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gremlingottoosilly · 9 months

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[If you need to be mean] chapter 2

Chapter 1

Konig decided to meet his new favorite civilian at the cafe you work at. Unfortunately for both of you, you're both socially awkward. TW: Konig being a huge pervert, Canon-Typical violence, Dub-Con, Innocence kink, Age difference(Konig in his yearly 40, Reader in young 20)

Pairing: Konig x fem!Reader Tags: Fluff, Power Imbalance, Hurt/Comfort, Size Kink, Possessive Konig, Yandere Konig, Creepy scary stalker Konig, written mostly from Konig's perspective

— Did something good happen, colonel? You are practically shining.

Horangi always had this special ability of telling nonsense with the most serious face and deep voice. He also was the only one in his unit to ever be brave enough to joke with his superior – even though all the other KorTac members usually don’t risk their asses to be put on fire list because of some silly joke. He is the closest König has to a friend – and it’s kinda sad, actually, that a broken gambling addict is the only person who can read his emotions so well, even with his hood and permanently sour expression.

But something good did happen – you happen, of course.

He spend a few days of self-reflecting, drinking and punching training manekens in the gym, trying so fucking hard to put your adorable civillian face out of his mind. You were out of sight alright, but the way your features would get distorted into something even more adorable every time he closed his eyes, was concerning. He dealt with those little obsessions before – nothing that a few good rounds of jerking off until he would feel nothing but emptiness and hatred to himself couldn’t handle. He surely can’t fall that deep down, he only saw you for like an hour and it was literally three days ago!

— I read your reports about the last terrorist encounter. Good job, Horangi.

— And I heard about that civilian girl you pulled, sir. Thought we are bringing those to the police, not their houses.

— I had to make sure she wasn't a spy.

— And she wasn’t?

König thinks – would be far easier if he would have an official, legal reason to keep you locked up on the base without the right to come out. Would be far easier for him to just think about you as an enemy, so he would have normal reasons for thinking about you constantly, and not feeling guilty. It’s normal to think so much about your enemies – this is what keeps you alive on the field, if you can determine their shortcomings early and make sure that you can fight them. He would love having you as an enemy – it would at least give him some info before starting obsession over little ol’ you.

— No.

— That would give us at least some lead to the terrorist cell. Feels like all locals are protecting them from it.

— I understand your frustration. But at least they are not cutting our pay.

— We might as well rebel if they’d try to.

— We are not stepping on terrorist’s route.

— I was joking, sir. Only thing that’s left here except for card games.

Horangi hates stationing in this country as much as König is – and, given that he is a sergeant and doesn’t have as much rank expectations, can talk about this openly. This operation is perfect except for the lack of intel, lack of action and lack of basically anything to do – the local forces are handling minor threats, while mercs here are mostly to show off how the government has money to hire them. KorTac would pay for actually having to fight some bad guys around here – but the bigger ones are hiding and lower ones are already getting tracked down by the local military.

The only interesting thing to do, seemingly, is to obsess over local girls – and König thought he is better than this.

But he isn’t losing sleep over thinking about how scared and fragile you looked that night. Especially not even going to think about how adorable your little pout was, and the way your hands were trembling. He definitely doesn't want to know every tiny detail about your life, what you like and what you hate, what is your favorite position in bed and the color of underwear you are currently wearing – or even if you are wearing one. And he isn’t some sort of creep that would spend an obnoxiously long amount of time registering on social media – god, he is too old for this shit, it literally feels even more humiliating than his whole school experience – just so he can find your accounts and get instant masturbation material.

You really shouldn’t post so much half-naked photos – yes, this is a reel from your last summer vacation and yes, this swimsuit looks beautiful on you, but have you ever considered that some creep(not someone like him, he is palming himself very respectfully) would use those photos as a way to get themself off? Terrible, scary, he can’t wait for you to post some new photos – maybe in something that he would buy you, way skimpier and more expensive, so he could protect you from those people.

He looks at your posts about work – and he hates this stupid blue bird app because it never works for him, always filled with some assholes who are trying to argue with literally everyone, and the way he can’t even see your posts properly because of the weird ads. No, he doesn’t need a “Thing that would make your dick longer” he literally has a problem with making it smaller. No, he doesn’t need some dumb T-shirt even though he kinda reflects with the funny pun about pokemons and would love to wear something containing his major interest even though it would look ridiculous on a 6 '10 killing machine.

But König reads all of your short posts about the way you hate working in customer service, and his hand is almost slipping to the ad about wedding rings. You hate your job, he hates his – practically soulmates, even though he doesn’t really hate the killing part of his employment, he just doesn’t want to be in charge of people and making them steal the fun of destroying. He would, however, agree to get as many ranks as possible if that would mean providing for you. If that would allow him to be by your side and listen to your sweet voice, he would agree for the next promotion even if higher ups would want him to make some PR wawes and become a fucking fashion model.

But he is completely sane about you. Totally normal. Absolutely nothing is wrong with him when he can’t even think about visiting you in real life, but he leaves a like on every of your posts in every social media he has – you have terrible online safety habits by the way, he can already see what the inside of your apartment looks like, your place of work from three different angles, and how the front door of your apartment is held together by a very easy to destroy lock. He could snatch it in one deliberate kick, not even speaking about just shooting it. Not like he would need to, he wants you to be with him willingly. Or, at least, don’t fight him too much in case he would actually lose his patience and do something drastic.

It has already been three days and he feels like he is going crazy. He had those things before, overthinking about tiniest details in someone he never truly knew, but even then he’d understand that he can’t be with them – it could be his school crushes that were, ironically, crushed because of his anxiety. It might be some casual flings with his fellow soldiers that would either get killed in the field or never happen because it would be fraternization. Some random people he saw at the airport and already imagined life with multiple kids and a dog. He always knew he had a problem – but it was never like this before. Never dangerous.

The problem is – he knows that he can have you.

Maybe not in a traditional way, he doubts that you would just marry him on the spot, but he can court you at least. He can shower you with gifts or ridiculous tips at your job, he can just snatch you away and leave you as his perfect little bedmate. He can make his men kidnap you, and while it is inhumane and you don’t deserve this, he would calm you down – and then have his happily ever after.

He knows that he can have you – and it drives him crazy. He could stop himself previously, when he didn’t have anything for himself to be considered desirable – but now, with his rank and all the new opportunities and money it brings, he can’t stop but fantasize.

You under him, panting and blushing, lips puffy from kisses, skin glazed from sweat and marked with his teeth.

You under him, so wonderfully tight, not letting him go even for an inch – and you are perfectly taking him, no matter how gigantic he is.

You under him, smiling, cuddling after a long night – every night after a mission, where he could spend his free time deep in your body, listening to your melodic moans and little whines.

You under…

— Can I…can I take your order, sir?

He is a disgusting human being because lives of thousand people are on a stake, he would just doom them all if he wouldn’t find those terrorists soon – and he wastes time on sitting in this tiny ass cafe, trying to place himself on the small seat while being all too nervous to just talk to you. Like a person. Of course he had to go to your shift – he already determined which days you were working because it increased the number of angry “I hate my job and want to kill my manager” posts on that dumb social media, and he knows which hours you work at – of course it’s almost night time, the closing shift, because he simply can’t have himself not worry about you.

He is a creep, weirdo and all that words in a song that he’s been blasting in his tiny headphones all of these days because he can smell the sweetness of your perfume and the way you are munching on the pen you are using to write his order. Oh, yes, order. He is supposed to order something, he can’t just give you money for how adorable you look in that white apron – even though you are absolutely stunning and should get money.

God, he would murder everyone in this building just for them to never look at your legs again.

God, he would bury himself between them if only you’d allow him to.

— Sir, is everything okay?

He served in the military for far longer that you lived, probably. Most of his life, he got used to being referred to as something honorable, or referring to other people like that – and he never thought that just being referred to as “sir” would make his dick twitch in his pants. He crosses his legs, hoping not to get too imposing – he already towers over the tiny table like a giant he is, barely even fitting in it. He thinks he has a healthy amount of self-control – then he looks at you again, and thanks all the gods he knows for the mask he is wearing – at least under the black surgeon piece and dark glasses you won’t really see his blush. Or that little twitching in his eyes that is indicating danger.

— Sorry, I…can I, um, have a coffee? Bitte…please, I mean.

He hates how nervous he is – like high school again, asking his crush out just to be ridiculed. But you look perfect like this – controlled environment, you can’t just laugh at him and say that he is a weird nerd from another class, you have a manager who is controlling of such behavior. He would never tell on you, of course, he wants you to be happy, even if this job makes you the most miserable – even though he kinda thinks of you as a weak for this, his job literally involves killing people and he doesn't argue that much!

But you giggle – sweet, innocent sound, it drives him crazy even more than he previously was. It doesn’t feel like those girls at school – yes, he still can’t let that go, even though his therapist says he has to – and he loses all control at how beautiful you sound. He wants to take you away right now, pay you for your workplace however you get them, and just use you as he wants – no matter how socially unacceptable. He protects this country, he has the right for a little prize, right? No, this would be terrible, he shouldn’t just harass sweet little civilians like you, he should…

— What type of coffee, sir? Do you want some dessert?

This is a typical question, he was at cafes and coffee shops a thousand times but, for some reason, it feels almost like you are teasing him. You bite the end of your pen with those adorable teeth of yours – he wants to feel it on his fingers, he wants you to leave bite marks all over his body as a sign of marking him as yours. He smiles under his mask, hoping that you would somehow feel it – how happy you make him feel, how hard it’s for him not to lose control.

— No. Just coffee.

— Sugar?

He would like some sugar, of course – but the one he wants is probably not for sale, even though that adorable white apron of yours makes you look like a candy. He would love to unwrap you from those silly clothes and devour what belongs to him for the right of protector, but he knows how scared you might be. He is not a good person, he killed more people that he could count – countless fathers, sons, mothers, he shouldn’t even think about having a right for a family of his own after all of this. He is not a good person and his moral code changes with every kill he gets – but for hell sake, he wants to be nice with you. You deserve it, he knows. More than he is, for sure.

König doesn’t really like sugary stuff, it was always too childish, made him too energetic, disrupted his very peculiar way of eating things. Sweets makes him only more hungry, makes him crave more, and he wants to be as serious as possible – so he usually drinks and eats stuff that is no tastier than a pile of dry sand. But he responds before he can think, too focused on that shiny lipgloss you have on your lips. He would lick and bite it all – soon, he hopes.

— Ja. Thank you.

— Good choice, sir.

Your lips are curling into a small, shy smile and he likes sugar now. He isn’t sure if you are telling everyone that their order is a good choice, maybe you just want to get more tips, but he hopes that maybe, he is special. Maybe there is something nice happening to him after all. A small reward for not being a total monster on the last mission he had, even though he could. He can’t do anything but to stare at you, his only saving grace is the dark lenses of his glasses – he can’t wear his hood in civil situations, unfortunately, people would stare, stare, stare and that would make him want to pull their eyes out.

But you smile and he smiles also, even if you can’t see it. He is looking at your legs and, fuck, he is a disgusting old creature that preys upon younger women because he never had a positive experience before. He is a total creep and a monster that should be put down already – but he stares at your legs under that waitress dress, and he would pay your manager a few thousand Euros to cut the length of your skirt in half.

Then he sees all the others looking at you the same way – old people, young people, there aren’t a lot of guests at this time in the evening, most people are afraid of going into public places while the war on terrorism is going on. There aren’t a lot of people while it’s almost closing time, but he doesn't even want to think about all the other men looking at you like this. Devouring you with their eyes, probably leaving sleazy comments as you go through the small cafe, just as overworked as your other coworkers. He wants to take you from here.

You don’t deserve people looking at you like you aren’t even a person – only he can look at you respectfully, stripping you with his eyes. He can be soft for you, can be perfect – if you would just let him.

