises do to me?”

“You were listening?”  The thought is…unbearably hot, and you stubbornly refuse  to examine it any further in your mind.  

“You belong with me, little dove, you know this.  You’ve always belonged to me.  All of you.  Every single inch.  Where would I go?”  

You reach behind you to touch him, and he’s thick and warm to the touch, even through the layers of fabric, and it’s familiar, it’s all so familiar to you..  “This is fucked up.  You were here listening when another man fucked me?”

In a quick succession of lithe, almost impossibly quick movements, he’s picked you up and placed you on your kitchen counter, one glass of whiskey shattering on the floor.  “Made your point, baby?”  

Your robe is off your shoulders and pooling around your waist in a second, and Simon doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk when he pulls off your panties and pockets them.  You don’t bother protesting.  It even feels like trouble when he runs a single finger over the seams of your cunt—you’re damningly wet and if you had enough withal to curse your body out for it, you would.

“You've got such a pretty pussy, little dove,” Ghost says as he fingers you, his voice half-muffled because he's pressing a possessive kiss to your forehead.  “And so wet baby, you’re dripping on my fingers.  All of it fo' me?  Or was it that twat, hm?” 

You're seething inside, raging that your plan backfired like this.  “It was him,” you say, before you can help yourself.  “You heard him fuck me, yeah?”  

“Fuck you?” Simon’s chuckle is dark and ruinous.  “He didn’t fuck you, baby.  He just stretched you out for me.  Good man. Saves me the work, innit.”

Before you can react, before you can breathe, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, picks up his glass of whiskey in his other hand, and brings you to your bedroom.  Fuck, your sheets are still rumpled, dress and bra strewn on the floor, sandals sitting like a death trap of heel and straps by the foot of your bed.  The room even smells of sex and the cologne your date had worn—it’s disorienting.  You almost feel bad.  Almost.

But…Simon’s presence is all over your bedroom too.  The smell of his aftershave lingered in the air, noticeable if you closed your eyes and breathed in deep.  Other signs too—the faint bitterness of his cigarette from earlier that evening, it’s corpse in the ashtray on your vanity.  When he sets his drink down on your nightstand, he sets it on the coaster you keep there—they’re strewn on almost every surface on your flat.  Mementoes from Simon from different countries he’d go to on deployment.  

“Told you he fucked me,” you say, cheekily—trying to dissuade your mind from leading you towards sentiment—and get a smack on you ass for your trouble.

“‘Course, little dove,” Simon drawls in response.  “‘N you enjoyed it too, yeah?  Tryin’ t’make me jealous.  Took him to the same place we used to go, huh?”  Another smack on your backside, this one hard enough to make you gasp.  “Think I’d forgotten, baby?  Fucked you in that car park, didn’t I?”

“Were you jealous?”

“Why should I be?”  He sets you down gently on the bed so you’re sitting upright, then takes a sip of his whiskey.  “Y’want this.”  

“I didn’t think you were giving me much of a choice.”

“I’m not.”  He takes another sip, and when he leans forward to kiss you, the whiskey floods into your mouth, rich and smoky and bitter.  He continues to kiss you and you have to swallow around his tongue, which makes him kiss you harder.  He’s a bully in every aspect of his life, and kissing you is no different.  His fingers clamp around your cheeks and you have no choice but to kiss him back.  Even in this he dominates you, trying to win even where there is no fight to be fought.

When he pulls away, your heart throbs at how he looks through the lights of the street outside pouring in through your window.  You’ve seen his face before, you’re one of the trusted few that can say they know what Simon Riley looks like, but it’s been a while since you’ve seen him like this.  The harsh lights from outside almost soften where they kiss the harsh angles of his face, where the sharp line of his clenched jaw disappears behind his ears, accentuating his thick neck.

He’s beautiful and cruel and bad for you and every adjective you can think of under the sun.

“Y’want this,” he repeats.  

“I want this.”

And then Simon moves so suddenly.  There’s no preparing for it, no accounting for speed that has no build up—one second you’re sitting upright looking up at him the next you’re on your back and he’s hovering over you, fingers making quick work of his zipper before, in one push, he’s buried in you.  Your breath feels like it’s literally been punched out of your chest.  He’s so deep in you, you can feel him in your throat—he allows you one deep breath before he’s got a large hand wrapped around your throat.  The one with your tattoo on it.

The thought of it incites something foreign deep in your belly, low and simmering hot—you can’t believe he’s tattooed your name on his hand after telling you that he didn’t think you were what he’d wanted.  

You can’t imagine your expression right now, but he tightens his fingers around your throat and it drags your attention back to him.  He’s gritting his teeth, his jaw clamped tightly shut while he grinds his pelvis into yours, each thrust driving you further and further away from him and towards the centre of the bed.  You don’t even understand the movement of his hips—you’re displaced and jostled from the sheer power of his thrusts—but the motion itself feels like it’s more of an up and down motion, dragging against your walls, punching into your G spot.  When your head falls back on a low moan, he jerks your body to alertness just by your throat, and you clench at the feat of strength even when he’s buried in you as far as he can go.  

Simon groans in response, the noise sounding like it tears through his throat on its way out, but you’re helpless to do anything at all, just trying to breathe through the foreign sensations inside you right now, clamp tighter and tighter around him, threatening to break.  You’ve given up trying to look up at him anymore, the pleasure making you squeeze your eyes shut, one hand intertwined with his by your head, the other clawing at his forearm.  

“Shit, baby, hold on, fuck, jus’ let me—” He moves to adjust you, grabbing one thigh to spread you open, push himself deeper inside you, when he freezes.  

“Wha—Simon, what—”

“The fuck is this?” His voice is pitched lower than usual, dark and dangerous.  You follow his line of sight and he’s transfixed, eyes unblinking, looking at a spot on your inner thigh.  You know what he’s seeing, and in the midst of everything that’s happened, everything that’s about to happen, you wonder if you’re seeing the evidence of the existence of a just God.

“You weren’t…you weren’t meant to see it.  It’s from ages ago…”  He reaches out a slightly trembling hand towards it, stops inches away from it—and oh this is better than anything you could’ve imagined—before he brushes two reverent fingers over the little skull you have tattooed there.  “Simon?”

When Simon looks back at you, he seems more determined, somehow.  Like the final part of a puzzle has clicked into place, somehow, and a decision has been made.

This time when he moves, it’s deeper, more powerful but equally as deliberate.  The hand around your throat moves to your face, brushing sweaty strands away from it, and framing the entire side of your face where it rests.  “Got my mark on you, yeah?  Want t’keep me, is that it?”

“I want…want to keep you,” you nearly whine at him, and his hips kick up, hammer into you, in and out, in and out— “Want to keep you Simon.  Want to be yours.”

He bends over you, his grip on your thigh unyielding, long fingers digging into the tattoo on your skin.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I—” He uses your neck to muffle his own sounds for a second and then leans to kiss you.  But it’s more than that.  You feel Simon’s surrender in that kiss—the acceptance of the inevitable, your months of torturous longing for your torturer finding release—and when you come, you bite down hard on his lip.

It feels like your body is hot enough to melt the world into soft, sepia tones around you, and you don’t even understand what he’s doing to your body right now as he fucks you through your orgasm.  He readjusts your hips as you come, and the slightest brush of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your clit makes you vibrate from the shock of what feels like your second orgasm bleeding into your first.

And when he comes, he slams his hips into you like he’s trying to crawl inside of you.  His groan is long and tortured, and for a man who’s usually silent when he fucks, the sound is delicious.  You never want him to stop.  “Fuckin’ shit,” he murmurs, and traps you as he collapses on top of you.

In the aftermath, there is quiet.  

Simon lifts his head, once, to try to feel his way to the glass of whiskey on your nightstand, all while kissing you deeply.  Turns out, fucked out of his mind Simon is clumsy as hell, and so you grab it for him, draining it yourself before offering him the empty glass.

“Fuckin’ whore,” he mutters, unimpressed, before burying his face in your neck.  

“Says the man who slept with the entire British army in a matter of six months.”  You kiss his sweaty hair and his grip on your hips tightens.  “Bunch of slags.” 

“Don’t call my sergeant a slag.”

“Your serg—” you gasp, feeling your restart its pounding in its cage.   “Not Johnny!  You slept with MacTavish?  He fuckin—he fuckin’ offered to meet me for coffee so many times when we were broken up!  I thought he was being nice!”

“Was bein’ nice, innit.  Lookin’ out for his CO’s girl.”

Your head falls back to the bed as you stare up at the ceiling again.  “This is messed up.”  His casual tone feels like a barb, reopens old wounds and threatens to ignite a fresh wave of hostility inside you.  But before you can stew in your bitterness any longer, he kisses the side of your neck and moves off of you.

“Can’t keep doing this, little dove.”  He says, gathering your clothes from where they’re strewn all over your room.  

You get up on your elbows and cock your head, feigning innocent confusion.  “What do you mean?”

“Gonna have twats all over town stretchin’ you out fo’ me before I fuck you?”

“Why?  You offering to put the graft in yourself?”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, and when he stands up to face you, he’s got a cig hanging off the corner of his mouth.  “Y’got a light around here somewhere, can’t find mine.”

You roll your eyes, reaching over to the nightstand to grab one and throwing it at him.  He catches it deftly, and lights up his cigarette.  “What’s next for you then, Simon Riley?  Off to the pub to find the next victim for the evening?  Send me a recording of when you fuck her in the disgusting toilet?”

“Victim?  Shit baby, give me ten, we’ll go again,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.    

“You’re staying?”

He leans forward, smushes your face with his large hand.  “You got me inked on you.”  You squirm away from him and he lets you go.

