Asleep;

asleep;

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x gn!reader

word count: 378

warning: fluff

note: never played the game. dont know jack shit. i just have tall people wearing masks kink.

summary: your housemate ghost fell asleep on the sofa with paint on his face and you help.

You went home to silent snoring coming from the sofa. It was your 6’3 housemate Simon Riley, curled up against his duffel bag, recently arrived home from whatever job he has.

Sometimes he’d be missing for weeks, sometimes months, and one time it was a year and a half. Three months into that year and a half absence, an extremely handsome man came knocking on your front door and hands you an envelope full of cash, saying “He said this is for rent.” before just walking away.

The man was full of mysteries, telling you funny stories about his unnamed friends when he got tipsy, having random knives on him when you needed something to be cut, scoffing at the TV when they have bad trigger discipline in movies and tv shows.

But at this very moment, he looks like an ordinary man. An ordinary man with ordinary black paint around his eyes. You know, normal people stuff.

You went upstairs and quickly grabbed your makeup remover, cottonballs, and a couple cotton swabs. You debated whether micellar water would be better, but whatever it is around his eyes seemed industrial strength.

It was a miracle that he didn’t wake up at all. Only swatting your hands away once or twice, muttering “Fuck off, Soap.”

Admiring your clean and stealthy work, you smiled to yourself and wonder what else you can get away with while he’s knocked the fuck out on the couch.

You brought down your whole tray of face products. It’s a sin to skip washing his face entirely, but you feel this is the micellar water’s turn to shine. So you start there.

—

You got startled awake the next day, someone had shoved you in your sleep. The first thing you saw was Simon Riley looming over your bed, his large body preventing sunlight from hitting your face and your whole upperbody.

“Why the fuck does my face feel nice.”

What.

Blinking sleep away from your eyes for a couple seconds as you stared at his face, you can tell he was miffed. But there’s also something else there that you can’t place.

“If it feels nice then why did you wake me up?” You squinted at him.

“Because I want it to keep feeling nice.”

† church boy

[ sfw | tw : religion (not named but heavily implied), sacrilege, potential religious trauma? as well as general yandere content but it’s v tame ]

male yandere x gender neutral reader! only pronoun used for reader is ‘you’. i havent written like this in a very long time so i apologize if this is bad ;_;

abraham lived a simple life for the majority of his 21 years on this planet. he was born and raised in a religious household, the only son of a wealthy pastor, surrounded by typical bible-thumping folk who taught him that *** was above everything, above him, above the things he loved, and putting anything (or anyone) above his faith would surely result in his damnation. and his whole life, he believed that.

that was… until you entered his life.

it happened at a fundraiser he was volunteering at. it was any other day for the boy, handing out advertisements and chatting with everyone that came and went. an average, mundane event for him where he’d talk about the same things he did every day, smile, wave, everything that was expected of him.

after the last person in his line had left, he looked down to begin organizing his things so he could join the rest of the party. when he was shadowed by someone stepping in front of him again, he expected to see a familiar face — maybe someone that might’ve forgotten something? but when he looked up…

abraham’s breath caught in his throat. he swore the earth had stopped spinning the second your eyes locked.

whether if you were there because you shared the same religion, was dragged there by a friend/family member, or simply because there was free food, he had no clue - but it didn't matter. your looks, the way you moved, the sound of your voice — why was it all so... enchanting?

he couldn’t help the slight stutter in his words as he hastily offered you a pamphlet, quickly introducing himself and inquiring about you. what was your name? were you new to the church? why haven’t you met before?

the soft laugh you emitted as you spoke and the feeling of your skin grazing his felt like fire. and your name... oh, the poor boy didn’t even realize it, but he couldn’t help it — within moments of knowing you, he had grown totally enamored!

abraham found himself hovering by your side for the rest of the event. he was awkward, you’d quickly realize, but it was in that sort of sweet, inexperienced way. he was desperate to know you, to get closer to you, hoping that maybe if he could understand you, he’d figure out how to quell these intense feelings that had built within him — but to you and everyone else, he was simply making sure a new face wasn’t alone during the event. he was just being a good little pastor’s boy! that’s what he told himself too, over and over again.

he was being good by making you laugh. he was being good by giving you his number. and it was good that he grew elated by the idea of getting to see you again after this. he was a good person, so what if he was neglecting his duties to be around you? he did what he was supposed to all the time, surely he could be forgiven just this once.