König doesn’t want to be a creep around you, but he was looking at your legs for five minutes already, picturing the way your body would look under all of these clothes, and his cock gets painfully hard. He thanks himself for wearing normal, baggy pants, not something tighter – at least his embarrassment is completely covered by his clothes.

— Here is your coffee. Anything else?

You look nervous, of course – but he seems way softer than he was a couple days ago, at night. The absence of his creepy mask is obviously helping, and because he is sitting, you don’t have to tilt your head too high, causing your neck to stretch uncomfortably. He looks awkwards, like a big dog that still tries to fit into his old bed, and it causes you to smile a little bit more. You made sure to place a couple of sugar cubes on the plate, so he could decide for himself, if he wants to use them all – but the mere thought of that giant of a man, a colonel, hardened soldier liking something silly and sweet is making you giggle.

He looks way softer than he was that night, and you can almost forget about how scared you were – how you were thinking that this would be the end for you, that one, overthinking part of your mind already making up the scenarios of getting martial lawed because of the broken curfew. You can even see his hair – and fight the urge to touch it a little. He is still who-knows-how-old and still a military presence in your peaceful country.

You still want to ruffle his hair.

He still wants to take your clothes off and make you his.

— Nein, thank you.

He stares at the cup for a good few seconds – if he wants to drink, he needs to actually take it off. He has many scars on his face, and his mouth sometimes feels like it has more dead skin than alive one – he doesn’t want to attract attention. Some people are already staring at his badge and how awkward a giant man like him looking in that cozy, tiny place – but he also wants you to see how much pain he can withstand without getting killed. How he can protect you from anything because there literally isn’t anything he won’t do for you. You would appreciate a man with scars, it’s a sign of bravery, right?

Then he thinks about all the times he would take off his mask and how people around him would look at him – with pity, with fear, with disgust sometimes even though he is certain that his face isn’t as deformed as some other parts of his body. He even almost managed to grow a beard once! Then he had to scrub it all off because hair was growing in very uneven patches and he looked like something crawled on his chin and died.

König fought in countless battles, spent his youth training to be the best killer possible, took part in many major conflicts and killed hundreds of people while feeling nothing but recoil. He isn’t afraid of anything – except for talking to people sometimes, maybe, and even now he is trying to work on it with his therapist, instead of just killing anyone who looks at him funny. He isn’t afraid of the dark, of death, of uncertainty in his life. But he is afraid of you looking at him unmasked and thinking that you, in fact, find him disgusting.

You almost want to take your time to look at what he will do – is he going to take off his mask? Is he going to drink right through the fabric? You have too much work to just stay at his table and stare, even if you want to – but you are trying to give him occasional glances as he just…sits at his table. Not even moving, just staring at the cup and sometimes moving his head to look at you – or just ornaments at the wall behind you. Yes, probably the ornament.

König sits at the table and, well, he doesn’t even want to drink his coffee because just looking at the way your ass sways under that terribly short skirt is enough to set him on fire. He wants to take you home with him – even though his home is all the way up in Austria. He would take you, you probably wouldn’t even be mad at you – you could be a perfect little family. He already waited too long to start one, never finding anyone who would win his heart for a long run but he was sure that this three-days-obsession would last long. He isn’t sure, however, if he likes it or not.

He ended up not drinking at all – he knows that he can’t just waste multiple hours, he already got his lieutenants covering the spot with paper work while their commander is away at searching for the love of his life. He wants to be with you longer, probably walk you home again and make sure to protect you from any creeps that would want to attack. He can’t have that, it’s obvious – he is a colonel, unfortunately, he is still on the hunt for those terrorists, he can barely give himself an hour of free time these days.

He already indulged in his fantasies too much when he folds a 100 Euros banknote and puts it into the bill – not sure about how much money it is here, not wanting to give you any trouble with exchanging currency, he just hopes that would be enough for you to at least not worry about food for a few days. Or buy yourself something nice – what girls like these days? Guns, books, some fancy lip gloss, a hat for their adorable little turtles? He would buy you a pet turtle, he always wanted one as a kid – right before his father said that all lizards are products of sinful corporations and a lazy pet like a turtle, unlike a giant dog breed, is completely useless and unmanly.

He doesn’t want to be here when you’ll get the bill – he is too afraid that he didn’t gave you enough, that you'd be disappointed. He would love to give you more, of course, but he doesn’t want to just shove you the money like you are some sort of cheap whore – he wants to give you gifts, something meaningful, to steal you from poverty altogether. König is an expert in infiltration and escaping arts, he can exit the location without anyone noticing a thing, even with his size – and then you look at him, directly into his eyes, covered by sunglasses – and your face is twisted in shock as you realize what exactly he left you.

— Wait, sir! Please, I…god, I will get you the change right now, I’m so sorry, it’s closing shift, I…I’m sorry, I completely forgot…

You are almost begging him to stop and let you give him his money, a honorable deed really – but all he can think of is how nice you would look on your knees, begging him to fuck you already. How perfect you would look all whiny and spoiled, asking him for something expensive, whatever your cute head would want. You would look so complete on his lap, tugging on his shirt and asking your daddy for a new toy. You would…

— It was a tip. Take it.

He wants to be able to tell you how perfect you look, how he wants to just throw you over his shoulder in a totally non-creepy way and make you his little wifey. How he would take multiple months of leave to just be with you, marry you, breed you. He wants to have a way with words, but they are useless to him – he can’t even say he likes you, it’s embarrassing, he is almost forty, he got his rank as youngest colonel in history of KorTac, he can literally have almost everything he wants – except for basic social skills.

He feels like a creep, an old man trying to steal that perfect girl from the shiny world, and he hates himself for it – but then you blush and he can almost convince himself that yeah, you like that creep too.

— I…shit, I mean, sorry…thank you, sir.

— Don’t wander at night again.

He feels like a scolding father and you giggle again, too innocent and naive to understand his thoughts.

— I won’t. Promise.

He then slowly leans closer, puts a hand on your shoulder again – goosebumps are running on your skin. His head is near yours now, he is whispering in your ear – and you are almost sure that you shouldn’t have come closer to him like this, that it’s unprofessional from your side, that everyone is staring at you. They are – and you try to ignore it, but…

— Wear shorts under your skirt next time. Never know who might look at your legs like that.

You would slap him here and there. You would scream and run away right now, but for some stupid, dumb, completely terrifying reason, you…almost like how protective he sounds. And the money he gave you is also helping – even if just a little bit.

König looks at the way you blush even more, and he knows already that he won’t ever let you go.

Tag list: @iwritesjud3

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#call of duty #cod x reader #cod x you #cod #konig mw2 #konig x reader #reader insert #yandere #yandere konig #yandere x reader #yandere cod #fem reader

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yeyinde · 1 year

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OK but i need to know if price allows his wife to trim his beard …can you please write a drabble on it to feed my price addiction

Oh, absolutely!! I bet it’s easier for him to have someone he trusts cut his hair for him. His beard, though—I imagine he grooms it himself (too many oh, sir, you should cut it this way—), and he prefers a straight razor over a blade. If he really, really trusts you, he'll let you do it for him, but he's been grooming his beard since he was 28, and so. No one does it better than he does.

His hair, however? He considers it a free cut.

》 WARNINGS: Um. Just some domestic bliss, really. Bantering. Allusions to sexual content, PTSD, and trust issues (not as serious as it sounds; just briefly mentioned). This is basically just gratuitous fluff. This was written with absolutely no discernible characteristics for the Reader—gender-neutral reader 》 WORD COUNT: 1,9k

"Hold still."

"Holdin' as still as I can, love."

His words are thick—little more than a grumble rasped into the collar of his shirt, distorted from the tilt of his head, chin resting on his sternum.

To someone else, his tone might be misconstrued as waspish; a scathing snap sawed between his clenched teeth, and coloured in a thick paint of impatience.

But you know him more than most, and the huffiness of his tone only serves to amuse you.

(Your irascible man.)

Still.

Your fingers snake through the overgrown locks on the top of his hand until you have a fistful trapped tight between each of your digits, and then you tug just so. A warning. Not enough to hurt him, of course, but enough that it makes him tense—makes him groan.

His voice loses the surly pinch, and sounds decidedly breathless—a fact that makes you stifle a grin.

"Gonna start somethin' you can't finish, you bloody minx."

"Gonna cut your skin if you don't stop wriggling around," you volley back.

He huffs, shoulders slumping down with his sharp exhale. "Just get on with it. Getting stiff sittin' like this."

You ease off the clutch of his hair, but keep the locks between your fingers, eyeing the length, before nodding to yourself, and bringing the scissors close to the tuffs spilling out.

The snipping sound of the shears cutting through his hair fills your small washroom. His shoulders seem to relax, if only slightly, as you work.

You cut the locks between your pinky and ring finger shorter than the rest, and wince.

"You know," you murmur, brows furrowing as you try to gauge whether or not it's passable enough to be overlooked, or if you'll need to cut all of it shorter to match. "You could go to a barber. A professional."

He grunts. You know what he's going to say before he says it, and you wordlessly mimic the words that leave his lips:

"Cheaper this way, ain't it?" He drops his chin when you nudge his head.

Cutting his hair has become a small tradition between you, one that started a few months into your relationship when he showed up at your door, three hours late to a planned date with a bucket hat on his head, and a package of forget-me-nots in his hand (seeds, he said, because flowers will wilt and die in a day but if you plant them in your garden, they'll regrow forever). His hair was longer than usual, curling just under his chin, and the sight of him—so frazzled and unkempt compared to how put together he normally was—made something inside of you ache.

He'd rushed here as soon as he could, complaining that his flight was delayed, and his barber quit on him, and all the while, your fingers itched with the urge to run them through his overgrown locks, to feel the silken hair against your palm.

(To grip tight and not let go.)

The words slipped out with very little conscious thought: I can cut it for you.

He seemed almost caught off-guard, but the obvious discomfort of having his hair tickle the nape of his neck made his acquiescence much easier.

You discovered that night just how much you liked having his hair in your hands, and he seemed to realise that fucking you against the wall, while you tugged on his freshly cut hair, in lieu of payment was much more preferable than dealing with a barber.

"No," he grouses. "They're always goin' on 'bout undercuts, and tryin'a get me to shave my chops, and I ain't dealin' with that when I 'ave you."

"Free labour?"

"Hardly." He scoffs. "Gonna break my damned back one of these days, you bloody—"

"—hold still, love," the stolen endearment makes him shudder, but he quiets when you rest the flat of the blade over the crest of his ear, cutting the overgrown hair around his sideburns. "That's it. Good boy."

"Keep playing with me, love, and I'll show you who's a good—"

Another tug. His scorching words taper off into a growl.

"You don't seem to complain much when you pull me in for another round—ah, ah—" You tug his hair again when he moves, fighting a wide grin. The plastic handles of the scissors slide back until it arches off the back of your hand, thumb brushing the loose hair from behind his ear. "God, you're so stubborn. You want to get cut, don't you?"

"Trust you not to leave me a bloody mess by the end of this."

With his chin dipped so far down into his collar, his words are honey-thick and robust, and the deep cadence alone makes your toes curl in your slippers.

"Trust me that much, hmm?"

Despite the transparent barb, the tease in your slightly breathless tone, he doesn't hesitate. "With my life."

"Aren't you a charmer?"

"Almost done? I'll show you how charming I can be—"

"Nearly. Would've finished an hour ago if you'd keep still."

He grumbles again, but the words are swallowed by the snip of the scissors. An impasse blooms in the scant space between your front, and his broad back. Comfortable, like all silences with him have become. Despite your griping, cutting his hair is soothing—intimate in a way you'd never come to expect it to be.

It might be the explicit trust he places in your hands when you direct him to tilt his chin for you at a mere tap against his jaw, or the crown of his head. Wordlessly following your commands as soon as they're conveyed.