“It’s just a skull, Simon.  Not my initials on your hand.”  When his eyes narrow, you gasp theatrically and your hand flies up to your chest.   “Or was I not meant to see that?”  You lean up to pluck the cigarette from his fingers and take a long drag.  “Obnoxious, by the way.”

He leans forward and kisses you, hard.  You inadvertently end up blowing smoke in his mouth, but he doesn’t move, kissing you until you melt.  “Love you, little dove.  You're a massive bitch, though.”

“Pot meet kettle,” you whisper against his mouth.

You know what they say about history repeating itself.  You’ve been through this cycle before, you and Simon.  And you know what he promised you when he fucked you—he may have asked you if you’d wanted to keep him, but you hear what Simon doesn’t say.  And what he doesn’t say is that you don’t have a choice in any of this.  Simon operates like a bully, thinks like a bully because he is one.  Like with most other things, Simon brute forces your relationship, moulds and bends and twists to his liking, does not care if anything breaks.  You have no doubt that in two or three weeks’ time he’ll be across the world from you, bouncing someone else on his cock but it hardly matters.  You’ll get your lick back.  It’s what he’s taught you, afterall.        

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley smut #ghost x reader #cod mw2 #lumi writes #toxic exbf! Ghost #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader

[lumienyx]

happy to surrender

Pairing: Astarion/m!Tav | Rating: T | Words: 1,208 | Tags: Established Relationship, Romance, Banter, Fluff, Humor, sorcery as a replacement for the tadpole mindlink, no beta we die like Dribbles

Summary: A snowflake lands on Tav’s lips, and Astarion melts it with a kiss.  “My love.” Astarion’s gaze is so tender, his voice so fragile Tav fears that it may break. “These last six months of happy memories are a counterweight to two hundred years of misery.”

A/N: inspired by a bunch of things: Astarion's epilogue confession ofc, @snowyarts' post contrasting it with his earlier much more grim dialogue, and when I finally started on the New Beginnings prompt for the BG3 Winter Holiday Challenge, I ended up with this🥺 Hope you enjoy💙

Read on AO3 or continue under the cut ↓

The canvas of the night stretches wide above them. Astarion watches it, entranced, ever in awe of each new starscape of Faerûn they uncover during their travels. 

Tav is mesmerized in turn by the subtle play of moonlight on Astarion’s skin, in his eyes. The light snowfall grazes his hair, the flakes lingering just a bit longer than usual before melting away. Tav leans closer into the one-armed embrace, pressing his lips against Astarion's neck.

“Any new constellations you can show me?” Tav follows his lover’s gaze to a messy cluster of stars.

Astarion chuckles. “Of course, my sweet. If you remember all the ones from before.”

“All of them?” Tav frowns, doubtful. “You have a lot of faith in my memory.”

“If you can quote that bawdy poor excuse of a romance novel we stole from Gale, then surely—”

“Anyway.” Tav ignores Astarion’s smirk, pointing to where he spots a familiar, blade-like pattern, tracing it with his finger. “That one. Jassa’s Dagger?”

“Wrong.”

“Oh, well, the Sword and the Dagg—”

Astarion cuts him off with an exasperated kiss, reaching out to run his hand through Tav's hair, a pleasant shiver tingling in its wake. “Try again. No daggers there, I’m afraid.”

“Ah.” Tav skips through a couple more guesses. “Well… Esetar?”

“That isn’t even visible right now, darling.” Astarion caresses his cheek then, gentle and almost placating. “Not that I don’t find this positively adorable, but do you even listen when I tell you about them?”

“I remember most of our stargazing lessons ending in me seeing stars for a very different reason.”

Astarion groans. “And I remember how I’ve told you repeatedly that your questionable attempts at wordplay leave much to be desired.”

“This one was good,” Tav insists, “one might even say stellar—”

“Stop—”

Astarion struggles out of the embrace only half-heartedly, and Tav doesn’t catch any trace of tension on his face, so he doesn’t break the hold. “Made you smile,” he says, with no small measure of satisfaction.

“I am not,” Astarion says, “smiling,” he tries and fails to suppress it.

“But there it is.” 

Tav presses his lips to Astarion’s, feeling the grin widen. He relishes the soft, languid movement of his lover’s lips as they fall deeper into a kiss that warms Tav even more than the sphere of heat he’s keeping up around them. There’s only a hair’s breadth between them as they pull away, and Tav finds himself lost in Astarion’s eyes all over again.

“There.” Tav points to another patch in the sky, not even looking. “Mystra’s Circle.”

“Why,” Astarion gasps in mock surprise, “truly a remarkable catch! The only circular constellation out there—how did you guess?”

Tav weaves a few spheres from the heaps of snow behind Astarion, all ready to strike. They all miss, of course; Astarion leaps out of his arms to dodge them just in time, and Tav barely manages to halt the spell before the projectiles end up hitting him instead.

“Ugh.” Tav lets the spell dissipate ina burst of snowflakes. Gone is his only chance to catch Astarion off guard. “I’ll get you one of these days.”

“Darling,” Astarion laughs, “do I have to remind you of the score of our snowball fights?” He rushes back into the radius of the heating spell and into Tav's begrudging embrace, though Tav probably doesn’t look as annoyed as he’s pretending to be.

“You may win the battles,” Tav grumbles, “but you won't win the war.”

“If you ask me really nicely, I doubt I would have any choice but to concede defeat.”

“Ha! Since when are you happy to surrender?”

“I am happy with you always,” Astarion says.

And it’s those simple words that give Tav pause. 

There is no hint of jest or deceit in Astarion’s eyes. Only warmth and tenderness that Tav is still getting used to seeing there, in place of the once constant fear and pain. The bright specks of light reflected in them form constellations of their own against the ruby red. So beautiful, impossible to look away from, even as Tav feels heat rushing to his cheeks and his heart rattling his chest at an alarming rate. A reaction he hasn’t quite grown out of, even after all these months by Astarion’s side.

“I—well.” Tav blinks. A nervous chuckle follows a bashful smile. “Really?”

A snowflake lands on Tav’s lips, and Astarion steals it with a kiss before it melts. 

“My love.” Astarion’s gaze is so tender, his voice so fragile Tav fears that it may break. “These last six months of happy memories are a counterweight to two hundred years of misery.”

Tav’s heart skips a beat, perhaps a couple. He doesn’t know what to answer, doesn’t know how. He can’t quite believe it, still. The pain yet rings sharp from the words Astarion had said a longer while back—that not even Cazador’s death would make up for the all-consuming darkness, that never-ending pain.

But Astarion slides into his mind now, magic weaving itself in the familiar spell Tav spent months developing so they could both have this—mind-to-mind emotions and wordless connection—once their tadpoles were gone. Astarion’s feelings are clear as day there, somewhere in the in-between of Tav’s own tangled thoughts and emotions—

—it's as if there's a bright, simmering hearth in his chest, and it feels like home, you are home—

—Tav’s own face obscures his vision, one memory that mirrors thousands more like it, and when he sees that face smile, he feels—Astarion feels like it lights up everything around him, bringing to life something deep inside him that he thought long forgotten, and he feels his lips follow suit to mirror mine—

—touch is less like small bursts of electricity, like it used to be when they barely knew each other but knew enough to want one another and every touch sparked desire—

—now, the touch of my hand is grounding, your embrace feels like a warding spell, a Sanctuary that keeps at bay whatever danger and harm the world yet harbors, kissing you completes me like two split pieces of a whole finally joining—

There’s waves upon waves of joy radiating from Astarion’s thoughts, there's the shadow of his embrace that Tav can feel even as he’s lost in the connection—and all of a sudden, it’s too much to bear being parted, and so he closes the distance between them. They kiss deeply, softly, it’s all kinds of perfection Tav doesn’t ever want to let go. 

Tav is quite happy to surrender to Astarion, too.

Astarion’s lips are cool and yet the kiss spreads warmth all over Tav’s body. Like the familiar surge of sorcery running through his veins, only better, because Astarion’s touch is more magical than any spell Tav could ever hope to invoke. It’s all the elation of a life bound closely to his, of their life began anew. A life they get to live, against all odds, together. Their minds are still entwined, and Astarion’s coalesces into the single thought,

I love you.