right?

his obsession with you didn’t take long to blossom after that first meeting. you started to infiltrate every part of his life in one way or another. his prayers became tangled up with thoughts of you. rather than reading the bible, he’d reread the texts between the two of you while he waited for you to respond to them. when he went to church, he found himself scanning the pews in hopes of spotting you among the congregation rather than finding a seat right away. when service began, he couldn’t focus on the preaching taking place because he was too busy thinking of ways to see you again.

despite the utter adoration abraham had grown to feel for you.. at some point, for the first time in his life, he couldn’t help but wonder — was he becoming sinful? was he growing gluttonous for your attention? he couldn’t have been, he had been so devout his entire life! it was fine for him to miss a few services to see you as long as he made up for it later…

he couldn’t tell if you were an angel, as heaven-sent as he felt you to be, or if you were the embodiment of temptation, pulling him away from his faith and beckoning him to sin. were you both? could you be both? with the progression of his obsession with you, his conflicted feelings about his relationship with his faith grew alongside it.

maybe you just weren’t any good for him.

but your name and god seemed to always come up at the same time…

so maybe, it was a sign that he had someone new to worship.

SICK AND TIRED ➸ F. CASTLE

Summary: After being taken by Frank’s enemies, you struggle to adjust to the new normal.

Warnings: ATTEMPTED S**CIDE, ov*rdose, PTSD, mentions of the trauma, nightmares, panic attack, hurt/comfort, feminine nicknames. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION.

Word count: 2.7k

Author’s note: If the warnings trigger you, I urge you to sit this one out!! You don’t deserve to feel any worse. That said, if you’re like me and need a Frank this week, he’s rooting for you and holding your hand through whatever it is you’re dealing with right now. I can’t promise it’ll get any better soon, but I do know you’ve made it through all your bad days thus far. Sometimes taking it day by day is too difficult and you gotta take it hour by hour or minute by minute, and that’s perfectly fine too. Much love <3

(Also, I combined a few requests for this.)

The cool water trickling out of the showerhead above you made you hiss and grit your teeth together, but despite the angry expression, full tears trailed along the edges of your nose. The droplets singed your skin as they ran across the colorful bruises and shallow cuts littering your limbs, and you couldn’t stop from pulling equally empty breaths while bringing your shaky hands up to your body to wash away the grime and blood painting you in ugly hues.

Frank was seated on the toilet, eyes glued to you and his face contorted in a hurt frown which only mixed with the pure rage soaring through his system. He knew he had already made everyone responsible pay — in fact, he had gone above and beyond, disfigured each of their faces and made sure they had felt his pain before taking their last breath. Still, it didn’t feel like enough. If he had had the power to bring them back to life only to take it away again, he would have. He would have done anything for you.

That was why he had offered to help you wash up, too, hovering over you after carrying you home. You could tell he was hesitant to touch you, needing the closeness but not wanting to hurt you any further. You had insisted you needed the control of doing something for yourself, so you had gotten in the shower by yourself, but with your permission, Frank had sat down on the toilet to just be with you, whatever you wanted that to mean.

He couldn’t fight the bitter tears, either, his heart caving in on itself as he watched you cry and tremble in an attempt to clean yourself from what they had done to you. It could have been much worse, he knew that, but seeing just a single bruise on your skin made him sick to his stomach and sent him into a spiral of guilt and anger.

When you were done, Frank was up in a blink of an eye to grab your towel and help you wrap yourself in the soft material. You winced at the contact, but when Frank tried to pull back, you reached for his hand in a desperate squeeze.

”Don’t leave me”, you pleaded, sounding weaker than you had expected, and it did everything to convince Frank to inch in closer.

”I gotchu, sweetheart. I ain’t goin’ anywhere, I swear”, he whispered, leaning down to kiss your forehead, holding your hand in his.

And he stood by that. Stood by you. When you spent the upcoming night sobbing in bed, he soothed and shushed you, rubbing circles on your back while simply holding you and allowing you to get it all out. You didn’t feel safe outside of his arms, and he had no problem keeping you in a warm embrace for as long as you wanted him to, his tight grip reminding you he was there and you were home.

It quickly dawned on the two of you that while you were no longer being tortured in a dark cellar, taunted by your captors that Frank would never find you, the worst was not over yet.