To anyone else, such a display is commonplace, but you've been through the thick of everything to know that exposing his neck in such a vulnerable way to you, and so soon after a mission, is more meaningful than any declaration of trust could ever be. The innate drive to protect his fragile pieces from harm often leads to him flinching away from the sharp end of the shears, but it diminishes just as quickly as it rears, and he sits, docile and accommodating, for you. Allowing you this minuscule power over him.

Maybe that's why he refuses to see a barber, opting to let you chop his hair in whichever style you deem attractive instead. Explaining to someone else why he's so tense, why he sometimes can't stifle the small jerk when cold metal kisses the nape of his neck, seems tiresome. The unneeded opening of a barely healed scab.

It was a battle getting him to open up to you, to let you invade his space, and squeeze through the splinters in his resolve when it became clear that you weren't going anywhere that wasn't with him.

The thought of it alone warms you. The ache in your joints from holding your hands still, cutting through the thick tufts of hair, feels like a small burden in comparison to what he's shown you with this.

It's been barely five hours since he touched down at Heathrow. His duffle bag is still packed. His fatigues are still on. He hadn't even showered off the stench of the mission, or scoured the blood and dirt from between his nails, and yet—

You tap his cheek. His head lifts, and then lists to the side. The smooth curve of his neck is exposed. His exterior vein throbs through his sun-kissed skin.

Affection blossoms in your chest.

"Missed you."

The words are barely a whisper, but his eyes peel open, icy blue finding yours as you lean over him, getting the last patch of hair near his temple.

John says nothing in response, but he doesn't have to. You see it all—feel it. The vein in his neck throbs more intensely as his heart rate picks up, and that alone is more than an echoed sentiment in return. It's enough.

But still:

His hand lifts with a deliberate slowness until the pads of his fingers kiss your wrist. He burns red-hot—skin just as fiery as his temper—and the warmth of his rough skin bleeds into you when he wraps his full palm over your arm, thumb brushing your flesh in a distinct pattern.

When you recognise it, you falter.

It isn't quite Morse code, but it's something he taught you on the eighth date when you asked if the wordless hand signals were accurate in the movie you'd just seen. His hand found yours as he led you out of the theatre, and down the cold, wet streets of Liverpool.

"No," he snorted, derisively. And then spent the three blocks back to your flat showing you the different commands they used in the SAS, and the ones he taught his men. "If you can, skin on skin is better. Less likely to be seen. We save it for hostage situations. Like this—"

Blisteringly intense cerulean never wavers from yours as he lets you feel the words he rasps over your skin.

You try not to tremble with the shears pressed too close to his skin, and quietly pull them away. He watches as you place them on the ledge of the vanity, hand never releasing yours.

You brush the loose hair from his shoulders, trying to hide a smile.

"All done."

John hums, the noise a crackling ember that fills the hush in the room, and notches between your ribs where it sticks against your thudding heart.

"What's the verdict?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

Loose hair falls from his shoulders when he stands until it dusts across the tile below his feet. He leans over the sink, shaking his head above the basin, before settling, angling his chin as he takes in your shoddy handiwork.

"Looks good."

You snort. "Sure. I'll have to go over it once you finish showering because someone wouldn't sit still long enough for me to clip around your crown, and—"

He turns to face you, and the playful diatribe is cut off when his warm palms fit against your hips. It's his turn to tug, and he does so with a sharp jerk of his wrists, pulling you taut to his chest.

His eyes bore down into yours, mirthful blue. "Yes, yes," his eyes roll briefly toward the ceiling, lips curling into a soft smirk. "But someone kept tryin'a clip my ears, and pullin' on my hair."

"Someone, eh?" You volley coyly, reaching up, and curling your fingers into the bristles of hair spilling from his cheeks.

At your gentle touch, his expression shifts to contemplative. His chin tilts when your nails graze his skin.

"You like my beard, don't you?"

Your brow lifts in question. "Yes, you know I do. Why? The boys making fun of you for it?"

"Gaz said I looked like an Edwardian lord—" you snort at the comparison. He pinches your side. "Watch it."

"Is that all?"

"Soap said they're grabable."

"Yeah, they are," you purr, taking in as much as you can in your fists. "Very steerable, too. But why is Soap concerned about that?"

"Said someone could grab 'em. Drag me by 'em, and—"

"Like his mohawk?"

He concedes your point with a flash of teeth. "You don't think I need to trim 'em?"

"And lose my handlebars? No way—"

His darken. "Dirty little thing, aren't you?"

"For you? Always."

"Mmm," he tilts his chin down, and presses his mouth to yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip. "Insatiable little minx."

"You love it."

"You know I do." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. When you peer up at him, his pelagic gaze turns turbid with desire. "Now, about your payment…"

#captain john price #john price x reader #fluff only on a yey fic??#inconceivable #UM #i promise i'll edit this later #(maybe)#captain john price x reader #john price #captain price x reader #captain price #cod drabbles #cod price #price x reader #price x you

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vanderilnde · 3 months

Text

simon riley/f!reader

warnings: simon is an amputee, implied alcoholism, implied painkiller addiction

Johnny forces Simon to a veterans support group. The latter is less than pleased with the idea—that is, of course, until a little birdy catches Simon’s eye.

—

Simon smells you before he sees you.

However, it's been five months since his honourable discharge, and he's a dead man walking, so he supposes the same could be said for him.

It's the roasting stench of pungent malt. Permeating through the froth of his balaclava and burning his nostrils. He canters his head to the side, sweeping the basement with his hackles raised.

"What's your name?" Comes from the front of the room, scotching Simon's thoughts, to which he mumbles, "Simon."

A peal of "Hi Simon," ripples through the basement, and he cringes.

He was rotting in his flat when Johnny visited. Against everything, it was a sweet respite—seeing his face after so long. He filled him in on what he'd missed, though technically, that isn't allowed anymore. Simon isn't SAS. The only thing connecting him to the military now is his pension, sapped into streaming sites and grocery deliver apps.

He supposes Johnny saw his overripe, threadbare balaclava. Saw a spread of painkillers rooted on every surface. Saw the progress of Simon’s leg, how it ripened from a necrosed nub into an alloy, fused with the silicone of his prosthetic that is two shades too dark for his skin. Then, Johnny forced him here.

"I can't come—veteran's only, but my cousin used ta go to one of 'ese," Johnny said, "it'll do you good."

It's a room with various breeds of military personnel. All at various ranks. Extensions of themselves in crutches and wheelchairs; regressions of them in eyepatches and arm-casts.

The man says, "Well, you’re late. We’re almost finished here."

Simon blindly nods. He can smell you again. Pervasive ethanol and barbed impurities, swirling around his head. He finds a chair too small for him and sits down, heeding how it wanes under his weight.

The man starts talking again. But for Simon, the voice turns to filaments. Droned out and greyscale against his impaired senses. Fermented sorghum burns his eyes as Simon sweeps his head to the side, catching a glint of light winking back at him.

He finally sees you.

Simon finds himself back in the jungle, in the middle of an operation. Sweaty and damp and dewy between clement leaves as he eyes down an X-ray.

Your eyes hold the same sentiment of intimidation. They’re red-rimmed with veiny scythes but bore a glimmer bespoken for the stars. Your hard stare inspires a flare in Simon’s heart. Something so off-putting that it drills itself into his bones and burns the sealant in his prosthetic.

You part your lips. They have a forgone softness to them, now cut and peeled in different corners, akin to the ruins of Babylon. Vodka sticks to the roof of your mouth as you dart out your tongue, wetting your lips.

"See that guy over there?"

Marginally, Simon flinches. Your voice is softer than anticipated. Softer than your rotgut scent and your strands of silage hair.

He follows the streamline of your gaze. To an underdeveloped man sitting with his back hunched, eyes puffy, across the room.

"He's here 'cause he got home and caught his girlfriend fucking another bloke," a wheeze collapses your sentence, "isn't that hilarious?"

Simon stares at him. Then he hangs his head, staring at his leg. He sees his prosthetic jut out and distort the denim of his jeans, and, in spite of himself, Simon chuckles. It is hilarious.

"He calls it traumatic," you slouch in your seat, "try seeing your mate get blown to pieces."

Simon is quiet. But that doesn't off-put you, because you're leaning in closer and examining his mask.

"What branch were you?"

He keeps his eyes locked on the opposite wall. "Parachute reg."

"Battalion?"

"... Third."

You narrow your eyes. "So, Special Air Service."

He expels a loose laugh. Scratches the scruff of his neck. "Sure."

"Could've just said that," you frown, “I was SRR, so we might’ve crossed paths.”

Simon hitches his eyes up, chancing another glance at you.

You don't look SRR. But again, Simon doesn't look SAS.

He grunts, “How the mighty’ve fallen, eh?”

A lukewarm chuckle escapes you. “Yeah.”

The sound of your laugh inspires warmth in Simon’s belly. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows he wants to say something. He feels a chord to keep the conversation going; to not disappoint you.

Simon feels like Icarus flying too close to the sun.

“Why’d you leave?” He says, leaning a little closer.

“You’re never supposed to ask that,” you murmur, “but I like you, so I’ll bite. OTH. Got nicked in Bulford for radical interrogation tactics. Whatever that shit means.”

Simon grunts. His cadence offers a hint of condolence, but you just laugh. “I’m glad to be out of there. And you? Why are you here?”

“C4 explosion,” he grumbles, “honourable discharge.”

You hum. “Goody two shoes.”

A waspish blush dominates the furrows of Simon’s crows feet. He brokenly mumbles under his breath, embarrassed, preening under your gaze.

His rebuttal idles at the threshold of his mouth. It collapses on his tongue when you stand up, fishing cigarette from your breast pocket.

“I’m going,” you say, “will I see you next week?”

Simon’s neck twitches and rockets into a nod. Immediately, he is looking forward to next week. He believes a byproduct of second-hand drinking has vitiated him, as when you walk away, hips swaying, Simon feels drunk.

As Simon sits stupefied, left without a heart as you’d taken his on your way out, he curses to himself.

Simon didn’t get your name.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cod mw2 #simon ghost x you #simon writing #writing #veteran!simon

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kneelingshadowsalome · 11 months

Text

Lazarus (Ghost x Medic!Reader Pt. 2)

"According to tradition, Lazarus never smiled during the thirty years after his resurrection, worried by the sight of unredeemed souls he had seen during his stay in Hell..."

Word count: 5.7 k

Tags and warnings: Angst, fluff, soft smut 🔞. Slightly possessive!Ghost. Graphic depictions of past suicidal thoughts. Dating, kissing, cuddlefucks, emotions (the most daunting cw there is). Unfettered prose about a grown man's complex trauma. Reader is female and works as a medic at the base. Ghost POV.

Summary: You've just started dating Ghost. (This is a standalone sequel to Refugee)

She tastes round and sweet after the tang of blood and smoke and metal of the field. She feels like warm cascading water after the bleak, dead weight of a gun that leaves his hands throbbing with recoil. Her skin returns the memory of Paradise until it overrides everything else.

She's a soft blooming to the senses.

And his have been blown wide, torn apart, shot full of noise. There's an amputated, burnt stump where there should be a limb and some soft skin. But still, a blast that burns flesh from bones is not that different from her soft whisper that has the power to level him like a nuclear wind.

. . .

They're some kind of a secret, although he doesn't know why exactly.

Perhaps because she knows enough by now. She knows he's a dead man.

A ghost.

And women like her don't date apparitions. They deserve more than just bones and a haunting: they deserve flesh and blood and solid ground. She deserves far more than promises he has no power or right to give.

He has no mandate for life. His is a half-life, and stolen; he's living on borrowed time.

She doesn't only protect his phantom, she shields herself from talk and rumors. It's only understandable. He takes everything she gives him, which is more than he deserves.