And the emotion of it is strong enough, overwhelming enough to make Tav weak in the knees with how good it makes him feel, how completely it overtakes him. And Tav—

~~~

thank you for the read! I’d appreciate any comments and feedback💙

Tag list (lmk if you'd like to be added):

@spacebarbarianweird @satanicspinosaurus @tallymonster @tragedybunny @ellekhen

#BG3HolidayFluffle23 #astarion x tav #astarion x male tav #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #lumi writes #astarion fanfic

[lumi-essence]

Karmic Interest

Interest rates are accepted as something everyone will deal with eventually

From loans to savings accounts

But few people acknowledge the interest rate of karma

Everyone knows the saying

“Karma is a bitch”

But nobody talks about how this came to be 

Karma is a “bitch” because it comes back to bite you

And many will say that what they did wasn’t as bad as the retribution

That’s because no one speaks or knows about the karmic interest

Karma has the highest interest rate 

Higher than loans or savings accounts

No one knows for sure how what a person owes is figured

The interest rate seems to vary from case to case

However I can tell you this one thing

The longer karma waits

The worse you feel after

#lumi writes #poetry

[inahandful-of-dust]

Last Sentence Tag Game

Post the last sentence from your WIP or wherever you left off in your art. Then tag as many people as there are words in the sentence. Don't reblog, make a new post.

Tagged by the amazing @storm-elf

From From the West

“And though upon us lieth the Wrath, from the far West unto the uttermost East, let it not be said of the kindred of Finwë and Elwë and Ingwë to be any less courageous then those who first knew the cruelty of Moringotto for it! Because we lived the Darkening and knew Ice and Torment and Grief. And we saw Fire as it Fell and Tears Unnumbered we shed! And no brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,” at his side, he heard Aragorn suck in a sharp breath, and he saw the eyes of the Generals of the Elves widen, “or Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth dare say, of the House of Fëanáro and those who followed, that they did not bring to good end things that they began well!”

Tagging: @aerkan, @inexplicifics, @theheirofashandfire, @confusedbookworm, @dukeofduckstblr @darkestelemental616 and anyone else who wants to do this!

#tag game #last sentence tag game #lumi drinks a cappuccino and writes something strange #lumi writes #tolkien gave me life #from the west #my fic #the lord of the rings #the silmarillion #tolkien elves

[ohbo-ohno]

merry christmas @luminousbeings-crudematter, here's the ghoap x reader purge au! (a week and a half after you posted about it... im so sorry)

5.7k, mind the tags <3

cw: ROUGH NONCONSENUAL SEX in all caps, pwp, under-prepared/painful anal sex, some pretty intense fear stuff, people covered in blood and referenced violence (it's a purge au lol)

Your hands tremble where they’re tucked close to your chest, blood sticky and thick between each finger. You feel coated in it, like someone has taken a brush and gone over every inch of your skin, painted you in red.

It’s in your mouth. You can feel the warmth of it on your tongue, the taste of iron sickening. You tell yourself that maybe you bit your tongue, that it’s not really your ex Phil’s blood coating your teeth.

Your thin pajamas are hardly any protection against the chill of the night air, less so with how soaked they are. The stench of piss is heavy in the air, a mixture of yours and his, but you don’t have time to go back inside and change.

You’re running on pure instinct, an animal urge deep in your mind insisting you run. You’d always thought you’d have more of a flight instinct than fight. Despite how you feel now, how your legs itch to carry you as far away as possible, the cooling corpse left behind tells you the truth. 

You stumble into the wall, a wave of nausea knocking you off balance. There’s a trail of red left behind as you use one hand to balance yourself, the other held protectively over your heart. 

Your security system - cheap, but usually enough to let you sleep through the Purge - is completely destroyed. There’s no chance of it protecting you, and the bust in windows will let anyone on the streets see your vulnerability. You’ll never feel safe there, and you can’t shake the need to run.

There’s no chance of any of your neighbors helping you. There’s some neighborly camaraderie between your floor-mates, but that all disappears on Purge night. It’s every man for himself, every year, without fail. You know that. You even think the same as them, pretend no one else exists when that siren goes off every year. 

But now, shaking and terrified, you wish you could knock on a door and see it open. Hear the security system disengage and see a familiar face, beg for help and thank them on your knees.

It’s a nice fantasy. Reality is less kind, seeing you shake with a dawning chill as you manage to shoulder open the door to the stairwell, cringing when it slams behind you.

The cold cement is rough on your feet, and a distant part of yourself worries about slipping - your feet are slick with blood, and you can hear yourself leaving a trail of footsteps. You don’t try to slow down, holding tight to the metal railing and shuffling down the stairs.

You’re halfway down the first of four flights when the door on the next floor opens, a large figure stepping into the stairwell. Your stumble to a stop before you even register that you’re not alone anymore, and you’re backpedaling before you even fully realize.

He’s big, his face covered in a red skull mask. From your vantage point you can see his hair is shaved into a mohawk, and he’s shirtless with only a pair of gray sweatpants on.

He’s drenched in blood. Even more than you, and you feel like you’re drowning in it. If you’re painted in blood, someone took a bucket and dumped it on this man. You can hardly see any unmarked skin, and you wonder for a split-second if the skull was once white.

There’s an audible grin in his voice when he calls up to you. “Look’it you, bonnie thing. You tryin’ to run?” He steps to the side, leaving a wide open space for you to pass him to the next staircase. You’re frozen where you’re leant against the railing, hardly able to breathe. “C’mon, give it a shot.” 

You listen, scrabbling further back and all but throwing yourself up the stairs on all fours. You’re only the need to get away, an innate fear that tells you to get as far from the blood-soaked man as quickly as possible. You swear you hear him laugh as you launch yourself up the next flight, panting already.

There’s no safety found in going up though, as hardly two flights later you’re tugged to a stop by your instincts alone.

Standing above you, hardly six feet away and blocking the door he must’ve just come from, is another giant. This one fully clothed and with a white skull mask, somehow bigger and more intimidating than the man you can hear coming up the stairs behind you. You can’t see even an inch of skin, black gloves on his hands and mean black combat boots reaching nearly his knees.

There’s a moment, before the chase ends, where you contemplate jumping over the railing. There’s no going up, there’s no going back, and you can’t even begin to imagine what these two men want with you. The only thing that keeps you from throwing yourself over is the fear that you wouldn’t die on impact, that you’d be left injured and even more vulnerable to these men.

You’re not sure you could’ve tried that plan had you even wanted to, because the moment it forms fully in your mind a pair of thick arms wraps around you, and a heavy weight forces you to the ground.

You cry out at the sudden shove, palms scraped raw against the cement. The man behind you covers your body completely - his knees bracket yours, his hands rest on either side of your head, and there’s no part of the back of you that isn’t cloaked in him.

He doesn’t say anything as he ruts against you, the blood from his chest soaking through your tank top and making you cringe further away. You can’t stop the quiet stream of whimpers as you try to shrink into the stairs, try to get away from the beast behind you. He doesn’t care, only drops more of his weight onto you and pantomines fucking you.

You can feel the outline of his cock through his pants, as thin as the clothes both of you are wearing are. If you weren’t wearing your shorts, if he tugged the waistband of his pants down, he’d be inside of you.

The thought makes you tear up, makes you want to slam your head back and try to knee him in the balls, makes you want to fight.

But all your fight is gone. It died with Phil and your security system, and you’re left only with a weight in your bones that makes you wish you could sink through the floor. 

The hard plastic of the skull mask presses to the sensitive skin of your cheek, biting into the fat there. You can see the gleam of bright blue eyes in the sockets, the creases at the edges that tell you he’s smiling.

“You gonna fuck her here for the first time?” The white skull asks, voice deep enough that you hardly register the words. Your eyes are jerked to his form and it makes you shiver to see him sitting on the top of the staircase you’re pinned to, legs spread wide as he stares down at you with a cigarette between lips exposed by the tilted mask. You feel like a sacrifice, thrown to the stairs of a temple for a god.

“Can I?” The man over your shoulder pants, accent roughened from his own movements. You can’t tell if the wetness between your thighs is piss, blood, or an even worse option. You bite your tongue to hold back a whine, wince at the burst of iron in your mouth.

The man above you tilts his head, smoking blown into the air. “You fuck her here, you won’t get to go again on the roof. Don’t need you gettin’ spoiled.”

Your nails dig into the concrete, folding beneath the pressure as you shake beneath the red skulled man. He whines over you, like a petulant kid being told no for the first time, but goes still against you. That alone has you blinking open damp eyelashes, watching him from the corner of your eyes.

“Alright, I’ll wait,” he pants, chin resting on your soldier. “Give ye some time to get ready, huh lass? It’ll be easier for ye then. Just think about what we’ll do to ye, how good it’ll feel to get properly fucked, yeah?”

You sob when he grinds one final time against you, your hips pushed into the harsh edge of the stairs. 

He’s dragging you up after that, hardly letting either of you stand fully before shoving you up the stairs. You can’t catch your balance and let out a small cry as you fall back to your knees, mouth twisting in pain at the unforgiving surface against your naked knees.

You flinch when a gloved hand grasps your chin, tugging up until you’re forced to look towards the white skull above you.

You’ve landed between his feet, a boot on either side of your body, and if you’d moved forward even another half foot, you’d have face planted into his lap. 

Your heart skips a beat when you realize you’re making eye contact with him. The dark brown of his pupils blends almost seamlessly with what must be black paint smeared around his eye sockets, and the only reason you even realize you’re locked in a staring contest is the way the light reflects off the whites of his eyes.

You don’t have time to try and move away from him on your own (or, more accurately, to throw yourself backwards and pray you didn’t break something falling down the stairs) before a pair of bare hands are shoving you up from beneath the armpits, making you almost squeal as you jerk in the direction you’re forced.