On the third night back home, you had your first nightmare, and Frank found himself talking you out of a panic attack at four in the morning. It wasn’t your first time dealing with it, but it was the worst you had had in a while, leaving you paralyzed and breathless on the bathroom floor where he held your face in his hands and tried to remind you how to keep the air flowing through you.

The nightmares became a habit, then, and when they did, Frank began to suspect you were dealing with the same thing he was.

”Hey, ’m here”, his gruff voice pushed through the fog in your mind, making it hard to realize you weren’t tied up God knows where — you were home, in bed, with the man who you loved and who loved you. ”Sweetheart, you’re with me, yeah? Feel that? ’M all real”, he continued, gently reaching for your hand so he could place it on his bare chest. You were both sitting up, tangled in the sheets that felt all too hot and consuming, suffocating you slowly but surely. Frank noticed, drawing the covers away from you and placing his free hand on your thigh.

”I got you, hey, hey, shh… You’re okay, baby. It ain’t real, I promise. Just your head playin’ tricks on you, sweet girl”, he went on, and nodding to confirm his words, you clung onto his neck and tried to slow your breathing.

”I was… they—they were trying to…”, you stammered, not even sure how to put the horrifying nightmare into words, but he understood. He always understood.

”I know, sweetheart, I know. But they ain’t gon’ hurt you again. ’Member? I made sure of that”, he reminded, and managing another nod, you licked your lips and rested your head against his chest.

”Frank, I’m so tired”, you cried out, your eyes weary but your mind unwilling to go to sleep, and knowing exactly the feeling, he sighed and wrapped an arm around your shaking body.

”Wish I could take ’em away from you. Y’know I would”, he whispered, trying to keep his voice soft even if he was furious that the assholes that did this to you had gotten off so easy. Death could be merciful, at times, and he suspected you were beginning to realize that after two weeks of no sleep.

Clearing his throat, he tilted his head down to look at you. ”How ’bout we head to the diner and get you somethin’ to eat? Yeah? Get your mind off of it?” he suggested, and with a drowsy smile, you thanked him.

There was no doubt you quickly became regulars of the diner around the corner.

If only your pain had been limited to the nightmares. Instead, every time Frank reached to touch you, you flinched. Every time there was a sudden sound in or outside of the apartment you were now huddled up in, you jumped. Whenever there was actually a need to go outside, you avoided it as best as you could, only agreeing to leave if Frank was by your side the whole time. It became harder and harder to trust anyone except him, and even harder to keep your mind off of what happened. It was like your whole worldview had been tilted on its axis and you felt like you were slowly losing your mind.

It wasn’t like it was all bad. Some days you laughed, some days Frank treated you extra special, and he never faltered from his place of support and love for you. He was patient, even more than you had expected him to be. But the matter of the reality was, you no longer had good days. Or if you did, then the bar for having one was much lower than everyone else’s. To you, a good day was managing to get out of bed and not throw in the towel. A good day was only a few flashbacks, only a few nightmares, only a few intrusive memories.

And eventually, you figured it was becoming too much. You were becoming too much.

”Hey, can I… can I talk to you about something?” you asked quietly, approaching Frank on the couch where he was seated with a bottle of beer and a football game on TV. As soon as the words had left your mouth, though, his focus was all on you, the volume of the television turned down and the bottle placed on the coffee table.

”’Course, baby. C’mere”, he gestured at the free space next to him, and with an awkward fiddle of your hands, you moved to sit there with your body angled towards him.

”I just… I thought I should, uh, give you an out. You know, you didn’t… you didn’t sign up for this. And I feel like a burden—you don’t have to tell me I’m not. I know I am. I’m not the same woman I used to be and you may have been in love with her but if you’re not in love with… whoever I am now, that’s okay”, you explained, choking up but rushing to wipe away the tears. The last thing you wanted was for Frank to stay with you out of pity.

He stared at you for a while, silent and clearly surprised by what you had come to him with. But when he finally seemed to process what you had actually said, he chuckled quietly and shook his head.

”Darlin’…”, he mumbled, a sad look in his eyes as he looked up at you. ”Fuckin’ kills me you think that way ’bout yourself. Hey, I goddamn adore you. I always have and I always will. I ain’t gonna walk away just because things got a little tough. Hell, I’ve made shit tough this whole time. And if anything, it’s my fault—”, Frank started, but you cut him off before he could blame himself any further.