He fucks her to ruin on the conference table people share in the meetings. He makes her leak all over his desk during quiet afternoon hours of his office; he makes her come on his tongue in the fucking hangar after a long day, just to get the taste of dry desert sand off his mouth.

She stops complaining about propriety after that. After all, she's the one who came there on his call and allowed him to rip her pants down when there was only settling dust to accompany them in the quiet hall.

It doesn't take long to see that the woman's not actually complaining at all. She fucking loves it when he barges in and simply takes her.

And he buries himself inside her like she's the base. His home after a mission, his destined location after deployment. She lets him fuck her practically anywhere except on the floor.

That's his place. And he has no problem with lying down there in the filth, especially if it means he gets to watch how she sits on his cock until that pretty little face distorts with pleasure that looks like pain.

His field pants and navy blues have cum stains after his visits while she cleans herself up in no time, fixes her hair and looks as innocent as ever. His mask smells of cunt when he's trying to concentrate on missions, and the scent of her juice makes him hard while he's supposed to be instilling brass into bodies. He smokes cigarettes just to drive the maddening taste of her from his tongue.

He's gonna get killed one of these days. The irony doesn't escape him: it's not a bullet or a grenade that will take him, but that sweet, hazy memory of her cunt.

She's an obsession. He injects himself full of her like the most pathetic addict.

Until one day, she says it can't continue like this. That it won't do to rut like animals until the smell of mad sex coats the room she's supposed to stitch and staple people in.

It causes a small panic till she asks him to visit her.

In her home.

It sounds serious: it sounds like she wants more than just his cock. And he's fucking terrified.

Women think about whether to wear this dress or that on a date: he thinks about whether to put on the mask or not – he meditates on it for two whole hours. Everything else is clean and in order; he looks like a human and not a soldier. But he can't rid himself of the skeleton.

There's a storm coming when he reaches her place. It electrifies the air until his spine is full of thunder.

She seems surprised – happily so – when she finds him at the door, decent as can be. He gets one of those innocent smiles which are pure sin beneath.

"You came."

"Sure."

She doesn't ask why he's always wearing a mask. She takes what he has to give, which is his all, which he fears will never be enough.

"There's food–"

She lets out a delightful little noise when he picks her up and carries her to what looks like the biggest and softest bed he has ever laid a woman on, ever laid himself on.

So, she likes luxury. Or at least, comfort.

Softness. Hugs… Support.

And kisses, apparently, because his mask is lifted without permission. Not that she needs one.

"Simon, I made you some dinner," she laughs in his mouth, and he's smiling – she's the only one who makes him fucking smile.

"Later," he rasps with a sore throat – he has become soft, too, and it's her fault. He has barked orders all day, but with her, his voice always comes out quiet and calm.

Where her domain at work consists of harsh lights and sterile frigidity, her home is dark and warm like a womb. His senses are filled with lemon and thyme – she has made something he's never tried before, something… Mediterranean, perhaps. A culinary ambrosia for someone who has lived on dog food and tried to thrive on it.

It's a pity that he's a barbarian, and here for dessert. As much as he likes the dainty little thing she has put on just for him, it's not cunning enough to stop him from ripping it to shreds.

She protests at first with a posh little gasp, but then she spreads her legs like it's open season and he's the VIP customer. The laced, pathetic little thing lays in wreckage around all that softness creaming just for him, and his mouth shoots full of water.

The feel of her is better than sinking a knife between two ribs. She's velvet on his scar and coarse stubble and for the first time in his life, he curses the mask. She moans all around him, tries to grab him by the hair still under the black fabric.

And it makes him want to rip it off and let her yank and tug to her heart's content, grab his hair and push his face as deep inside her cunt as it goes.

He tries to fit inside her apartment, a serene space filled with scented candles and clean carpets and frilly little curtains that shift in the restless night wind.

He tries to fit inside her.

The attempt always makes her moan and tremble and sigh. It's hard to focus on the task at hand when he wants to freeze the moment to where her lashes flutter and she stops breathing for a second – when she takes him in with grace and hunger.

"Oh fuck…"

She swears this time, watches with helplessness and an open mouth as his cock slowly disappears inside her. Then she looks up at him like…

Like she's missed him.

"You're a brute," she whispers, eyes shining.

"Thought you liked brutes."

"I made you dinner and you…Ah…"

He arrives home, heavy and loaded with yearning.

First things first.

It has been a week, and there's been no time to relieve the pain, nowhere to go and wank off the sickness that festers inside him every second they're apart. And she's the only one who can cure his disease. But he does feel like a brute for not letting her feed him. When was the last time anyone made him anything?

The sea is booming now, roaring behind the window she has left open. This time, they're not fucking at the base, in some corner of a room with a lock hurriedly latched on. He's fucking her amidst doused lights and a seaside breeze that enters their skin through an open window. He's at the beach, even when there's no sun. The sands are even more stunning with a gathering storm.

He fucks her like a dog, and she looks at him with weak love in her eyes. She's looking up at him with those big, wet eyes like he's the best leader there is - like she's counting on him. Like the people under his command, those who ask for his advice, ask for the next move.

It drives him fucking insane.

It's even better than a good round of sex: that unbound look of adoration. His mask is a poor shield against all that. She slips past it like she's the expert in clandestine warfare here. And suddenly he doesn't want any more secrets. There's a ton of them already; he carries the weight of them in his soul.

He's an underdog, always has been, but he's also a hound for claiming her as his that night.

After he's done fucking her to oblivion, he descends. She comes alive like a jolt of lighting in his arms as he kisses her, then sucks the tender skin of her neck. Everyone's going to see it, he makes sure of that by using the tiniest amount of teeth to finally mark her. She moans an equal amount as she does when she's clenching around his cock.

"Did you just give me a hickey?" She asks, breathless when he's done.

"High time, don't you think," he mutters. The woman will look glorious on the beach and highly improper at work.

Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas…

"You're unbelievable." She only laughs at his obsession. The woman’s not afraid at all, even when she’s face to face with a monster. The sunshine of her smile pairs well with the crackle of thunder outside.

"You want a beer?"

He's too drugged to answer with nothing else than a surprised, drowsy blink. She laughs again and takes it as a yes, which it is. He stares in awe as the woman walks to the fridge, all naked and lax from his treatment, takes out a bottle, opens it, and brings it to him. She takes none for herself; she only serves him like he's some kind of a king. When he takes a sip, she smiles again: lighting flashes somewhere in the distance and gives her an aureole of light, a halo of an angel for a second.

"I'm gonna go take a shower." The wink she gives him makes it perfectly clear that she wouldn't mind him joining her. But as she goes by the mirror, the vision of his claim stops her.

"Simon…"

He gets a scolding, and it only makes the corner of his mouth tug.

"No concealer is going to cover this."

"That's the point," he takes another sip while lying on her too-soft bed. She shakes her head before walking to the shower. The eye of the storm is above him, and everything's silent, like he's lounging on a dream.

The bottle in his hand sweats cold condense in his hand, and like always with her, he finds himself in the present moment. He drinks the beer in less than ten seconds, then takes the mask off and leaves it somewhere among the sweat and cum stained sheets.

It's the first time she has seen him without the shield, the first time she sees his body in full light. Every protrusion of white scar, every part of uneven skin, every marring of two and three stage burns is visible as if he is on a well-lit stage.

"Well. Pleased to meet you."

The smile that greets him, the veil of surprise that draws aside to reveal pure delight and marvel is more than worth the risk. She's frozen in time with a bottle of shower gel in her hands, too preoccupied with the trust he has decided to arm her with. She now has power over him, but he proceeds to do what he came here to do. Which is to make her sing a second time.

"For what do I owe this pleasure–"

The bottle falls on the tiles with a soft plunk as he steps between her legs and lifts her against the wall.

On that, she doesn't only kiss him; she takes the scar of his lip between hers and sucks. The warm water is nothing compared to her hands which sweep up and down his back and release years and years of tension. She whines when he only gives her shallow thrusts, then tries to claw his back to get more of his cock. It makes him chuckle.

"Needy," he comments on such delightful hunger, and she lets out the most annoyed, frustrated noise he has ever heard on her.

"Stop teasing, Riley…"

She tends to use his last name when she's fed up with him. It's supposed to create distance, but it only makes him latch himself onto her more fiercely.

He could torture her, delve deep, dig out even more frustrated sounds from her, but that's a quest for another time. He grants her wish along with his own and slides fully in. She kisses him through the whole fucking, and he feels like he's in boiling water, cooking until the raw meat grows tender and prepared.

And he realizes he's not actually fucking her: he's making love to her. He didn't even know he could do that.

When they've had their fill, the water takes away his gift. It feels wrong that something meant to be inside her leaks down some filthy drain. It's like a testimony, an illustration of his whole life: that his essence, his worth, belong in the sewers.

"You're a beautiful man," she whispers on his skin while caressing his back filled with past torture. His stomach churns, he feels like throwing up and falling asleep at the same time. An odd sensation.

She holds his mutilated corpse under the descending water and breathes life into him. The vomit never comes. He exhales history on her skin, inhales some peace in its stead.

In the morning the sound of thunder has been replaced by myriad birdsong.

. . .

He never meant to bring her here, but the wind on the beach is too harsh today and she's cold. It would be ungentlemanly not to get her a jacket from his apartment when it's only a few hundred meters away.

"To say that this place needs a woman's touch would be an understatement, Riley."

There's little else here but a tv and a fridge. He doesn't need either of them, but they're there to remind him what a home should look like. She takes the deafening silence and barren wasteland well, far better than he ever imagined she would.

"Y'can touch anything you want."

She turns and raises an eyebrow – he already knows that look. He's in for it now.

"Smooth... Very smooth." She walks to him and pushes him to the armchair. Not with force, because she doesn't need it. He falls to the sagged old thing like it's suddenly cloud nine rather than his old deathbed.

He waits for her to climb onto his lap and ride him until the chair breaks under the weight of their love. He could use a new chair anyway.

But she doesn't do that.

She gives her what this place has been missing.

A woman's touch.

Her mouth is hot as hell, wet like the gulfs that used to drown men in the sea centuries ago. She's a siren with her songs, but this time, she's quiet.

The room is not: the deathlike silence is suddenly filled with wet urgency and sloppy sounds of adoration. All his hauntings recede to the shadows like the blowjob is a whole exorcism.

His head falls back, and the first charred moan coats the air like it's been entombed for decades. And it has.

She is encouraged by the sound, and the tongue that sweeps the underside of his cock sends him jolting from his shallow grave.

Jesus fuckin'–

"Fuck…" He tries to blink back tears or death while looking at the crumbling paint on the ceiling. He feels equally worn out on her tongue: old and a lot of work, but a woman's touch is like magic.

"Mm–h." She dares to moan on his cock as if it's the best thing she's had in her mouth in decades, too. She even brushes her fingertips over his balls like they're some newfound treasure. They pull taut under her touch, stupefied by the sudden attention.

He can feel the upcoming blaze. It gathers at the base of his spine, his cock is brick-heavy in her mouth, and she won't stop – fuck, she goes even deeper…

"Fuckin' hell, pet…"

His thighs bunch and spread, a scorching groan erupts like he's a volcano and not a man. That's when she gives his cock a long, torturing suck, and he's gone, there’s no time and space other than her hot velvet mouth that surrounds him like the hot core of a star.

She adds a hand at the base of him, and he explodes so hard that he barely has brain cells left to worry about whether she will choke on it. But she doesn't even gag, even if the first spurts must be more than generous.

Fuck, this woman…

He melts in the chair while she finishes the rest of him, takes all he has to give, like she always does. They're an odd pair: an angel and a demon, and he feels like he's finally saved, resurrected – this room, this chair has never seen anything like this.

It's different with her, the emptiness that comes after. It's not filled with grief but deliverance.