“Up, c’mon,” red skull grunts, hands flitting from one part of your exposed skin to the next as he herds you upstairs. “Need to get inside ye, kitty, fuckin’ walk.”

You sob as you stumble up the stairs, the top of your foot scraping painfully against the concrete. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see White stand to follow you two, but you’re nearly sent sprawling again when Red only shoves you all the more harshly.

“Pl-please,” you manage to gasp, shoulder roughly bouncing off the wall. A glance up tells you you’re two full flights away from the rooftop. “Please, I don’t know what you want, b-but…” You can hardly talk around the sobs floating in your throat, choking you. “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

Red groans as he tugs you nearly off balance, the sound echoing off the walls and full of what you can only describe as hunger.

“Fuck, haven’t even gotten ye naked yet ‘n yer already beggin. Knew ye’d be perfect for us.”

You can hardly see through the tears in your eyes, the rest of the trip up to the roof all gray with streaks of red and black. You can’t focus enough to try and get away again, can’t get enough of your panic under control to fucking think.

The red skull catches you when you almost go careening over the rails, one broad hand catching you by the chest and gripping.

He groans, you flinch. “Fuck, cannae wait to get my mouth on these.” He pinches with his whole hand, your breast going sharp with pain on every fingertip. You whine, flinching further against his chest and trying to shrink away.

“Keep movin’, Soap.”

“Aye,” Red - Soap - pants, and you can practically hear the saliva gathered in his mouth when he swallows. “C’mon, kitty, only a little further.”

The blood on your hands has dried by the time White is shouldering open the door to the roof, your hands itching and the red flaking away every time your fingers twitch. The night air is a cold shock, just jarring enough to tug some reason back into your brain.

Soap doesn’t stop his herding until you’re far enough from the door for his partner to block it with an old metal chair, the back tucked under the door handle. You tuck your hands beneath your arms, shoulders curled in in an attempt to preserve warmth.

You wouldn’t have expected the night to be so cold. Half of the street is burning - flames painting the sky, giving you the exact opposite impression of the biting chill you feel. There are dozens of people in the streets, carrying guns and axes and chainsaws and all sorts of other weapons you can’t see. You feel bile rise in your throat when you realize the dark pools reflecting flames in the street are blood, not water.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Soap grumbles, and you don’t have any time to think before his mouth is pressed forcefully against yours, tongue shoving at your lips.

Your eyes are wide open, unlike his, and you make a shocked sound high in your throat at the sight of his maskless face. You can’t really see what he looks like with the way he’s pressed against you, but it’s a shock nonetheless.

You keep your lips pressed tightly together, no matter how much his tongue prods and tries to force its way into your mouth. You feel more than hear him laugh against you after a few long seconds, and one of his massive paws comes up to cradle your jaw pointer finger against your temple and thumb under your chin.

He stops trying to force himself between your lips after almost a minute, instead shifting to just… licking your lips. His tongue paints wide across your mouth, soaking you in his saliva. He’s almost scarily determined in the way he accosts you, his grip tight on your face as his other hand shifts to bruise your hip, covering what feels like the entire bottom-half of your face in his spit. You can’t help but grimace, trying to pull away from him, but he’s pressed too close.

“Can’t fuckin’ wait to be in ye,” he pants, breath warm and wet against your cheeks. “I know yer gonna squeeze me just right, bonnie, can tell already.”

“Please,” you say, voice weak. “Please, don’t, I don’t want you to-”

His groan is guttural. “Ye wanna know a secret, bonnie?” His voice is quiet between the two of you, bright blue eyes boring deep into yours when he pulls back. To your endless frustration, he’s handsome.

He leans close, whispering so low that you almost have to strain to hear hum. “That’s what makes you fun. Wouldnae be draggin’ you up here if ye wanted it, could get you any other night of the year for that. But it’s Purge night, lass… so you go ahead and fight as much as ye want, yeah? Just makes it more fun for me.”

You can’t help but sob at that, fat tears streaming down your face as he maneuvers you. You feel disconnected from your body as he forces you down to the ground, your soft belly left exposed when he pushes up your tank-top to cup one of your breasts, a whimper crawling out of your throat at the way the gravel presses into you.

You feel his breathing grow heavier as his hands move down to your shorts, shoving them off your hips and leaving them loose around your calves, completely disregarding your pitiful attempts at crawling away.

“Poor thing, been stuck in these the whole time? They fuckin’ reek, bonnie, no offense. That his piss or yours?”

You shake your head against the ground, face twisted up in acute humiliation. For some stupid reason you don’t want to even begin exploring, you find it necessary to whisper, “H-his.”

Soap hums, and you curse yourself inwardly when the humiliation is slightly alleviated.

“Get ‘em off her,” the white mask says, and you can’t help but jump at the sound of his voice. He’s sat on a large box only a few feet away, leaning back and relaxing, looking for all the world like he’s settled in for his favorite show. “Don’t want anythin’ of his touching her now.”

The sound Soap makes at that is animalistic, a snarl coming from deep in his chest that makes you flinch as he all but tears the shorts from your body. You wince at the wet splat of them landing several feet away.

You force your forehead into the gravel when your knees are forced wide, a rough hand and another pair of knees spreading you.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no…” you can’t help but beg, voice trembling. “Please- god, please don’t-”

“Fuck,” he moans over your shoulder. “Yeah, keep goin’, lass.”

You sob at the feeling of warm skin against your bared behind, his thick length slotting itself smoothly between the slightly spread lips of your pussy. Your eyes squeeze shut and it takes all your willpower not to keep begging.

He slides himself back and forth against you for a few long breaths, using online the slight slickness from a mixture of piss and blood to get some friction. But to your immense horror, it only takes a few moments for the sensual movement against your clit to have your body preparing itself.

The slight wetness at your hole might be a betrayal, but it’s not nearly enough to ease the way when he pushes inside of you with no warning.

You nearly scream, a high sound of pure panic and pain when it feels like you’re being split in two. Somewhere off in the distance, you hear someone laugh. Right above you, Soap groans.

He’s buried himself to the hilt inside you before the pain has had any time at all to fade, and he’s fucking into you hardly a second after that.

Every thrust forces a grunt from your throat, the entire weight of him slammed into your back each time his balls smack against your clit. Your face is twisted up in a grimace, your whole body racked with pain that your assaulter couldn’t care less about.

“Fuck, kitty. Yer squeezin’ me so good, such a good girl, shit-! Knew you’d be ti-tight as a vice, fuck, but didn’t know you’d be squeezin’ me so tight I can hardly move.”

Your whine is plaintive, his moan is filled with pleasure.

“Yer gettin’ so wet for me, bonnie. Ye like this, huh? Bet you like it just as much as I do, gettin’ thrown around and takin’ advantage of. That it, kitty? Ye like being forced?”

You sob and shake your head against the ground, crying all the more when sharp pebbles dig into your cheeks.

“Naw, I think ye do. Why else’d you be- fuck, squeezin’ me like that?” 

“Cause- because-” you try, but you can’t get the breath in to get more than a single word out.

“Huh? Cause- cause-?” Soap mocks, his voice pitching up to mimic you as he plants himself deep inside you, grinding his hips against the meat of your ass. “C’mon, kitty, tell me why. Go on.”

“Cause I want you to stop!” You cry, balled up fist slamming into the gravel. You can’t help but whine ow when the sharp rocks poke into your skin, and Soap’s laugh shakes your entire body.

“Good,” he whispers, breath hot against your ear. “Squirm all ye want, lass. I love it when you fight.”

You can do nothing but go limp beneath him as he begins fucking you again, his pace somehow faster and even more relentless. It’s a small mercy that there’s no fight left in you, that you can’t give him any more pleasure. 

It certainly doesn’t stop him, though. Despite the fact that you’re doing your best impression of a dead fish, Soap pants and moans against your shoulder like you’re the single best thing he’s ever slept with. His cock is painfully hard inside of you, and his pace never once slows.

He’s loud when he finally comes, the sound of his orgasm clear enough that you know he’s thrown his head back to the sky. You can only whimper as he rolls his hips against you, working the last spurts of cum out of his cock and into your unwilling body. 

“Fuck,” he sighs in your ear, sounding far more satisfied than he has any right to. “Good girl, kitty. You were perfect.”

You sniffle beneath him when he slowly pulls out, both of you groaning at the sensation. He gives you an almost perfunctory pat on the ass, and stands to walk away. You manage to open your eyes and focus just in time to see him slide to the ground in front of his partner, leaning against the wall.

“Yer turn,” he sighs. “Warmed her up good for you, Lt.”

Despite the hatred boiling in your gut, you can do nothing but lay limp on the ground and watch as his partner stands, cracking his neck and moving towards your prone form. 

You want to run, you want to fight, but you can only watch the executioner come closer and wait for the metaphorical axe to fall.

He crouches by your head first, grasping your chin and pulling up until your torso tries to follow to alleviate the tension. He stares deep into your eyes for a long moment, and you find that it’s impossible to even tell where his pupils are with no real lighting. You feel like you’re truly looking into the empty eye sockets of a skull, no man and no mercy to be found.

“You’ll call me Ghost when I fuck you,” he rumbles, thumb stroking over the scrapes on your cheek. He doesn’t wait for a response, simply hauls you up by the shoulder and turns you onto your back. 

He’s rough with your limbs as he shoves your legs together and up, his forearm banding across the backs of both of your knees and holding them to your chest. You whimper and wiggles as best you can, but the bruising blow against your thigh is enough to have you gasping and stilling.

“Don’t fight,” he warns, and you feel his gloved fingers running up the crack of you. “You’re hurtin’ enough as it is, and I’m not gonna help. You wanna make it worse too?”

You shake your head, unsure if he can even see you through your legs. He doesn’t respond, and hums when he swipes two fingers through the liquid gathered between your lips.