”It’s not your fault. It’s not. It’s those… assholes that we should blame. I don’t blame you, Frank, I swear”, you insisted, and he nodded in a quick response.

”I know you don’t. But I still do. If it wasn’t for me, none of that shit woulda happened”, he emphasized, licking his lips before exhaling and reaching for your hand. ”You mean everythin’ to me, baby. Ain’t nothin’ gon’ change that, I swear.”

You wanted so badly to cling onto those words. You tried your best, you really did. But then on one night that he was spending on a stakeout, you were left alone with the dark pit of your thoughts and you began spinning out. You didn’t want to cause him pain, but what if that was exactly what you were doing? What if you being alive was more painful? What if going away would be a relief for him?

Before you knew it, you were clamoring through the piles and piles of medications you had been given in the past months, and with only a second’s hesitation, you made your decision. You took as many of them as you could bear, one pill after the other, until you physically couldn’t anymore. You lost count but eventually your throat began resisting and your head started to sway. Only then you curled up in bed by yourself, eyes welling up with tears as you begged for a release from all the pain inside you.

As you drifted off, Frank came home earlier than you had anticipated. He called out to you while dropping his bag of ammunition by the front door, only to be met with silence. A frown etched onto his face, but figuring it was already late, he quietly and carefully weaved through the furniture and into the bedroom where he found you, a smile springing to his lips.

”Sweetheart”, he whispered, kneeling next to you, his fingertips delicately moving your hair away from your face. ”Hey, darlin’. ’M home”, he continued, breaking into a concerned look when there was no reaction. Not even a stir, not even a huff.

Then he realized your skin was going cold and clammy. You looked… unwell, to say the least. Swallowing thickly, he felt your throat only for a barely-there pulse to throb against his fingers, and with a panicked exhale, Frank ran his hand through his hair.

”Shit. No, no, no, fuck!” he hissed, bolting up just enough to rush to the bathroom and find the pill bottles in the sink. He made it back to your side, cradling your face in both hands. ”Sweetheart, please. Please, I need you. Come on, girl”, he begged, his heart racing as he supported your head with shaky hands. You were limp and he felt a wave of nausea surge through his stomach as he began gathering you in his arms.

”Stay with me, please. Don’t go”, he pleaded, standing up with your body in his arms, making his way through the front door and to his truck with quick strides. He placed you on the passenger seat and buckled you in before running to his side of the car and starting the engine.

He thanked whatever superior power had cleared all the streets for him — it was quite late, but either way, he was glad he didn’t need to wait in traffic. Instead, he drove erratically, swerving from one street to another with no regard to the traffic rules; he needed to get to the hospital now.

All concern for his very public and very wanted face flew out the window. He carried your lifeless body through the doors, shouting for help, feeling like he might throw up and collapse onto the floor from pure grief any second. He couldn’t do this. Not again.

It was all a blur after a nurse came with a gurney and you were wheeled away. He was sobbing at that point, not even aware enough to fight the other nurse that came to guide him away from the doors. Next thing he knew, he was sitting in a bleak room, eyes tired and puffy, his ears focused on the steady beep of the monitor you were hooked into. They had given him a long explanation of what they had done to help you, but all he could hear was that she’s still alive. Not a goddamn thing other than that mattered to him.

He was still shaky, watching your unconscious body on the pristine sheets, your soft figure wrapped up in a pale hospital gown. He hadn’t dared to touch you, only sat by your side for hours, the moonlight shining through the window and the quiet chatter of the hospital keeping him company.

It was his fucking fault. He knew that. He believed that. And he couldn’t live with himself, didn’t know how to sit still with that sickening feeling that he was the reason you were lying here. He was the reason you wanted to end your life.

When you came to, it took you a moment to realize where you were. But once the sounds and smells of a hospital registered in your head and you saw the monitor next to you, you broke into a desperate cry. Frank had nearly nodded off, but he jolted awake at your weak sob.

”No, no, no…”, you pleaded, cradling your head in your hands, ”I don’t want to be here.”

Your words took a piece of Frank’s broken heart and shoved it through his chest. He had never heard you so defeated, so utterly broken. You sounded so disappointed.

”Baby”, he whispered, reaching for your hand with his bigger one. ”Baby, I’m here”, he continued, fragile and quiet.

As soon as you looked over to him and saw him still by your side, still refusing to let go, you just… broke. The tears escaped you in ugly hiccups and you lifted one trembling hand to your mouth as you wept.