He wants her to know what she’s just done, but he knows the things he's good at, and he knows the things he's not. Words are one of those things. She moans and begs and shatters and swells in his arms, she takes on a volcano and resurrects corpses long since dead, and he still doesn't know how to tell her. That he's hers, that he wants to make her feel as good as he bloody fucking can. He could be tortured for days and he still wouldn't know the right words. He tries to tell it to her in other ways and sees how she settles.

He would rather kill the whole human population on this earth than see her settle for anything.

So he forces the strange words out, fleshes them on his tongue and pushes them through teeth to haunt the stale air of his apartment that has never seen such love before.

"I missed you."

Of course it sounds so odd that she laughs. Bitter, too.

"You missed my tongue."

"No. I missed you."

She finally raises her eyes to his, doesn't try to blink back the watercolors. Those eyes are shining; they're beckoning.

"I missed you too," she says, then lays her head on his thigh like she's only a humble servant begging for mercy.

It's a farce. He's a skeleton, a ghoul of useless rubble while she's celestial; she's summer, a fucking empress.

It rips his chest to see her on her knees on the dirty floor, that she's comforting him in a chair that should've been his disposal site. The leather was supposed to be painted with shards of bone and puddles of pink-white brain; this room was supposed to echo with a single blast of a gunshot, not with roars of fragile love. He would've been found relatively soon, the neighbors wouldn't have had to complain about the smell: after all, the military takes care of their own. A lieutenant's absence wouldn't have gone unnoticed, even if everything else in him would never have been missed by anyone.

He brushes her hair, and she sighs, oblivious to his past hell. All nine circles of it, an inferno that would put poets to shame. And she doesn't know she has pulled him from the depths just by smiling.

. . .

"Promise to come back."

"Yeah I promise."

He can't promise that. Fuck, that he wants to.

Every bullet acquires sound, like that birdsong from her little window. They gain weight, they start to carry death. It used to be his power: to bring destruction. He was put on this earth to reap.

Now he's alive.

He's suddenly a man who can be killed.

Now everything's bright like he's a newborn trying to get used to a world full of pain. Light and sound and time and space; mortality.

Sharpened instincts have never been his friend. It used to be a simple dance: knife out, knife in. Drop 'em.

Line the sights and deal extinction. Walk like a ghost until the battering ram announces there's death coming.

It takes him a while to understand where the sorcery lies.

It's in the senses. She's sensuous.

"Simon–"

He hears her in the shaded crevice of rocks, catches phantom notes of vanilla from the dry desert air that tries to push through the filthy fabric of his mask. She’s with him just before the hatch opens, and for the first time in his life, he hesitates before the jump.

She tastes round and sweet after the tang of blood and smoke and metal of the field. She feels like warm, cascading water after the bleak, dead weight of a gun that leaves his hands throbbing with recoil. Her skin returns the memory of Paradise until it overrides everything else.

She's a soft blooming to the senses. And his have been blown wide, torn apart, shot full of noise. There's an amputated, burnt stump where there should be a limb and some soft skin. But still, a blast that burns flesh from bones is not that different from her soft whisper that has the power to level him like a nuclear wind.

He has to learn how to come back to his senses. It's a joke that makes him wish he could shed tears. Luckily, she's the best teacher he could ever have.

"Fuck, Simon…"

He tries to quit smoking just to be able to taste her better. A scorched tongue is a curse when a man can't get enough of cream and silk.

"I need you. Need you so much. You don't even know..."

He knows. He knows that the depth of his need surpasses hers; it always has and always will.

The last time he saw her wasn't at the base; it was when he woke up to the sight of her foraging for orange juice from the fridge with his sweatshirt on. She combined sultry lace and bare, smooth skin with an old, black hoodie.

And it swallowed her. All his darkness. She only looked sleepy and content while being smothered by all that dark cotton.

"I'm gonna make some breakfast," she announces upon seeing he's awake. "You like bacon and eggs?"

What the fuck did I do to deserve you.

She knows full well she could offer him a chest filled with gold, and it wouldn't be half as tempting as her little American breakfast.

"That'll do."

He was supposed to go to the shower but instead, his feet take him right back to her. She gives him a pleasant hum when his hands fall on her shoulders and start to rub some stress away. He knows it will make her moan, as it does now. She leans a little into him, surrenders to his treatment.

"Simon… Do you come here just for sex?"

The hiss of cooking bacon almost drowns the question. Just one syllable less, and the question would be as she originally meant it to be.

Does he come to her just for sex.

"No."

She turns to look at him with a shy little smile. It makes him want to crush her against that counter until those lips part with a helpless sound.

"I like your cooking."

"You…ass," she laughs, shoves him lightly.

He treats every day like it’s his last with her, waits patiently for her to realize he is not the man she thinks he is. Under the bones he wears there’s only more bones, nothing more. She can feed him all she wants, but it will only make him more hungry; and a day will come when she sees he’s not actually a man at all but a yawning, six feet grave.

The black cotton hugs her and makes it falsely look like this woman belongs to him. It’s another round of torture to see how she takes his shirt, takes his cock, plays with the only things he can give her for a while or two.

She has the sweater on as she gives him the softest farewell smile. She adds a few words, some more detail to her request. In truth, it's his new protocol.

"Promise to come back to me."

He doesn't ask for the sweatshirt back.

She's left with it and his promise.

. . .

"Poor lass's always sulking when you're on those solo missions."

He knows that Price might know about them by now. But if Soap knows, everyone knows.

He doesn't care: after all, the woman doesn't even try to conceal the seductive looks and dreamy smiles she gives him whether there are other people present or not. They're not a secret anymore. Perhaps that's the way she wants it to be.

But the information Soap gives him is new.

"She is?"

He goes straight to her after the plane lands. Doesn't give a single fuck about that smug look the boy gives him.

She looks slightly surprised as he simply walks in: she can see he's filthy. He has grime on his hands, on the fingerless gloves that make it easier to operate a gun when there's no threat of sweating. He smells of smoke and ruin, gasoline and tobacco – a lousy compensation for her, a ridiculous substitute to calming his nerves when he knows the mission is going to be tricky. It already pisses him off that her cream will be mixed with smoke and disease again. He knows his weaknesses, which aren't many. But with her, he has learned it's not about the quantity.

The sorrow is briefly disguised from him. It's admirable: the way she tries to hide even the plainest of things. He knows her by now, knows that the sun casts shadows too. She should know he's the one she can cast them safely with.

The throat between the shoulders burdened by work and worries looks fragile in his hands. A bird's neck he could wrench without breaking a sweat.

"Mmh. I love your hands."

"Just my hands?"

He shouldn't be touching her with his filth, but he can't help it anymore. If she loves it, who is he to argue back?

Love your hands too.

Fuck, I love your smile. Your tits, your lips. That little pout you got when you don't get what you want right away.

I love–

She sighs. Then she cranes that beautiful neck, clings to him with one, tiny hand. "Why are you here, Simon?"

"Heard you were sulking," he mutters in her hair.

"What…?" She laughs. She laughs, but she's not happy. "What on earth are you talking about?"

She's shy. Reserved. Hiding behind a wall of humor and sunshine and smiles. His darkness penetrates it all.

"Heard you're devastated when I'm gone," he tries even more softly.

She could take it as arrogance. One of his lousy jokes. But she knows better than that.

"I am," she finally says, angel-soft. When she turns, there's finally sorrow in her eyes. She looks up at him, up, up, again with that stare that says I am yours to command. On the brink of tears; tears he wants to battle to the abyss. But his muscles are no use here.

Her lip trembles, just a little, when he brushes his knuckles over her cheek.

"We can't have that."

"We can't?"

"No."

"Well what are you going to do about it?"

Her voice is soft, pleading. It's not a demanding question: the woman's simply out of it. She wants assistance, assurance.

What are your orders, sir?

She worries too much. Up until this point, he thought it’s just because she's dutiful, responsible, one of the best employees there is. But she's not tense from work.

It's not just the missed you's she whispers when his skin is at its most thin.

She fears losing him.

Stone-cold realism is required in his field of work; no sleight of hand magic can help him when he's facing the unavoidable. If the mission is impossible, he doesn’t take it. Because he can't change the unchangeable; he can't fight the inevitable. They both know he can't promise anything.

They both know he will do his best to come back. There was a time he would’ve considered it a blessing if he didn’t. Death used to be his only ticket to some peace.

She gives him an impossible mission, and he can't say no. Leadership is about taking care of people. His people. And she's more than just a subordinate.

He grabs her by the waist and raises her to the counter, relishes the way she gasps. She weighs nothing in his hands after cold, hefty cannons. It’s almost like she gains wings and flits to the tabletop designed for him to take her. It’s the perfect height for him to simply open his pants and alleviate her pain.

"Gonna fuck you until you cry."

She sighs. "You can't solve every problem with a gun or a cock, Riley."

The woman knows how to penetrate him, too. The stabbing doesn’t stop even when her thighs part slowly - she knows, just as much as he, that this is the best way to remind her just how alive he is. This is the only thing he can give her, and he is damn right going to deliver. His hand covers half of her thigh as he brushes a thumb over the sensitive inner side.

"You sure about that?"

That look of desperation makes him hard already. Her hands go about his neck in a perfect paradox with what she whispers next.

"Honey… Not here."

She calls him honey. As if this tar-black madness is only golden nectar to her.

"No?"

It’s not only sorcery, but necromancy: how she’s brought him back from the grave. No wonder such arts are considered dangerous. This is forbidden, and still, he cannot stop.

"Ya want me to stop?"

"...No."

He leaves most of her uniform on because he is in too much of a hurry to get between her legs. The woman molds herself against him the second his tip meets her folds.

"God, you feel good," she sighs as he slides in. It's like a prayer: both her words and his return back to the base. Alive.

"So fucking good…"

Fuckin' tell me about it.

She whimpers and clutches him like a little leech. Almost cries already.

"That's it. You just hold onto me."

If someone heard the way he's cooing in her ear, they would deem him soft in the head. He doesn't give a fuck.

Her moans chime inside his head like the softest, most beautiful opera. He has never been a man of high culture. The whole civilization could go to hell for all he cared. But she sings to him so beautifully that even a man like him can finally see the appeal. Legs wrap around him even tighter than those small hands until he doesn't know who's holding who here.

"That feel good..?"

"Yes… Don't stop, just don't stop."

She's almost limp in his arms. Good. He's managed to relieve that tension already.

He goes deeper, deeper, and a tiny hand that saves people instead of slaughtering them grabs him by the shirt, probably in an instinct to try and catch some skin. He can't see her face but the body against him trembles and shakes as he spreads her wide and pours love in her.

"No need to sulk, sweetheart. I got you."

She's crying, or laughing, or both. Of course she likes pet names paired with support. He adds it to the list of things the woman loves, the things he can give her. He hopes, half expects that she will shed some tears after shattering around his cock. She needs a good cry as much as she needs him. And nothing feels as good as this: being needed by her.

When she comes with an arched back and a scream he fears and hopes will reach every other officer here, he knows he can let go too. He's done his duty: now it's time to collect the reward. It's not transactional, she's not work, but she's still his responsibility. The woman's paycheck is fatter than anything he could ever get from his employer. He's inside her, but that doesn't mean she isn't inside him too. She's embedded in him in ways that threaten to swallow him and leave him on the shore like bleach-white bones on a beach. He stays inside her long after the waves have passed. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he doesn't dare to move.

"I still have your sweatshirt," she sighs while holding him.

"Good. Looks better on you."

"I sleep with it sometimes," she whispers and wraps herself around him so tight that he wishes he could be there every night to send her to sleep. Now she only has his memory as a company, some darkness far too big for her. "Sleep in it, actually."

His mind is like a wheel that turns around nothingness. There's nothing to hold on to; he's falling through starless space.

The eerie sound of gunshot echoes in his head, he thinks about the splatter of brain matter on the armchair; how there's at least one person in this world who would cry from hearing the news.