You whine when those fingers move further down, a fresh panic creeping in when he presses around your back hole.

“You should be glad Soap fucked you so good,” Ghost drawls. “He gave you all the lube you’re gonna get.”

You feel like an animal when you whine again, unsure of how to even begin trying to speak. You yelp when a thick finger slides into your hole, completely disregarding any resistance and forcing its way in until it’s buried to the knuckle. Your cries go ignored.

“Quit squirmin’,” Ghost scolds, pulling his finger out to smack your ass before shoving two back in. “You’re fine.”

You’re not, you’re terrified and hurting and upset, but none of those things matter when Ghost only coaxes more of your slick and Soap’s spend to your unused whole so there’s less resistance. 

The only blessing you have is the fact that you can’t see more than the outline of Ghost’s figure with the way he’s got you positioned. You try your best to close your eyes and float into disassociation, and while you can’t fully manage it, the fact that you can’t see his face - his mask - helps you distance yourself from what’s happening.

The moment you realize this is of course the moment it stops being true. 

He seems to decide you’re ready after scissoring three fingers inside of you, hefting himself up so that he looms more fully over you. You can only whine as you feel the movements of him unbuckling his belt, feel the weight of him slap against your slightly spread cheeks.

Fresh tears fall past your lashes as you stare up into the fathomless darkness that are Ghost’s eyes. There’s nothing there, just a cold empty skull prepared to ruin you.

You don’t even have the energy to beg.

The stretch of him inside your ass is five times worse than Soap was. There’s no natural lubrication, and nowhere near enough synthetic lube either. Your hole feels like it’s on fire, the stretch white hot as he gives you no mercy.

You’re not even fully sure what you’re babbling as he slowly sinks to the root, only aware of the pain and fear and panic sitting heavy in your heart. You fear you’ll choke on your tears, head jerking back and forth.

He sighs when he bottoms out, heavy barrel chest forcing your knees past your shoulders. Your hips strain, just another pain from the endless abuse.

“There,” he grunts, patting your thigh when you go limp from it all. “Stay nice and still now, just need a place to dump my cum.”

Upsettingly enough, that hurts. The idea that you could mean nothing to this man is somehow worse than the thought of him having some other twisted feelings for you, your hormone-addled mind deeply insulted. 

His thrusts are long and slow, each one pulling nearly completely out before slamming back in. The sound of your skin slapping together is embarrassingly sexual, and a distant part of you is aware enough to pray that no one nearby had heard your screams and cries.

Ghost is near silent as he fucks you, the opposite of Soap. You can only hear the occasional grunt when you squeeze him because he’s inches away from your face - you can even feel the occasional gusts of breath when his hips start working a little faster. 

There’s nothing you can do but lay limply beneath him and take it, just a vehicle for his pleasure. You almost manage to float away, to pretend none of this is happening or has ever happened, when his free hand moves from your thigh to the top of your cunt.

You nearly squeal when he rubs your clit, the smooth leath gliding over your slick bud. Your eyes fly wide open, back arching as much as you can with three hundred pounds of man holding you down. The loud laugh from several feet away only makes you writhe more.

“Make her squirt, Lt!” Soap shouts, his voice carefree.

“Shut it, Johnny,” Ghost grunts, voice roughened with pleasure. You don’t even have time to focus on the fact that he’s just told you Johnny’s name, far too preoccupied with the tidal wave of pleasure rushing towards you.

You have no idea why it happens. You’re never quick to come - almost every single partner of yours has complained about you taking so long to get off, it’s been an Issue in several relationships. 

So it makes absolutely no sense that after hardly a minute of rough circles against your clit, you’re clenching down on the cock in your ass and moaning loudly as your orgasm overtakes you.

The natural clench of your body only makes the pain worse, a sharp spike of it running up your cunt and making your moan shift into more pained sounds. Ghost only moans in tandem above you, his thrusts becoming slightly less even as he lets your orgasm coax out his own.

You sob when you feel his cum paint your insides.

Unlike Johnny, Ghost doesn’t pull out after he comes. He lets your legs fall limp on either side of him, just barely managing to catch them for you before you slam your ankles to the ground. He leans his torso over yours, elbows resting on either side of your shoulders while you do nothing but wait beneath him.

He’s sweat off some of the makeup. This close, you can see hints of pale skin in the sockets of the mask. There’s nothing to read in his eyes, but that flash of skin tells you he’s still a man.

You swallow, trying to work moisture back into your dry mouth, and whisper, “Will… will you let me go now?”

You know it’s more likely he’ll kill you. It’s what you can only imagine happened to all those bodies in the streets, what you know happens to tens of thousands of women every year. 

So it’s not a surprise when he doesn’t answer you verbally, instead covering your mouth with his palm and pinching your nose shut with his fingers. 

Your eyes flutter shut after a moment, lungs tightening already, and all you can hope is that suffocation is a quick death.

———————————————————————

You wake, gasping, in a dark room. 

You’re lurching forward before you’re even fully aware that you’re awake, coughing loudly and gasping when it feels like your throat is bleeding.

“Oh, poor thing,” you hear a familiar accented voice coo, and a moment later there’s a warm hand patting your back. “Yer alright, deep breaths.”

You jerk back from Soap - Johnny - as soon as your coughing is under control, scrambling back on your palms and staring at him with wide eyes. He only grins at you, looking for all the world like any other normal man in his sweater and sweatpants.

He got changed at some point - these pants are clean. He’s not wearing his mask either, and you’re struck dumb by how non threatening he manages to look.

He also changed your clothes - or Ghost did, maybe. You try to cover your chest with one hand, but there’s no hiding the fact that you’re completely naked. 

Johnny only laughs at your attempted modesty. “Been starin’ at them for hours, lass. Ye’ve got nothin’ to hide.”

That’s… horrifying, and does absolutely nothing to calm you down.

It’s then that Ghost rises from a chair, stepping forward and making you aware of his presence. “Calm down, Johnny. We don’t want her panickin’ this early.”

Soap fully pouts, tilting his head at you before glancing up at his partner. “I haven’t even done anythin’, Ghost. Was just sayin’ hi, tha’s all.”

Ghost snorts, gripping Johnny’s mohawk and tugging back until the other man sprawls back on his ass. “You know how you are, pup. Give your kitty some space.”

Johnny listens, crossing one leg beneath him and bending the other close to his chest, looking casual as can be. Meanwhile your heartbeat only gets faster, and you wince when you happen to lean too far one direction and feel a throbbing reminder of what these men did to you.

Ghost steps forward again, crouching just out of arm's reach. You realize he’s not wearing the same skull mask as before, but a balaclava with a printed skull pattern instead. His eye sockets are unpainted, and you’re shocked by how such little things make him look so much more human. 

“You can calm down. Long as you behave, nothin’ much worse’ll happen to you.”

You find yourself almost comically not-comforted by that, and can do nothing more than stare at him with wide eyes. 

“Where…” Your voice cracks, so you swallow and start again. “Where am I?”

It’s Johnny who speaks up. “Our place. We finally brought ye home with us, kitty.”

The world feels like it’s slowed around you, and your eyes drag from one kidnapper to the other. You have to swallow again to work any moisture into your bone-dry mouth.

“Is the Purge over?”

The creases at the corner of Ghost’s eyes are painfully obvious with how pale his skin is, and you shudder at the thought of him smiling.

“Been over for… what, five hours now? Somethin’ like that.”

You can’t fight the tremble in your voice now. “Then… then you have to let me go.”

Ghost’s head tilts, the creases get deeper. “Do I?”

You nod with as much conviction as you can - which is almost none. “You can’t keep me here. You’re breaking the law.”

Ghost leans closer on the balls of feet and you lean further back, your spine pressing into the wall behind you. “Are we now? And who do you think will stop us, pet?”

“The- the police. Someone will report me missing, they’ll come looking.”

“Oh? And you think they’ll come here?”

You nod as best you can, and jump when Ghost laughs. It’s low and quiet, only a few beats, but it’s like gasoline thrown on the small fire of panic in your mind.

“You have no idea where you even are, and you think they’ll find you? I hate to break it to you doll, but you’ll be lucky if they look for you for a week. You have any idea how many people go missin’ after the Purge?”

Your breath is quickening. “So that’s it? You’re just going to… going to keep me here, forever? What are you even going to do?”

His laugh is sharper, meaner this time. “We’re gonna do a whole lot more of what we did last night, pet. Keep you as a little cocksleeve, a pretty thing tucked in the basement just for our entertainment. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”

You manage to tear your eyes away to look at Soap and see that he’s nearly salivating, having inched closer and closer and shifted so he’s knelt behind Ghost. There’s a feral spark in his eyes that has every hair on your body standing straight up.

“Yeah, tha’s right. Don’t worry, lass, we’ll make sure yer never lonely. Might even stay the night with you, cuddle up in the winter. Bet ye could keep our cocks nice and toasty in the cold, huh? Gonna let us use ye as a little heater?”

“A heater, a mattress, a fleshlight… your future’s lookin’ bright, sweetheart,” Ghost drawls, mockery dripping heavily from the cruel words.

Your eyes dart back and forth between the two men and their predatory stares, your heart racing against your ribcage.

It’s not a conscious choice for you to launch yourself towards them, reaching out and clawing your sharp nails down Soap’s face with a feral scream that tears your throat to shreds. 

Even as Ghost throws you off and forces you to the ground, you vow to fight these men to the end. You’ll kill them both if you have to, leave them dead and wander however many miles it is back to your apartment.

Ghost only laughs when you shout this in his face, and you scream as you lunge forward, just managing to catch his masked chin between your teeth and bite.

With your fight instinct back in full force, you’re ready to make their lives hell.

#lumi im SORRY hand on the bible i could not tell you why this took me so long #it's pwp. it's pure smut. there is no justifiable reason for this taking a week #i literally have FOUR fucking docs of purge au's rn lmao like when i tell you i tried to write this SO MANY TIMES it was just not happening #ghoap x reader #bo writes #purge au #how do i tag this to get people to see it but not to get people complaining about dark fic to me #...i don't #oh well. special treat for you guys lol