”I’m here, okay, sweetheart?” he gathered some of his voice back to reassure you. ”I’m here. And I’m not fuckin’ leavin’ until you tell me to. I’m never gonna leave you, I promise, sweet girl, I promise”, he rambled, peppering the back of your hand with kisses.

He cried too, climbing up to kiss the top of your head and hug you as gently as he could, his face buried in the crook of your neck. ”I love you. I love you, I fuckin’ love you. Please stay with me, sweetheart”, he begged. ”I’m so sorry.”

"I just wanted to set us both free”, you whispered, and squeezing his eyes shut, Frank held you close to him.

”I’ll say it as many times as you need me to, baby. I want to be with you. I want you. I need you”, he insisted, leaving another kiss on your forehead. His arms supported you against his firm chest and you clung onto him for dear life, comforted by his warmth.

Seven days later, you were officially diagnosed with PTSD. And Frank? He held your hand through it from beginning to end, not once wavering. He told you about his own diagnosis, his own nightmares, flashbacks, the whole deal. He did his everything to reassure you that you weren’t alone. As long as he had a breath in him, you weren’t going to be.

And you promised to try your very best to believe him.

Task Force 141 reactions + König to you putting stickers on them.

Fluff/ slight gn!reader x everyone.

König

At first he doesn’t notice, his too focus on something else. His mind wondering off to a comfortable space.

When he does notice it’s because you stand up and move closer to his face. He panics slightly thinking your going to hurt him. (Trauma)

When he notices the pad of stickers he stares at you. There is a thick silence that follows along that makes you quickly stop and give him a very nervous smile.

“..You have a unicorn?” König asks in a sort of whimper. “..think it would look nice..on me..?”

You smile to his words and show him your collection of stickers you brought this trip. He happily helps you put some on his uniform. Slightly chuckles to the fact how excited you are.

When often alone with you he would hand you random sticker packets he bought for you. Then sit down and wait for you to start your “artwork”. He also puts stickers on you if you’re comfortable enough to let him. He respects your personal space as you do his.

John “Captain” Price

His busy doing some report about an accident Soap caused with explosives again. You bored take out your secret supply of stickers and slowly open it.

Price heard the wrapper and stare at you. A long lingering stare before he sigh and placed his pen down. He pats his lap, you smile and rush over to him with your stickers at hand.

“You want a rainbow or a storm cloud?” You ask pointing at the stickers. “What do you think?”

“Whatever looks best on me doll.” Price says with a chuckle. “And whatever distracts you the most.”

With that you immediately start putting stickers on him. His arms, face, beard and even his hat. Price is one to not care what type of stickers you use on him. Just as long your distracted he is okay with it.

Price lets you put stickers on him very often. Even in front of the group or in meeting to get your mind distracted. He knows that you should be focusing at the task at hand, but he can’t bring himself to do so.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Kyle was in his own head, playing on his phone. Unaware of your intensions to ruin him with stickers as you did with Price. He was aware of your behavior with Price and didn’t mind it as long no one else was harm.

When you suddenly appear next to him confusion took over. Kyle didn’t know why you would be near him if you two barely spoke a word to each other. Yet when he saw the stickers at hand he pulled another chair to him and extended his arm.

“Try to not get something too dark on me.” Kyle says with a warm smile. “Got it?”

You nodded and began to work. He seemed a little uneasy by your cold hands, but soon got used to it. Once done he would take a picture and smile at you. After that, putting stickers on him became a habit, Price of course secretly got jealous but found it okay later seeing that’s what got you and Kyle to talk more.

John “Soap” Mactavish

He was watching TV with Ghost. You were on your phone, messing with a game you found interesting. Ghost got up and left to smoke a cigar leaving you to Soap. You looked at soap and smiled.

When Soap saw you smile at him, he got worried. Soon you randomly pulled out stickers under a pillow and rushed at him. Soap soon also pulled stickers out the couch he was been wanting to use.

“Looks like we both have a secret hobby.” Soap says with a cheeky smile. “I bet I have twice as much as you.”

“No you don’t!” You say smiling wider as you unwrap the stickers.

You later found out Soap collects stickers and has been waiting for this moment with you. After hearing what you did to Kyle, excitement filled his body knowing he was going to be next for sure. He would hide stickers around the base so you two can decorate each other. Sometimes going overboard.