And not just any person, but her; a whole summer in one woman. A midsummer sun, missing some forgotten, weatherbeaten bones on a beach when there's plenty of flora and fauna to shine on.

"If you ever break your promise…"

She sniffs in his neck, and his embrace tightens instantly.

"Would rather die than break it."

His promise doesn't make any sense. Or perhaps it makes every sense. She finally cries like she's supposed to.

"Shh. I'm here now."

I'm not dead.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley fluff #simon riley smut #ghost x you #ghost smut #ghost fluff #mw2 fanfic #ghost x female reader

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rxzennia · 13 days

Text

sex with aventurine of strategems

✎𓂃 top aven (bottom aven will eventually be served too dw except im hoping to make that emotional so it’ll take a bit hehe), i finished 2.1 yesterday and i’m not fine… angst fic/ character deep dive coming soon (idk when tbh bcs im busy); in the meantime, thirsting for foul legacy: star rail edition boss aven

aventurine in this form is so much bigger than you, it’s so easy for him to just pick you up and manhandle you like you’re nothing. and he loves doing that, picking you up effortlessly and tossing you onto the bed as you spread your legs for him.

his fingers are way, way longer and girthier

loves shoving them up your hole because you squeeze around them so sweetly

also loves hearing that squelch when he pushes three fingers deep into you

oh, you want to touch yourself? nu-uh, he’ll keep your hands above your head

it’s so easy for him restrain you, you’re so much smaller compared to him

and he will tease you to high hell with his fingers

he loves seeing the way you move your hips, trying to chase his touch

but no, darling, he decides what you get, how much you get, and when you get it

your cute whimpers won’t change his mind, even if he loves hearing them

or eating them up as he shoves his tongue deep into your mouth

loves having you moan into his kisses

he won’t stop using his fingers until you’ve wet the bed enough

like, dripping, squirting, anything, until you’ve soaked through the sheets into the mattress

he’s overstimulating you already and he hasn’t gotten to actually fucking you yet

he wants you a mess under him

he wants you to get addicted to his touch

he wants you to not be able to function without him

those are thoughts he has on a regular basis, but they’re amplified so much more when he’s in his boss form

he wants to “preserve” you, so that you’ll never be harmed, or taken away from him…

“please, please, please,” you cry, writhing and squirming desperately as you cum for the umpteenth time, “just, just fuck me already, please,” you push against his hand that has long since been drenched in your arousal, “please, your fingers aren’t enough, hngh…”

“not yet, darling,” aventurine coos in his distorted voice, “not yet. let me play with you, ‘kay?”

he’ll pull his fingers out very, very slowly and watch your expression twist into one of pure agony

you’re arching your back and trying to chase his fingers

he presses your hips back onto the bed, holding you still as he enjoys the sight of your gaping hole

and how you’re completely naked under him, while he’s still fully clothed

he loves the power trip he feels at that moment

he makes sure you can see all the slick on his fingers, and his tongue licks them clean

then he slowly traces your body with his claws, from your cheek all the way down to your inner thighs

if you’re still conscious enough to look, you’ll see the monstrous tent straining against his pants

(if whatever he’s wearing are even pants to begin with)

your hole twitch as you feel yourself getting hungrier and hungrier for him

and he sees that, of course he does

instead of giving you what you want, he’ll keep touching your body

avoiding your hole, though

if you cry, he might change his mind and give you what you want

although chances are he’ll say something like “you’re so hot when you cry” instead of finally gracing you with his cock

he will definitely taunt you and degrade you

“hmm? my darling can’t take it anymore?” he chuckles as his fingers circle your hole that has been clenching around nothing for the past few ten minutes, “look at you, so eager for me… so horny, so dirty…”

when aventurine finally frees his cock, you let out a soft, shaky breath when you realize how much bigger he is in his semi-emanator form. but you’re into that, you’re into everything that he is, anyway.

you try to touch him, obviously, seeing how hard and how much precum is already leaking

no. he won’t let you, not this time

he wants your hole, and only your hole

he grabs your hand and pushes it down

flips you around into doggy while he’s at it

he rubs his tip against you, grinding his hips into yours as he fucks your thighs

you can feel him on your entrance, but he just isn’t slipping in

no matter how much you wriggled around or tried to line him up

“agh, shit, please,” you start, the heat in your stomach slowly becoming unbearable as he teases you with his thick cock, “please, put it in, put it in?”

he does not put it in

until you actually burst out in tears of frustration and pulled your legs apart for him

“f-fuck me already…!” you whine, and he can see how ready you are for him, “please, please, i want you so bad, please, fuck me…”

he loves how pathetic you get when you’re all needy, it feels like you’re really addicted to him

he takes his time enjoying the sight

your hole is so, so, so slick, and he can see your every twitch and spasm

he can’t hold back anymore, you’re just too tempting

“just what i wanted to hear.” he finally grabs you by your hips and slowly pushes his way in

it’s a very, very tight fit even if he’s stretched you with his fingers

he stays still for a bit to let you adjust as he moans breathlessly into your ears

does not help you stay still at all

“mmh,” you sigh and try to move, but damn, it’s such a stretch that it burns a little. still, you’re not going to give up; you’ve been waiting for this for the entire night already, if you wait any more you might lose your mind. “hnngh, you’re so big!” you push against him, fucking yourself on his cock, “ah, ahh, you’re so deep…”

your whimpers are so loud, so shameless! aventurine shudders at the sight of you, on all fours, drooling and crying for him.

his claws dig into your skin as he snaps his hips into yours

you yelp at every movement he makes

you feel like you’re breaking whenever he hits your sensitive spots

which, let’s be honest, is practically wherever he touches

he’s fucking you into the mattress so good, but his hands are also roaming all over your twitching body

which means you get scratches everywhere

he changes positions so that you’re sitting on him, back to his chest

because this way he can rest his head on your shoulders as he abuse your hole

his mask is poking at your shoulder, but he’s trying his best to rest his chin on you instead of his mask

cut him some slack, he’s focused on fucking you silly

he’s looking at you the whole time he’s pounding into you

taking in how your eyes roll back, how your back arches and your toes curl

how, slowly, he’s taking away all your ability to reason and replacing it with his cock

he will lick up your drool and tears

but just his pounding is not enough – you need more stimulation!

you try to touch yourself because he just doesn’t want to touch you the way you want

he will smack your hands away

or interlock his fingers with yours so that you can’t touch yourself

“no touching,” aventurine groans loudly as he slams into you, “i want you to come only on my cock,” he hisses, “only from how good i’m fucking you, hmm?”

though, he sees your teary eyes and your half-open mouth, about to beg.

“aww, can’t take it? then, how about this…” he chuckles darkly, “let’s make a bet, shall we?”

#honkai star rail #aventurine x reader #aventurine #honkai star rail x reader

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officialabortive · 19 days

Text

I know the whole "hit with a sex change quirk" thing isn't original but DAMN

Just Bakugou curiosity getting the better of him, so he's sat in front of his tall closet mirror, legs spread wide to get a good look at his pretty pussy. One hand holding the underside of his knee to keep ample distance between each thigh. The other uses two fingers to spread his new lips. His eyes widening at the sight of a wet sheen slowly becoming increasingly prominent. Such a lewd sight was bound to get him riled up from the very start.

The sensation of need is in no way unfamiliar, but this... this is something else entirely. The odd feeling of clenching in desperation sending surges of an agonizingly pleasurable ache that spread to his thighs and belly.

Just bakugou prodding his pointer finger into his dripping hole. Starting with just a fingertip and slowly insuring the rest so his knuckles press against his labia. It feeling so foreign only pressing him to experiment just a bit more.

Bakugou swirling the finger inside himself in a circular motion, successfully stimulating so many areas at once. Maybe taking a quick pause in order to take a lick of his hand, tasting himself.

Him having so many ideas of things to try that he doesn't know where to begin.

Readjusting himself to be in a more laid back position —but not too far as to block sight of his reflection. Fat chance of him disregarding the visual— leaving a wet streak where his hand grazed his leg. Applying a light pressure to his swollen clit making bakugou jolt, not expecting something so painfully intense. Such a shock being too much, so instead he opts to rub a couple circles onto the soft area directly above.

But any amount of patience can only last so long before it's inevitable downfall. When nagging urges burst out into fruition.

He plunges a finger to the deepest spot in his pussy and swiftly curls it upward in one languid motion. Body tensing, bakugou is gasping for air with eyes gone wide, jaw trembling as he wills himself to remain silent. The addictive feeling of pulsing pressure deep within his gut is cutting off al ability to form a single thought. All he knows is the almost electric surges running down his inner thighs. Not even conscious enough to realise the hand starting to trace around his clit as he continues to viciously finger himself.

Unable to stop, everything somehow feels increasingly stronger. So much to the point of panting with shaking legs as fluids drip into the building puddle on the floor. Till eventually he can't restrain himself from squirting directly onto the mirror in front of him. Clear streams distorting the reflection of one whose rendered himself to dumb to understand the sight either way.

If only bakugou was coherent enough to see how pathetic he looks

masterlist

#uhhh never written straight up smut before #bnha #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #mha #bakugou drabble #bakugou #bnha bakugou #mha bakugou #bakugou smut #bnha smut #mha smut #bakugou thirst #bakugo Katsuki #Katsuki bakugou smut #Katsuki #Katsuki smut

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xas24 · 6 months

Text

the heart wants what it wants ~ pedri

summary: yearning for a love that possibly can never be returned can be quite foolish, but y/n can't help it when it's all her heart wants.

part 2 (pedri’s pov)

he leaned down to connect their lips and y/n suddenly felt out of place. she didn’t like the feeling of his lips against hers, they felt harsh and forced. his perfume was fiercely intense and she wanted to block her nose, prevent it from invading anymore of her senses. his hand came to rest against the side of her waist and she wanted to move it off her, feeling as though his warm skin was stingingly leaving a mark. the lust and desire was practically radiating off of him and y/n wanted to go home.

sure, she had been flirting with him, and of course she needed a distraction but as soon as his lips touched hers, she didn’t enjoy that feeling of disgust filling her up. this isn't the feeling she was hoping for when she said she'd wanted a distraction. she wanted to feel free.

free of him. free of the thoughts of him.

but he was everywhere and she couldn't escape him.

she missed the feeling of those soft lips, the same lips she used to love kissing just a year ago. the tender touches of his callous hands around her body, the breathy sighs he would release into her mouth, the gentle yet firm grasp he’d have of her hand while he ravished her.

she wanted those plump lips against hers, not whatever drunk, sexual desire was kissing her right now. her stomach wasn't flipping and the butterflies weren't going crazy the way they did with him.

y/ns hands came up to push against the chest of this man. as his confused face comes into view, his curly hair tousled and his eyes glassy with lust, she realises she doesn’t even remember his name.

only one name flooded her mind right now. only one man clouded her senses to the point where she couldn’t see or think or even breathe.