[charliemwrites]

i cannot describe what keeper ghost is doing to me, i'm ready to sell all my belongings and leave my soft life to live in a crate for him

please charlie, tell me what happens when reader asks to go down on Simon but ONLY A LITTLE BIT and ONLY TO SEE IF SHE LIKES IT

Honestly same, I just wanna stop doing taxes and waking up before dawn 😭

But going down on Simon, you sayyyyyy?

You’ve been letting (demanding) Simon take care of you with his hands and mouth for weeks now. It’s your favorite pre-bedtime ritual in fact. You sleep like a rock after an orgasm or three and Simon always seems so enthusiastic to provide. (He is.)

That said, you haven’t reciprocated. Not on purpose, anyway. Sometimes while getting off on his thigh, yours will rub against his cock through his sweats. (A few times now, feeling it twitching and rock hard has been the thing to tip you over.) But mostly, intimate encounters have been one-sided and you-focused.

You’re not totally oblivious, you know he’s turned on by getting you off (which… took some time to wrap your head around but wasn’t entirely shocking either.) But again, he never pushes, suggests, asks, or even hints at wanting you to do anything. At most he’ll adjust himself and…. That’s it.

But now you want more. Simon is a private man - at least that’s the sense you get watching him interact with Johnny a couple times. It’s different with you though; he grants you liberties that you’re pretty sure would get anyone else very Murdered.

So, as is usual in your never-ending quest to stretch him to the limit, you pin him down on the couch one night, hands on his chest again. You’re sitting on him, the length of his powerful body stretched out over the cushions.

“What do you need, pretty? You want my mouth? My hands?” He asks.

You shake your head and wiggle down to perch on his thighs, palms in the hard planes of his stomach now.

“I wanna taste you,” you announce. “But don’t move. I might not like it.”

“‘Course,” he soothes, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Go ahead and explore. All yours, little one.”

You tug at his belt and zipper, nearly rip the button off his jeans. You make an annoyed noise when you struggle to get them off.

“Easy, easy,” he coos. “Let me help.”

You hmph as he sits up a bit, tilting his hips to slide them down his ass, leaving black boxers behind. He’s already tenting the fabric, a single tiny dark spot just under the elastic waistband. You bat his hands away, mumbling that you’ve got it now so move, tapping your fingers along the outline of it. It twitches beneath your touch, hot and hard.

You dip a hand in, knowing and not caring that your hands are cold. If it bothers him, Simon doesn’t show any sign. Not that you’re looking, either, it’s your playtime after all.

For a minute you just explore the shape and size it through fabric, admiring the shadow where the flared head disrupts the polyester. Then you tug the band down, eyes going moony when his cock springs up, already flushed and wet at the tip.

“Ooh it’s so big,” you murmur, talking to yourself. That Simon is there and might hear is just coincidence. “How the hell does that fit anywhere?”

You trace a fingertip along a prominent vein on the underside, following the curve. When you reach the head, a bean of precum wells up. And you have to taste it.

Simon lets out a little puff of air when you swipe your tongue over the head. Then another when dip the tip into his slit, wanting more.

“Tastes good,” you muse, pleasantly surprised.

He doesn’t respond, knows you’re not talking to him. You press your lips just under the head and hum, giggling when you feel it vibrate throughout his shaft. It feels… good. Fun. You’ve never gotten to just have your way with someone’s cock before, and never been close like this with Simon. Usually there are still plenty of layers of clothes between you too. The novelty is intoxicating.

You lick along the shaft, up and down. Little, tiny flicks of your tongue that are probably maddening. Occasionally, you tilt your head to apply gentle suction along the side, like how it flexes against your cheek.

Eventually, you make it back up to the head and rap your lips around it. Just that much feels like a lots, feels like you’re playing a dangerous game with your jaw. You won’t be taking much more than this. He’s thick.

And all the while, Simon’s little grunts and sighs and gasps are so much background noise, just like the show running forgotten on the TV. He doesn’t thrust into your mouth, or twitch, or reach for you. He never does. He just lets you have your fun in silence.

You lose track of time lavishing just the head of his cock with attention before pulling away, feeling almost sleepy from the meditative headspace you’ve fallen into.

“Mm that was fun,” you conclude. “I want to do it again sometime.”

You wander off to bed, the taste of his precum like honey lingering on your tongue.

#my writing #cod #asks #fanfiction #reader fic #thoughts™️ #kept pet ghost #keeper ghost #dark fic #love you lumi

[starteas]

Holden! 🌟

#lumi and the great big galaxy #i love this silly guy so much I really need to draw him more #one of my favorite characters to write when I was still working on the webcomic #latgbg #my art #artists on tumblr #starteas #oc #oc art #doodle #Holden #oc tag

[sipping-ambrosia-wine]

i wanted to weigh bad faith readings vs how clumsy the writing in Weapons Factory actually was to make people dislike luminara so much and. wow. she literally falls to her knees and despairs when she thinks barriss is dead.

#luminara unduli #luminara my beloved none of these bitches understand you 💚💚💚 #tcw #the clone wars #barriss offee #people really condemn her for being heartless and joke about how expendable barriss is to her #as though she wasnt entirely FLOORED by the idea of having lost her #all she knew was that barriss and ahsoka were ground zero of the explosion that took out the entire factory #like how on earth do you twist that against her? #dgmw the writing is pretty weird but the odds of them surviving were NOT great like come on #mine #they tried for anakin & ahsoka vs luminara & barriss for a hope vs pessimism comparison but then only show the drawback to facing reality #it wouldve been better if anakin had insisted they waste time searching the tunnels bc he KNOWS they got out in time #vs luminara overcoming her grief to push to search the center of the blast as thats objectively where theyre most likely to find them #and its actually a miracle on the master's pov when theyre found alive despite lumi's doubts but not where anakin wouldve had them looking #the padawan team ahsoka's trust wins out but barriss's perspective braces them for the worst #meanwhile luminara tackles not giving up and anakin DOESNT face the facts and luminara gives the wise words of needing to be able to let go

[quesadilla-day]

chi-lumi concept 🤠

#genshin impact #chilumi #lumine #childe tartagalia #childe tartaglia ajax #art #mine #this spawned a whole ass fanfic i'm almost done writing #🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️ #chi lumi my beloved

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

Ghost would just be the most insufferable ex boyfriend.

All cocky and smug and arrogant and still me you think about when you touch your pussy at night, love?

#simon ghost riley #toxic exbf! ghost #lumi writes

[lumienyx]

There is no escape, no solace from this sore immortal plight, Still I stand here—cold, unchanging—in the shadow of sun’s light.

finished the sketch & wrote a little something to go with it—read the rest on AO3 or below the cut ↓

—

The Shadow of Sun's Light

Astarion looks beautiful in the sun. 

Granted, he looks beautiful always. But there’s something a touch more special about that beauty now, such life and joy reflected on the planes of his face. There’s the glint in his eyes, the light playing on his skin, his hint of a smile as he stands there, under the sun’s rays—completely unharmed. He didn’t even notice the sun rise, too caught up in drinking your blood as you both waited to test the artifact you dug up from the deepest, darkest depths of that accursed plane.

Astarion must have felt the warmth, at some point past dawn. Drew away, panic flashing on his face for a split-second before he realized—

It worked.

He stands in the sun, hand in yours, remnant blood trickling from his bottom lip, an exact match for the blood of his eyes.

And he is beyond beautiful, like this. Godlike.  

And you hope to the gods you get this, with him, forever. A life under the sun and all the other stars. Spent together, in love and out of harm’s way.

But that is the future, something so infinitely far from this infinite moment you’ve found yourself in. Now—you simply gaze at him transfixed, and you can’t look away.

You never want to. 

Astarion basks in the rays of the sun, taking deep, unnecessary breaths—he always does so when he’s excited. When there’s no other release for the sheer amount of emotion pent up within him. He stands there and looks at you, with so much adoration and happiness in his eyes you physically feel it warm you, like a fireplace enveloping you in its heat. 

“Thank you,” Astarion says—whispers, his voice low and heavy with unshed tears, “my love, thank you.”

“We did this together,” you remind him, “I’m glad I could help—”

Astarion cuts you off with a kiss, lest—gods forbid—you fail to take all the credit for the effort. 

You let him, drawing him closer into a tight embrace, his closeness intoxicating. His skin is, as ever, cool and comforting against yours. He seems intent to kiss the life out of you, and you would allow it without a second thought. You melt into it, mirroring the motions of his mouth, feeling the salty tinge of your own blood as he drinks deep from you, now, in a completely different way. Empties you of all worrisome and troubling thoughts, leaving only pleasure tingling along your body.

You draw away for one of those pesky breaths you need to take, your eyes opening a fraction to see the almost melodic interplay of shadow and light on Astarion’s face. As you lean in back for more, infinitely more, you’re reminded of the engraving in the artifact, once belonging to some mythical vampire ages past. 

It was a simple-looking yet intricately enchanted sunstone meant to be ingrained right into the skin to give its bearer immunity against any damage from any kind of light. The previous owner’s message was simple, melancholy and hopeful in equal measure:

There is no escape, no solace from this sore immortal plight,

Still I stand here—cold, unchanging—in the shadow of sun’s light.

—

thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed it❤️

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion ancunin #fanart #ficlet #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #lumi arts #lumi writes

[lumi-essence]

Our Trauma

You and I were born ready to die

Being born in war does that

We grew up hearing about the war and seeing the aftermath

The adults see the aftermath and their own trauma

But they don’t see our trauma

Our trauma leaves us waiting for the reaper to come for what’s left of our family

Our trauma leaves us aching for the family we’ll never know

Our trauma is only recognized by others like us 

Trauma is different but our trauma leaves us wishing it wasn’t 

Our trauma is invalidated or over explained

Overlooked but never identified

#lumi writes #sad poem #poetry

[inahandful-of-dust]

“Blood” for the WIP game!

(Send me a word, if it’s in my wip document I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in)