When alone you two make sure to cover each of your arms with stickers. It annoys Price and the others, but they get over it knowing it makes the two of you bond better. Soap buys you stickers from all over the world to make sure you never run out of them.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Ghost was always alert so you didn’t even try to sneak a sticker on him. Fear silent swept you as he looked at you from the corner of his eyes and watched your every move. Yet somehow you finally managed to have some bravery.

Ghost was reading a book on the couch. You were next him, stickers at hand and you stare at him, a long stare that finally got him to nod.

“Fine…Just not the mask.” Ghost says in a harsh tone. “Understand?”

You nod quickly and watch at Ghost puts his hand on your lap. You excitedly turn to open your bright stickers. Ghost sets his book down and watches you decide carefully what stickers to use on him. He even points out ones he wants.

You find out later if he never takes the stickers off. He just sets his glove over them and returns to you when they finally fall off or he washed them off. Ghost is one to soon buy you some stickers that fit more his theme and everyone’s theme.

Ghost does visit you late at night for stickers. Even if you’re tired he wouldn’t care much, he wants those stickers back on him one way or another.

✧ 𝖇𝖎𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖋𝖆𝖓 ✧

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ʀᴏᴄᴋꜱᴛᴀʀ x ɪᴅᴏʟ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⭒ 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘶𝘱-𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳-𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘋𝘦𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘴. 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩; 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺.

⭒ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵: 𝘨𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, (𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘥)𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮/𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (𝘯𝘰𝘵 on 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳), 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴, 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘰𝘯𝘦-𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘺, 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘮 + 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘮(?)

⭒ 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 1,420

⭒ a/n: my first story! hope this is satisfactory :) sorry if my writing is difficult to understand or cringy!!

will you venture down this path?

every few months your manager tells you to attend a celebrity fundraiser gala. 2 years ago you'd never know that these events were only breeding grounds for filthy scandals. now here you are, standing in the corners of a dark ballroom with stars dangling from the ceiling.

you are an idol, the embodiment of purity and song. another puppet forced to take on a false persona of endless joy, most would say. but you? you actually loved the spotlight. to you, that persona is your truth. you bathe in the attention and love of others, you live for it.

so why weren't you with the crowd? why not be in the centre of it all? it's because he was there. he was stealing the place you've shed blood, sweat, and tears for with such ease. effortlessly charming everyone even with that poker face. Deimos. a miracle rockstar who rose in fame shortly after your debut. instantly landing himself in the top #5 leaderboard after the release of his first album.

you were both from the same agency. you've seen him around the company building a couple of times, more frequently during your early pre-debut years. you'd pass brief glances at each other whenever you crossed paths in the hallways or practice rooms. you couldn't understand where your anger and envy emerged from despite never talking to him before.

maybe it was his obnoxious grin?

the fact he surpassed your fame within a shorter time?

his voice that hypnotises even you?

or the copious amount of money he sends during your ig live, begging you to notice the anonymous user?

he had shorter hair back then, dyed a different colour. now he has more accessories, a bigger build, longer hair, and dull eyes that only seemed to brighten whenever you catch him staring at you. you noticed he still stood at around 6'5 (195 cm), even taller with his black platform boots.

you'd try to send telepathic brain frequencies and (not so) intimidating glares at him, seeing if his blank face would falter (it didn't). instead, it made him glance in your direction. your frustration increases, and you blow a raspberry at him without thinking clearly... his reaction? an amused smirk.

instant embarrassment rises to your head. unable to handle the atmosphere inside the room, you immediately run out into the hallway. your brain begins to fuzz up, and you're not thinking clearly- you don't know if it's from the alcohol or the pure shame of blowing a raspberry at him. what are you? a preschooler?

blind to your surroundings, you don't notice the hulking figure walking towards you at full speed. calming yourself, you turn back to the ballroom to end the night. only to bump your face into a sturdy chest, that was not so covered by the tight, black button-up shirt of your rival (his nips were barely out).

you profusely apologise to the stranger until you look up to meet the heterochromatic eyes of Deimos. black and gold with slits, like a feline. and like a feline, his presence was threatening. this was the closest you've ever been to him and you can't help but think that people are blind. why do people crowd around him like he's an oasis? the way his eyes lit up a little too bright, and his face contorts into that of a devoted lover brought no comfort to you.

why does he look like that?

"y/n," he finally pants out, "y/n... you're looking at me."

what the fuck?