“sorry, i- need to go.” her voice was so distorted it probably didn't even reach his ears but she didn't care. she didn't even want to make eye contact with him as she released herself from his grip and grabbed her purse from the counter next to her. she needed some fresh air. she needed to breathe.

the man’s protests could barely be heard over the loud beating of her heart as she walked off but she paid him no mind. her body thrashed between the hundreds of dancing bodies whilst she tried to make her way out the club. her feet were aching in her heels and all she wanted was to lay in bed.

she reached the exit and as soon as her body touched the cool barcelona breeze, she couldn’t stop the tears from forming in her eyes.

what the hell was i doing? y/n thought when she turned around to take one last look at the club. the music was so loud she could practically still hear it beating in her ears, vibrating throughout her whole body and she felt dirty all over.

why did i come here?

she never went clubbing. she hated clubbing, hated the feeling of people dancing all over each other and the rancid smell of beers and alcohol.

what the fuck is wrong with me? she thought to herself again.

he popped up in her mind once more. leave me alone. his gorgeous face tainted the walls of her brain and she couldn’t escape him. she could still smell his addicting perfume, could still feel the softness of his hands on her skin. why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

was it that bad that she’d resorted to coming to the club? coming to a place she so despised and was disgusted by just so she could forget him? is this what it had come to?

her trembling hands ran over the black dress she wore. it suddenly felt so tight against her cold body - she was shivering and she wanted to take it off. she didn’t like the feeling of the cotton sticking to her skin, accentuating her body for everyone to see. she only wanted one man seeing her body, touching her in all the places only he knew, loving her the way only he knew how.

she can’t even remember ever wearing a dress this short and tight. she hated wearing such tight clothes, is this what had happened to her now? why did i even put this on?

a sharp pain touched the side of her head. she felt a dull headache starting to form. why am i feeling like this?

the tears pooling in her eyes started to leak down, pulling her mascara with them and drenching her face with streaks of pain and sorrow and hurt. she rarely ever cried, she knew she was a strong person. that damp feeling against her cheeks was so foreign to her and she hated it. the lump in her throat tightened and she could feel her body starting to break down.

the first sob escaped her quivering lips and she covered her mouth, feeling pathetic all over.

he made her weak. why can’t i stop crying?

her shaky hands came up to wipe against the tears and she warily looked around her. there was no one here. everyone was inside the club, partying and drinking and having fun.

his scent filled her nose and she wanted him here. she wanted him to take her home, wanted him to kiss away her tears, wanted his tender voice to talk to her.

but there was no one here.

it was just her, crying to herself, feeling uncomfortable and disgusting. it was late at night and she needed to get home.

but who would help her this late at night?

she suddenly remembered the man who kissed her just a few minutes ago. the rough feeling of his hands all over her and his lips on hers made her sick to her stomach.

y/ns hand came up to wipe against her lips. she didn’t like the taste of him lurking on her mouth. frustratingly, she wiped and scrubbed with the back of her hand until her lips were swollen and her hand was stained with her cherry flavoured lipgloss.

cherry. that was his favourite flavour - she remembers the way he wouldn’t stop kissing her just to get a taste of it. she remembers his sighs against her mouth, her soft chuckles every second as he kissed her into oblivion.

only his kisses could heal her fragile state, only his touch could make her feel comfort and love and warmth. when will i stop missing him?

when will my heart be healed of him?

still shaking, she called an uber, deciding to drown in her misery at home rather than in this dark street.

will he be waiting for me on the couch like he always did?

she pulled her dress down, feeling so exposed and embarrassed.

would he tell me how beautiful i look even though i look like such a mess right now? he always had a habit of doing that.

her skin felt prickly and the tears had dried on her cheeks due to the cold wafting around her. her legs and feet were numb, her fingertips turning red from the cold. her heavy makeup suddenly felt like it was weighing her down and she hated every second of this moment.

she just wanted to be in his arms.

•••

“hola, mi amorrr.” pedri greeted his girlfriend when she shut his car door with a big smile on her face. her bag wasn't even fully of her shoulders yet before pedris soft hands were cupping her cheek and pulling her close until his lips were on hers. he gently kissed his love into her and y/n sighed in satisfaction.

she'd been craving to feel his touch all day and the urge to just go home, put on a movie and relax with him on the couch was creeping up to her. after a long day of completing projects and studying, having her beautiful boyfriend pick her up from university was definitely the highlight of her day.

y/ns hands never stopped rubbing over her arms and her thighs, trying to rub some warmth into herself. it was at least a twenty minute ride home, and y/n constantly cursed herself for not bringing a jacket, also fully convinced she might just die of hypothermia. the uber was thankfully quite warm due to the driver probably blasting the heating, however, it was still too cold for her liking and she missed being wrapped up in one of the many fluffy blankets she had.

especially the ones that still faintly smelled like him.

it was about ten minutes later when the car finally parked outside her apartment complex. she paid the driver, quickly thanked him, and practically ran out of the car before her feet gave out. the cold, midnight air slapped her exposed legs and arms, leaving behind a stinging sensation until she opened the entrance and heaved herself into the warmth.

it was empty, the lights were dimmed and she carefully made her way to the elevator, her feet aching in the restrains of her heels. it was a quiet, long ride up and she couldn't help longingly staring at her reflection in the large mirror on the wall of the elevator.

the remaining streaks of tears on her cheeks had dried up along with the dark mascara that she tried to rub off in the uber. she looked horrible, broken, isolated. she didn't look like herself. she looked nothing like the girl she was just a year ago.

“mmh, pedri, be patient.” she spoke to her boyfriend, who kept trying to kiss her on her cheek. her face was leaned into the mirror on the wall of the elevator as she tried to fix the little piece of smudged mascara from the corner of her eye. pedri, being the clingy and impatient boyfriend he was, had wrapped his arms around her body, wanting to just feel her close.

his head rested on her shoulder, pressing repetitive kisses into her cheek and giggling into her ear whenever she whined at him to stop moving her. she was almost done and all pedri could do whilst he waited was stare at her.

“eres la chica más guapa en la que he puesto mis ojos.” (you're the most beautiful girl i've ever laid my eyes on) he spoke to her, watching as she looked at him through the mirror. his heart was beating in his ears, lurching out of his body and into her hands. she was his whole world, his whole heart, his everything, and he couldn't ever imagine letting her go.

"gracias, mi guapo novio." (thank you, my handsome boyfriend) she chuckled. her cheeks were burning with blush as his hands reached for her one last time, pulling her body closer to his as the elevator door opened.

the elevator door opened and y/n sauntered through with a fresh set of tears in her eyes. she swallowed past the lump in her throat, trying so hard to just forget about him and his ghostly presence in her life.

but he was everywhere she looked, everywhere she went. there was just too many tainted memories she couldn't withstand. she opened her apartment door, and expected him to be sat there on the couch, waiting for her with his usual, seductive smile on his lips.

but her apartment was empty per usual - empty ever since he walked out of her life. the lights were off yet she could still see him, still feel him, smell his perfume from a mile away.

he's not here.

of course he's not. why would he come back? she pathetically chuckled to herself and shook her head at her own stupid thoughts. how foolish of her to even think he would come back here, come back to her.

her heels were the first to be off, feet relaxing against the coldness of the flooring. they were left abandoned in the entryway whilst she made her way to her bedroom, wanting to be free of the clinginess and discomfort of the compact, black dress she sported.

it pooled at her feet and in no time, she was in the shower, surrounded by an endless waterfall of hot, burning warmth as she scrubbed away the dirtiness of the night.

a sharp gasp left pedris lips and his eyes instantly screwed shut when he felt the slightest bit of soap make its way past his eyelids. y/n turned to him as she was rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, and she couldn't help the loud laugh that escaped her mouth.

the shower head, being in her hands, was immediately held up to his face as she watched her boyfriend take a big gasp whilst trying to rinse the soap out of his eyes. the sound of her giggles never stopped and when he finally opened his eyes, pedri couldn't help but laugh along too. he couldn't control it - her laugh was just too contagious.

when was the last time she laughed so freely with someone? she couldn't remember. it must've been quite a long time ago - she didn't even remember what her laugh sounded like anymore. what did she sound like when she wasn't crying or muttering to herself over her lost love?

was this even healthy? it's been a year, surely she should've moved on by now. it did seem quite unhealthy for a girl like her, who used to be so strong and active and happy.

is this what love does to a person? it makes them unaware of their surroundings, brings them such immense joy and happiness that when it decides to leave, they are left soulless?

she could still hear his laugh in her ears as she shut the water off and wrapped herself in a towel. her weak body was on the verge of falling over at any second but she kept herself up, putting some fresh clothes on. her wet hair cascaded down her back after she brushed through the strands.

after hurriedly putting some of her skincare on, her eyes landed on the black dress that was still bunched up on the floor of her bedroom.

her mind told her to throw it in the laundry, to wash it, to wear it another time when she decided to move on, to impress someone and hopefully fall in love again.

but her heart told her to discard of it. her heart told her that she knew she would never fall in love with anyone ever again. he was the one for her. he held her heart in his bare hands. it belonged to him for eternity, and he could do whatever he wants with it.

it was his.

his. his. his.

“i still can't believe you're all mine.” pedri whispered against y/ns lips, coated with his favourite cherry flavoured lipgloss. his hands wrapped around her waist, tugging her body impossibly closer to his own. they shared the same warmth, the same love, the same devotion. “so beautiful. so mine.”

she sighed in content because he was just so amazing. she was drunk on his love, a good kind of drunk that she never wanted to be sober from. “mi niña preciosa.” (my precious girl)

his thumb gently stroked against her soft cheek and his lips never stopped kissing hers, never stopped complimenting her the way she deserved. the affect he had on her was immensely evident in the way her body relaxed against his, reacting as though it was used to his smooth touches.

“all mine.” he kissed along her shoulder. kissed up her neck. kissed just under her ear on the spot that made her go insane. he knew exactly how to make her weak, how to make her yearn for more.

her voice was a breathy whisper, a feathery touch against his own lips, “all yours.”

assured, she picked up the dress and threw it in the trash. her heart knew what was right, knew exactly what it wanted, what she yearned for. she wasn't going to ignore it.

#pedri x reader #barça #pedri gonzalez #pedri #pedri imagine #imagine #pedri barça

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valorascult · 3 months

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 / 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞 (𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝)

**disclaimer**

I am not against self improvement. Wanting to be the best version of yourself is your birthright. There are a lot of helpful books, ‘gurus’, articles, practices, etc; that are beneficial & have valuable information to share.

That being said, lets move forward.

Many start their ‘self improvement journey’ when they are at their lowest because that’s when you are most aware that something is ‘wrong’ - making you more vulnerable / susceptible to deception & addiction.

It usually starts by reading a book, watching a yt video, etc;. You watch / read one and then continue to consume more, because ‘maybe the next one will finally get me to where i need to be’ - not understanding that this is just another form of entertainment and procrastination.

There is satisfaction after immediately reading a self help book. You have a quick rush of ‘I’ve accomplished something’ (dopamine) - giving you the illusion of progress until you get stuck inside a cycle and realize, nothing has changed.

Sitting behind a screen is not the self improvement you think it is. Is there good knowledge shared? Yes, of course, but the real self improvement starts by actually DOING. Living life will give you more answers than binging content.

Action Faking - ‘the practice of confusing being 'busy' with making actual progress towards an intended goal and often involves a lot of over-analysing and planning, but very little meaningful action.’

Listening to someone talk about their own lives & share their own improvement stories is not going to help YOU. Gurus try to fit everyone into a mold when self improvement is not a ‘one size fits all’ & when something doesn’t work for someone after its worked for others, they usually see themselves as a ‘failure’ so they move onto the next thing that doesn’t fit them & this becomes a pattern, soon they start to build levels of guilt and shame.

Before consuming anything, you should know the specific problem you want to solve, if not, you are coming into something without a strong foundation, soon, you will start to believe there are 500 other things wrong. Don’t get sucked into a black hole.

Also, understand that many other these therapists, psychologists, content creators, etc; all thrive off of people who are at their lowest. It’s important to know when someone really wants to help vs when someone keeps wanting you to come back. The industry is worth billions.

Many have been accustomed to pacifying the silence. Always picking up the phone, turning the tv on, listening to music when there is downtime, instead of tapping into our bodies - their thoughts and feeling have now become distorted & influenced by ‘the noise’.

Fake positivity instead of facing reality is an issue within itself. These ‘positive’ messages / posts about encouragement and ‘never giving up’ convinces you that it’s ‘wrong’ to changes paths / passions in life & you then see yourself as a failure instead of a soul, growing.