From the newest (does is still count when it has been not-finished for some months?) chapter of O wandering folk, the summons heed

Brothers, they had said they were, and no one had yet understood if it was by blood or by choice.

Thank you so much for asking!

#lumi answers #inspired by the awau #aw au #accidental warlord au #owftsh #o wandering folk #my fic #lumi writes

[ohbo-ohno]

Please please bo sort a girl out with Ghoap x Reader in an abandoned farm 🤪🤪

1k game here - no more please!

@luminousbeings-crudematter my beloved!!! idk if tumblr gives you a notif when i post an ask you sent so im tagging you just in case lol. also you said "unhinged texas chainsaw massacre" and i tried my best but i've never seen that movie :')

3.8k of ghoap x reader ft. ghost and soap hunting down their newest pet in a corn maze (cw: rough noncon sex, kinda puppy play? super light) this is mostly soap x reader, sorry!!

The collar is heavy around your neck, making every breath difficult as you pant. Your lungs seize in your chest when you stumble through the corn maze, desperate for any light at the end of the tunnel.

It doesn't come, but you push on anyways.

The corn is rough against your arms and legs, your body vulnerable to the rough stalks with so many tears in your clothes. Everything hurts - your feet from the rough ground, your throat from all the screaming, your stomach from pure fear and adrenaline. You're too blinded from terror to focus on any of that, the only thought in your head to go go go go get away.

The roar of a chainsaw is loud somewhere to your right. You nearly fall to your knees at the sound, windmilling your eyes to keep yourself steady. A loud, manic laugh echoes from the same direction, and your legs nearly give out.

Fuck, he's right there.

You can't think about how close the sound is, can't focus on how you swear you can see the corn moving, you can only run.

The stalks split in front of you, and you stumble into a clearing. You freeze, feet stopped right on the border of the new area. You bounce onto your toes, like you'd been tugged to a stop before exposing yourself.

The clearing is empty accept for an old tractor, sitting in the center of the grass. It's just a large enough circle that you'd be exposed for several seconds if you tried to reach it, totally clear if anyone was in the stalks.

But... you could hide there, couldn't you? The machine looks massive from your vantage point, there's surely a place to hide there.

It feels cruel to leave your fellow victims to the killers hunting them down, but you know that you have to try and save yourself before trying to help someone else.

You take a deep breath as you sink back to your heels, crouching a little lower in the corn to see if you can spot any movement around the perimeter.

The chainsaw revs again, and someone screams.

Your decision is made for you. The sound of death sends you forward, instinct making you move.

The dirt is rough beneath your feet, small rocks sticking into the soft parts of your sole and offsetting your run. You try your best to keep your balance, eyes trained on the tractor and the small space you know you can squeeze in.

It's silent but for the sound of your own panting, blood rushing through your ears, nothing but that perceived safety in your mind.

Just as you start to ready your legs to launch yourself up to the seat, legs tensing, you're shoved away. Your breath is forced from your lungs as you hit the ground, dirt and rocks shoved into your arms as you roll.

"Ah!" You cry out, forced to your stomach as you roll. It takes a minute to recognize what's happened, for it to click in your mind that someone's there.

It's too late by the time you realize.

You still try to get away, some animal part of you knowing that it's dangerous to stay down.

You manage to get to your knees, eyes darting wildly to spot whoever's tackled you, to know what direction to run. But the field is empty, and you're already moving before you think to look behind you.

It costs you, because you hardly get a step away before you're shoved to the ground again, your attacker staying over your body.

"Where you goin'?" The man rumbles in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and lips against your ear. He nips the shell of your ear and your eyes fly open, face shoved into the dirt.

Hardly a foot away, a chainsaw rests in the dirt. Blood drenches the blade, slowly dripping into a puddle beneath the weapon. It makes you whimper, trying to squirm away from the killer above you.

"No, no, no," he purrs, nosing his way to your cheek and just leaning there, pressing his smile into your skin, his voice rumbling through your back. "Down, pup, c'mon, you're caught. No point in runnin'."

"Please-" you gasp, neck arching to try and get away. "Please, please, please-"

He makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. "Please, please, please?" His voice pitches up in a mocking tone, a horrible imitation of yours. "You a broken record, lass? Only wanna say the same thing? Come on, tha's no fun, gimme something new."

You shout, the sound caught somewhere between a cough and a sob, hands stretching forward and clawing at the earth. "Please!"

He truly laughs now, a sharp noise in your ear. He stretches himself up above you, chest lifting and hips pushing into yours so that your legs are pinned. All you can do it try to drag yourself forward, hot tears beginning to fall as you're held down in the same place.

"Guess it does sound good from your lips," he muses. He shifts behind you, knees squeezing to either side of your hips and hands reaching so he can grab your elbows.

"Look'it you," he tsks, bending forward to lace your hands together. You cry out at the feeling of being covered, his chest above your head. "Ruinin' your pretty nails, and for what?"

Your head drops to the ground, sobs tearing your throat to shreds as spit falls from your lips. You feel bile working in your stomach, that horrible tension beneath your tongue like you're about to throw up.

"I can't-" you gasp, panic clawing at your mind. You know this man is going to kill you, that he's going to make it hurt, and every part of you rebels at just the thoughts. You can't stop fighting, can't stop trying to get away from him even with the weight holding you down.

"Can't what?" He hums, shifting to kneel above you so that he's not nearly suffocating you. "Can't go anywhere? Naw, bonnie, you're not goin' anywhere now. Caught you fair and square, didn't I?"

There's a part of you that screams to try and argue, to take a deep breath and settle to see if you can make some sort of deal, but the bigger part of you can't calm down, can't do anything but try and shove yourself out from the maniac above you.

"Plus, if I let you go runnin' off you might get caught by Simon." His arms settle on your shoulders and you can't help but yelp, ducking your head low to try and protect your neck. "Then I'd lose. You want that? Thought we were closer than that, lass."

You sob, teeth clenched tight. You don't fucking know the man, you don't know whoever Simon is, you just want to go home.

"That's what I thought," he hums. "Now," he pushes up, and your arms and torso are free as he settles back to rest his weight on your thighs. "I think you and I have some time to play, hm? Before Simon catches us both."

You don't- you don't know what he means, and it's hard to breathe past the fear. It clicks when his hands move to your hips, gripping them tightly.

"Wait," you gasp, eyes flying wide when his fingers creep beneath the hem of your jeans. "Wait, stop-"

"Oh, look at that," he laughs, hands shoving further down until his palms wrap around your thighs. "Learned some new words, baby?"

Your eyes squeeze as your feet kick against the dirt, unable to find any traction without shoes. Scrabbling so frantically only to stay right where you're pinned only serves to work you up more, to make your heart race faster.

"You're warm," he hums, kneading at your thighs and using his wrists to force the pants down, slowly revealing more and more of your skin to the cold night air. "Gonna warm me up, lass?"

"No," you hiss, the realization of what he's going to do sinking in. Your pants are pulled down to mid thigh, keeping your thighs from spreading and leaving your backside on display. "Stop- I'll- don't you dare-"

He laughs again, landing a harsh smack to your vulnerable ass. You cut your begging off with a yelp, hips rocketing into the ground to try and escape the sting when he lands another slap.

"You tryin' to boss me around? Real cute, pup, but you don't have a leg to stand on. Stuck pinned in the dirt and still tryin' to be in charge?" He laughs again, blows shifting from slaps to taps, jiggling the fat of your ass. "Cute, bonnie. Real cute."

You fold an arm beneath your face, try to use the other to force yourself up. "Stop fucking- stop hitting me, you bastard!"

"Oh!" He cackles, his lap slap almost bruising in it's force. "She's got some spine, huh? Maybe you'll be more fun than I thought."

You snarl into the dirt, legs kicking up behind you to try and hit his back. He's too high up on your thighs o reach, and you end up kicking the air like a toddler throwing a tantrum. It only fuels your anger, makes you feel more stuck.

"Keep fightin', bonnie." He presses himself closer to your face, and you catch a glimpse of sharp teeth from your peripheral, his smile sharp. "Makes it more fun for me. Think you'll tighten up if you kick kickin' and screamin'?"

You scream, a primal sound straight from the gut as you throw your head back and to the side, trying to hit him. You somehow manage it, but you hurt yourself just as much. You cry out at the sudden pain in the back of your skull, crumbling back to the ground.

There's a loud moan over your shoulder, and his hips press into yours. He's hard to your horror, his length pressing against the softness of your ass. "Fuck, that felt good."

God, the man is disturbed.

Your attempted attack doesn't stop him from hooking his fingers in your underwear, tugging them down to rest in the crease where your thighs meet your ass.

"Pretty," he purrs, hands stroking from your rips to your jeans, hands pushing hard enough to make you whine. His treatment is all too rough, like he's trying to mold you into the shape he wants. "Can't wait to get my dick in you," he groans, groping you.

"Nooo," you whine, trying to push yourself into the dirt, like it might open you up and swallow you whole, help you escape the horror you can't do anything to stop. "You can't- you can't fuck me, please, don't-"

He moans again, and you hear the clinking of a belt being undone. "Fuck, say it again for me."

Your eyes squeeze shut. You want to be anywhere else, anywhere but here.

You feel the heat of his cock against your ass, and tears sting in your eyes. You taste dirt against your lips, feel your palms sluggishly bleed from the scrapes against the rough ground. You try to focus on everything but what the killer's doing to you, but's impossible

His palm cups your center, fingers wrapping around your vulva and holding firmly. You flinch when his middle finger works between your folds, coming to rest on your clit.

"Need to get you wet," he mumbles, starting to work at the nub to coax some pleasure out of your body. "Simon wouldn't like it if I made you bleed." He snorts, then corrects, "Well, bleeding down there. Won't be shocked if he wants to carve you up a bit."

You shiver, focused too much on staying stiff and keeping your mind as far away as possible to put off the inevitable. What he says doesn't even properly click in your mind, floating in one ear and out the other.