"i'm your biggest fan."

backing up uncomfortably, you slowly process his words before replying.

"...you are?"

if Deimos had a tail, it'd be wagging like crazy right now.

"yeah... i've been a fan since your performance at the spring festival. not sure if you remember but..." he trails off.

the spring festival? i don't remember going to any spri- holy shit.

3 years ago. you sang a duet at the town's spring festival with a friend, back then you weren't even a trainee yet. so how coincidental is it that the Deimos was watching you from somewhere in the crowd? that you both ended up in the same agency?

wait. does this mean.... Deimos adores me? as a fan? my fan?

this was too good to be true. your rival, the hottest star among stars, absolutely smitten by you? claiming to be your fan? your ego has never been higher. you decide to indulge him with a conversation.

surprisingly, the conversation was deeply meaningful. you found common interests with him- you shared favourite songs, media, and hobbies... "woman after my own heart," he snickers. soon, any past resentment towards him just.. washes away. gone, buried.

you naturally gravitate towards each other, like the earth and the apple from a tree, a pull. how long has it been since you've enjoyed talking to someone like this? has your bitter envy prevented you from forming a raw friendship with him all this time?

it feels surreal. he asks you for an autograph to commemorate the celebration of a blooming friendship and you agree, asking him if he had a pen and paper. he chuckles and says no, opting to whisk you away into an empty room. not creepy at all.

inside the room, he sits you down on the bed and searches his pockets for an object. you grow curious until he unsheathes out... a combat knife. shitshitshit- he's going to kill me! i knew this was suspicious-

he casually offers you the blade.

"use this." he says while untucking his shirt.

you stare at him as he had grown a second head, "...what?"

he nonchalantly replies while displaying his lower right abdomen, "to write? y'know, your autograph?"

it's official. you were absolutely fucking terrified of Deimos. he tells you to carve out your name on his body as if he was asking for a pack of ketchup at mcdonalds!! you were getting queasy, mind running though all the possible scenarios and options to get out of this.

"you not backing up now are you, songbird?"

his eyes bear holes into your body.

"c'mon, you can't leave me in the edge me like this... just...."

he gently grabs your wrist that held the knife, carefully guiding it to his abdomen. being touched so softly by his scarred, calloused hands made your breathing ragged. he lovingly rubs stars into your forearms as he lightly plunges the tip of the knife into his skin.

you could stab him. you could stab his knife deep into his chest and run away. but what would that mean for you in the future? if you got caught, your career would crumble, sentenced to jail, humiliated and resented by the public. and if you did get away with it, guilt would eat away at your blood-soaked hands forever.

Deimos notices your visible discomfort and tenderly caresses your hair down to your cheeks, wiping away tears you didn't know you had shed. "shh shh... i'm sorry, so so sorry, songbird. you're so kind for not wanting to hurt me... i'll never ask again after this, alright? claim me."

he was so charming. even in this situation.

he presses the knife further into his lower abdomen, drawing blood. you gasp, stuttering out your words "...just my initial, okay?" you look up, he seems disappointed but gives you a genuine smile and nods. you put more pressure onto the hilt of the knife this time, his skin bleeds, not enough to be fatal but enough to scar.

you place your other hand on his toned waist, and you can feel him shivering as the ends of his hair trickle the crown of your head. you finish carving out your initial, dropping the knife on the ground and backing up to look at your work.

it was messy, the blood dripped down to his pants and you swore you felt your heart get... t i n g l e s? he proudly admires your work, pulling down his shirt back in place, still untucked.

Deimos kneels down at the edge of the bed, taking your hands and cupping them on his cheeks. turning his head to tenderly kiss your palm and inhale in the scent.

he looks up at you adoringly with the widest smile on his face, "thank you, songbird. it's very pretty." pulling himself closer to your face, you exchange an unexpectedly passionate kiss, in which your reciprocate. hungry for any form of comfort.

rival-turned-biggest-fan, Deimos smirks into the kiss.

the gravitational pull.

Reveries of a Lost Lamb

Pairing: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

Synopsis: Tempers flare when it hits the seven-day mark. Could they all be sure you were even still alive?

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: Blood & gore, canon typical violence & situations, descriptions of wounds and torture, angst, abduction, fluff, banter, etc.

A/N: An anon told me that I had done rescue fics for everyone but Gaz and Ghost, so, here I am with my husband.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Keep reading