"There we go," he purrs, palm growing slick as your body warms to him unwillingly. He grunts as he shifts to use both hands, one focusing on your clit and the other coming back to tease at your hole.

Two fingers slip in without warning and you yelp at the sudden stretch, hips bucking back instinctively and forcing the fingers further. Your moan is pulled from your chest, part pleasure and part pain.

"You want more lass? Here, don't mind stretching you out."

The third finger comes too soon, too suddenly, and the sting edges too close to pain for you to feel good, even unwillingly.

He's got no patience at all, fingers spreading inside of you while his thumb works furiously at your clit. The mix of good and bad leaves your head clouded, tears slowing as your mind starts to float away a bit.

He moans against your back, face pressed into your shoulder. "Feel so tight, bonnie. Can't wait til you're wrapped around me, wet and tight... fuck, can't wait much longer..."

His teeth press into you throw the fabric of your shirt, the bite only slightly blunted. You breath stutters out of your chest, lips shaking. You want to fight, tell yourself that you should bite and claw and scream, but he's already proven to you that he'd only enjoy that. All you can do is lie in the dirt, lamp and shaking.

Despite all your fear and your hatred for the man over you, you wish he'd stretched you out more.

"Gotta get inside of ya," he grunts, tugging his fingers out with a terribly wet sound. You can hear him sucking your wetness off of them as he shifts further up, letting his hard length rest between your thighs. "Don't... God, you taste good, don't wanna stretch you out too much. You get it, yeah bonnie?"

You whine forlornly, turning your head to the side. You can see him over your shoulder - tall and broad, brown hair in a... mohawk?, bright teeth shown off in a smile. He ducks down while he fists his cock, dipping himself into your wetness.

Wet lips press a kiss to your cheek, a trail of that wetness left against your face. When he pulls back you see the blood dripping from his nose, sniffle at the realization that he's left his own blood over your face.

"Look pretty in red," he whispers, tone oddly soft. It tugs another tear out of you, dripping down the bridge of your nose. His free hand comes up to your face, running a finger through the tear track and sucking the drop off his fingertip. "Taste good everywhere, love."

Your eyes close when he notches himself at your hole, pressing in just enough for you to feel the stretch. He's massive, and the prospect of him shoving himself fully inside of you... you shudder, trying to loosen yourself as much as you can.

He's not kind when he pushes in. You're not sure why you hoped he would be, not with the blood-soaked chainsaw still in your line of sight. But the sudden fullness, the sting, the stretch, draws a high cry from your lips.

His groan nearly drowns out your sounds, your walls spasming around him to try and adjust. You hate that it feels so good for him when you feel like you can hardly breathe around him.

"Feels so good," he moans, words hardly enunciated, thick accent only thickened by his pleasure. You can hardly understand him, far too upset to bother translating him in your head.

"Can't-" he pants, hips jerking out just a few inches only to buck back into yours, pushing as far inside as he can. "Can't come, but can get you off, yeah?"

There's a part of you that's confused by that, that wonders what the fuck he's talking about, but a much larger part of you is focused on the slow drag inside of you.

It would feel better if you were a little wetter, a little more stretched out, but you can't change those things. You relax, try to force your body to cooperate just to make things easier. You try to lean into the parts that do feel good - the way his cock drags against all the most sensitive parts of you, the slap of his balls against your clit - and sink into that pleasant feeling instead of the adrenaline still lingering in your veins.

He doesn't speak when he fucks into you, forehead pressed into your shoulder blade as he starts to drive you truly insane. It starts feeling good quickly enough for you to forget the pain, the horror, and you gladly fall into the oblivion creeping over your mind.

It's good, as horrible as it is to think. The bastard knows what he's doing.

It's some indeterminate amount of time later when you hear the stalks shifting again, eyes flying open just in time to see a man step into the clearing.

The man over you moans when the stranger gets closer, turning his head to the side. His hips buck into you even more roughly, your thighs beginning to ache from the force.

"Simon," he calls out, and it clicks in your head.

The new man is masked and wearing all black, and you recognize him as the other killer hunting you through the maze. His mask is just as terrifying from close up as it was when you first glanced over your shoulder while running, the sight of him in the distance almost floating while surrounded by shadows.

"Bein' good, Johnny?" He rumbles, boots stopping next to the chainsaw and toeing it away.

"Yes, sir," the man over you - Johnny - grunts, thrusts erratic. "Left-left the ring on, haven't come, promise."

There's a hum from above you, the man crouching down. "Good boy. Woulda had to ruin your fun if you got yourself off."

He whines at that, and you can't help but furrow your eyebrows. The man above you going from cocky and terrifying asshole to whining and moaning above you doesn't fit with the image you'd had in your head.

"I ken. 'S why I didn't take it off, ye bawbag." Johnny's voice shakes a bit as he switches to grinding against you, hips pressed flush with yours. The sudden pressure against your clit and so deep inside of you leaves you moaning, eyes rolling back. The peak of an orgasm is right there, just out of reach, and you reach for it desperately.

"Watch it," Simon scolds, shifting forward to his knees and reaching far enough to slap Johnny, the sound echoing through the silent clearing. Your eyes fly open, instinctually flinching away.

Simon's head tilts down to you, ignoring Johnny's whine. His gloved hand comes down to rest on your face, gripping your chin and lifting enough to get a good look at your face.

"Pretty thing," he says, giving your face a little shake before letting you drop to the ground. You can't even begin to care so close to the edge, focus solely on getting off

"'S what I said."

"Hmm. Why don't you go ahead and get the poor pup off? Looks like she's cockdrunk enough as is, might as well get her the whole way there before we take her home."

"With pleasure, sir."

It's hard to focus after that point. Johnny's hand tunnels beneath your stomach and to your clit, working his hips in full thrusts and rubbing you so perfectly. It takes hardly any time at all to get you off, the perfect mix of sensations sending you flying over that edge.

You're not sure what happens between the time when you come and when Johnny pulls out. Your vision nearly whites out, moving away from the scrapes and bruises and into the pleasure gripping every muscle. It's so much easier to lean into the good than the bad, to pretend the warmth is just the pleasure instead of the man at your back.

You're brought back into the real world by the feeling of something being wrapped around your neck, left just tight enough for you to jerk, panicked you couldn't breathe.

"Hush, pup," Simon shushes when you jerk up, eyes flying wide. "Just givin' you your collar. Makin' sure anyone who spots you can take you right home, hm?"

Johnny tugs you up as Simon speaks, grip just a tad too rough on your shoulders when he pulls you up to your knees. You're still a bit out of it as he tucks your jeans and underwear up, dick hard and slick against the small of your back.

The fear comes back as you're brought to your feet by Simon, hands on your elbows tugging you up. You're unsteady on your feet, knees almost knocking together while you blearily blink up at the masked man.

The sound of metal clinking together, a small yank against your neck, is what brings you fully back into your skin. Simon clips a leash to your collar and then Johnny's, matching pink and blue leads that make your eyebrows furrow.

Johnny - shirtless, drenched in blood - smiles at you, teeth stained with his own blood.

"Come on," Simon rumbles, a sudden tug against your throat nearly sending you to your feet. "Need to get you home, pup."

Johnny catches you before you can fall, laughing as he helps you up. The sight of a black studded collar at his throat jars you, fingers lifting to feel at the fabric around your throat. It's not studded, just a soft leather with a thick ring at the front where the leash connects.

"Looks good on you," Johnny compliments, guiding you to stumble along behind Simon as the man leads you both away, into one of the entrances to the maze.

"What..." your throat is rough and you cough, heartbeat picking up. "What're you doing?"

Johnny's smile is a little condescending, almost herding you forward by staying half behind you. "Takin' you home, lass. You're the last one alive. You make a pretty final girl, bonnie."

There's a sharp yank at your collar, tugging your attention to Simon where he's glancing over his shoulder at you. "Think you'll make a good pup. Johnny's been needing a new little friend, might as well be you, hm?"

There's.... nothing really to say to that. You're too weak, too shaky to try and make a run for it. The blue leash is held loose in Simon's hand, but the pink is wrapped tight around his fist. There's no way you're strong enough to jerk it out of his hand, and even if you could you've got no way out of the maze - they already found you first.

Johnny's hand nudges you forward, almost making you fall. He moves to walk beside you, shoulders almost rubbing together. You think the expression he shoots you is supposed to be comforting, but it's anything but.

You breathe deeply, head beginning to throb again, and hope you have the strength to survive what they'll do to you.

#so sorry lumi i feel like this is repetitive and not that well written :( hope you enjoy regardless <3 #by the way... my attempt at johnny's accent.... it happened #luminousbeings-crudematter #< aka the loml #bo writes #1k celebration #ghoap x reader

[xlmibby]

just thought about lumine saying something like "who cares about peeling oranges? (i want to bare your heart and see the darkest parts of your soul. i want to unravel the bits of yourself, one by one, and strip away all of the facades you've been hiding behind all those years.) i want to see you, xiao. the most honest and raw version of you, no matter how ugly and wretched you think it is. and i want you to let me love you." to xiao

#xiaolumi #genshin impact #writing #xiao x lumine #xiao #lumine #that's a very long and very dramatic way to tell someone you love them #lumi would say it in that very soft voice too like dhkdhd she's my angel #(don't mind me being an overly poetic hopeless romantic when it comes to them - i think my brain is fried and malfunctioning)

[illumiera]

you know when you read or watch something really really really really good and you can feel the physical weight of it sitting in your chest like it's slotted into a part of You™ now? yeah

#mary oliver's poetry. juliet marillier books. the winternight trilogy. everything everywhere all at once. lotr. now the boy and the heron. #i would like to write something that has that effect on someone someday #lollygagging with lumi