With all of that being said, remove yourself from artificial motivation & start doing. I have nothing against self improvement, but I do have an issue with the addictive side of it that seems to only profit a select few.

xoxo,

valora

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lotusmi · 1 year

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THE MIRAGE 💫 VOID STATE

CAUTION ⚠️✋use it at your own risk 😱😱dmt frequency!!! (this is safe i am just clickbaiting here lol)

this is way too powerful, believe me.

New void sub! Use for entering ONLY⚠️

This contain DMT FREQUENCY!

What is DMT? ✩ Dimenthyltryptamine (DMT) is a hallucinogenic drug that can distort your view of reality.

A DMT Frequency can give you the benefits of DMT in a healthy and safe way. (It is not addictive)

I decided to use this since in DMT Frequency videos you can find lots of void success (they don't know it is the void)

DMT is also called "The God Molecule"

"I thought they called it “the God molecule” because you met your maker, but instead, you realize that you are God—all of us are, every living thing. Ego death doesn’t mean you disappear, it means you become more than you’ve ever been. Losing the separate self means merging with everything; you exist on all planes and perceive them simultaneously. (…) you realize the meaning of a phrase that once sounded so trite: You have everything you need, and it’s been with you the whole time. "

What are the DMT effects?

“The subjective experience is generally described as transcendent, often involving ego-dissolution, non-dual awareness"

“users of 5-MeO-DMT often describe content-free experiences, associate[d] with loss of sense of self and bodily awareness, and sensory deprivation (described as all-white light, or all-black), with common descriptors such as: ‘emptiness’, ‘nothingness’ or ‘VOID’.

What I am going to experience?

✩ The 3 effects I myself tested and proved is:

1. Time will pass fast. Really. 40 minutes will appear to be 5 minutes. 2. Your body will feel completely numb in less than 5 minutes. 3. Your mind will feel calm and blissful.

you can also see lights, it is okay. This is safe, I made it with love.

How should I listen to it?

Use for ENTERING ONLY, this is not a saturation sub, is for entering. Headphones are NEEDED, both ears! You can lay down or sit. Pick a comfortable position and relax. Affirm only if you want, just let it be, relax, take long breaths if you want.

✰ tip: just relax and let it go. You will enter in void naturally.

This sub contain morphic fields.

Energy charged with an Ametist! "some believe amethyst's calming presence produces soothing dreams by bringing the dreamer more in tune with the Divine", "carries a tremendous amount of spiritual and metaphysical power". The ametist power will make you be safe ♡

More than 14 million "I have mastered the void" affs and more, I lost the count lmao.

youtube

๋࣭ ⭑๋࣭ ⭑๋࣭ ⭑ -`✧ ⭑๋࣭ made with love. ♡

#law of assumption #living in the end #loatumblr #loa blog #neville goddard #void state #manifesting #subliminals #Youtube #law of abundance #loa tumblr #States #wish fulfillment #Dream life #I am #I am god #healing #motivation

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saturnsquest757 · 11 months

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Astrology Observations 1.

This is my first time please don’t judge.

I’ve noticed Pisces usually are the self proclaimed, “different and special beings” instead of Aquarius. Pisces Sun and or Venus will openly state how different they are.

A Sagittarius is the easiest zodiac sign for me to spot. It’s just so… obvious??? Even when they’re not the usual extroverted type there’s always this energy of a free spirit.

Scorpio risings are secretive but only for a period of time. Once you get to know them they usually open up. Scorpio moons however… are usually always private/secretive no matter the time frame of knowing each other.

I’ve experienced Virgos being so hypercritical they become hypocritical. Virgos have high expectations of others and themselves, but usually others cannot reach them. They also cannot reach their own standards. Considering, their a mutable sign this is why they can be critical but not back it up with constant action. Their expectations and perception is consistently changing, but still manages to remain high.

Ok… Cancer rising/moon/mars usually moody asf. No chill vibes. Very strict on comfortability and not like fixed signs comfortable. More so a nostalgic feeling or certain things needed to fulfill an emotional need. If those things (people,places,objects) change drastically there is a difficulty to move forward. If anything goes outside of a routine they get very upset.

I wish I could say one sign seems more emotionally mature than the other. I’ve met so many people with all different types of placements and most were emotionally stunted in some form and there were no similarities. So I think being toxic and or unhealthy can happen no matter the natal chart.

I have Neptune 1° degree away from my ascendent🥲. Neptune in the first house/conjunct ascendent is not an easy placement. Very creative. Very unrealistic. A strong and growing imagination. Head in the clouds. Projections. Projections. Even the movements I make with my body or face usually get misinterpreted. Can have a distorted perception of physical form. When Saturn was transiting my 1st house I lost a lot of weight, but I didn’t seem to notice how skinny I looked. People would make commentary and I thought I looked fine. Looking back at photos I realize how malnourished and skinny I was. Neptune in the 1st can also cause a tendency to be addicted to anything. Most would say drugs, but for me it’s usually any hobby that can allow an obsessive escape from reality. Low self esteem can be present considering the elusive nature of the self.

Saturn in the 2nd house folks struggle with making a higher income or a comfortable salary throughout their life. However, Saturn in the 2nd is good with being frugal and budgeting. Usually can save really easily with this placement unless Saturn is severely debilitated.

Venus/Mars in Pisces and being attracted to someone weird, eccentric. They don’t have a consistent type and can date all different types of people.

Mars conjunct Venus aspect I’m so jealous and I want. People with mars conjunct Venus can be very attractive and flirty. Usually a chick/guy magnet. People fall in love with them easily. Attract a lot of attention in some form.

Chiron is very important in the solar return chart. Whatever house it is in will be healed but also broken down and injured in some way. Or there could be a discovery of a wound depending on what house will change the description. Ex:Chiron in 7th, struggle in partnership, may break up with current partner, attract difficult/emotionally stunted individuals. Chiron in the 1st can struggle with intense amount of doubt and low self esteem concerning the body and how they show up in the world. I do believe in a solar return chart the house Chiron resides in either heals in some form or the individual learns a pivotal lesson by the end of the year.

8th house synastry is emotionally taxing. I have this with my mom and other friends and it’s a lot. 8th house synastry usually there’s a obvious power dynamic. Or one person is more obsessed/attached than the other. 12th house synastry can also have unequal dynamics however I do think both individuals will feel a pull towards each other(whether they admit it or not). 12th house synastry although elusive has the potential to make you feel great comfortability and unconditional love.

Venus conjunct mars in synastry wasn’t all that for me. It felt superficial and we mainly connected on a sexual level.

Why does NO one talk about moon conjunct moon in synastry. I love it and it’s nice!! Depending on the moon I guess opinions can differ. However both people’s emotional waves will be similar and easily understood by the other. Allowing an easy process of being seen and heard. I connected deeply with men and women that I had this aspect with. It is sad and painful when the relationship ends because there’s a mutual understanding of each other.

9th house synastry is dope and I wish I experienced it more. There’s an opportunity to learn something or you are more open to learning new things from the other person. Depending on what planet/zodiac sign/ degree it can show what topics tend to expand in the presence of a 9th house intruder. Also morals can be similar or the same on politics, social issues, etc.

Mars in the 4th house synastry is hell. I don’t like it usually the mars person brings disruption or change in the home in some way. They can without trying cause emotional distress or upheavals in the 4th house person. Obviously if mars is strongly and comfortably placed I think this can lessen the effects. Such as if it’s in its domicile or exaltation. However if mars is struggling on it’s own in the natal chart I do think it’s a red flag 🚩. Considering the 4th house is the most sensitive and hidden house.Technically your ancestral background and emotional well being resides in the 4th house which can trigger a whole lot of things.

Usually people see 4th house as good because it’s home and family. However if your family lineage has generational trauma this area can be a trigger landmark. This is the house of your deepest, habitual characteristics that only come out when comfortable. It’s also traditions your family upheld which can be any… kind not just the standard example. Such as tendencies of toxicity or unhealthy habits that linger from previous generations.

#astrology observations #astrology

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black-lake · 2 years

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astro observations

Hi besties,

I have been studying and learning astrology for the past 4 years and this is my first astro observation, I have many yet to come. 🦊

Highlights: purpose, north node, neptune, jupiter, sun, mercury, fame, minor aspects, degrees, squares, moon, orbits.

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⭐️ Jupiter positive aspects to moon and sun especially conjunction makes someone smile a lot, or have a beautiful bright smile. You can't help but smile when they do. 🥺

⭐️ Mars conjunct Uranus or Neptune is definitely the "performer" aspect. It gives huge talent in dance and performance in general, so many iconic performers have this aspect. Uranus, unique way of moving the body and expressing oneself that can't be compared to no one. Neptune, mesmerizing way of moving and expressing emotion that can be addictive.

⭐️ Mercury conjunct Neptune is definitely the "signer" aspect. It gives enormous musical talent. Other positive/negative aspects give someone huge love for music and dance.

⭐️ Mercury aspecting North Node, an urge to use your voice through speaking or writing, singers, lawyers, journalists, tv show hosts and people who have to speak a lot, especially if aspecting MC too.

⭐️ Sun making any aspect to North Node (minor aspects included) is one of the biggest indicators of fame, especially square, quincunx, opposite and conjunct. This aspect means that the native has something that the public outwardly needs to elevate the collective, whether it's in their personality, outlook on life or a skill they have. One of the native's purpose is to put themselves out there and receive feedback whether positive or negative. The effect and feedback is rather visible, loud and changeable.

⭐️ Mars aspecting North node can also indicate public exposure especially when taking action like dancing, performing, acting, doing sports etc.

⭐️ The biggest indicator of fame imo is Neptune aspecting North Node (minor aspects included) especially square, trine, sextile, quintile, and quincunx. Keep in mind that this does not always have to mean the usual concept of "fame", but rather an influence on the public and a subconscious push and pull to it. The native usually has talents or rather energies that the collective needs, looks up to and admires. The native is influencing the collective for a subconscious change in behaviors, thoughts and ways of living. The effect and feedback is rather mysterious, fantasy based, obsessive and long term.

⭐️ Neptune here can sometimes mean toxic admiration like seeing someone as an absolute perfection which can lead both the public and the native to distorted perceptions and harmful coping mechanisms.

⭐️ Neptune trine, sextile, square MC tends to be in the chart of actors and musicians, neptune opposite, conjunct MC tends to be in the chart of models and tv personalities.

⭐️ Now if the native has both sun and neptune aspecting north node in a tight degree, possibly MC too. Oh boi, they have an excruciatingly strong urge and sense of purpose since a young age to be in the public eye and share parts of themselves and talents with people. They likely knew their purpose since a young age and trusted the universe. That's because part of their purpose is to receive "outer validation" using the skills and talents they acquired for their soul evolution. The feedback is what keeps them going. If they become too egoistic and forget their purpose they can receive major backlash and hate from the public, especially harsh aspects.

⭐️ Jupiter opposite/square moon, either too optimistic or too pessimistic with a hint of helpless optimism and sarcasm. (trust me I have this) :< It can also mean emotions surfacing and expanding out of nowhere. Wanting to understand your emotions. There's always a meaning for feeling a certain way, even if you don't know it.

⭐️ Also any Jupiter moon or mercury aspects, especially conjunctions, if someone tells you how they feel, you immediately start your philosophy session (I'm guilty of it) 💀 but in all fairness tho, you're always right or partially right about it. These aspects give this broad perspectives and understanding of life, although you can take it too far sometimes, given that they also didn't ask lol.

⭐️ When looking at your North Node, MC and Ascendant aspects it's essential to look at all minor aspects too and increase the orbs. Any aspect to these three points is relevant to your life and purpose. These are imo the most important points to look at in a chart. Minor aspects matter and matter a lot especially with the nodes.

⭐️ I disagree with astrologers saying that squares to the nodes are "skipped steps from a previous life", they are rather tense aspects that call the individual to take action consistently early on in life or suddenly at some point because the world won't wait for them and the timing is sensitive with the squares to the nodes. Especially if saturn is also involved in the mix. Individuals might feel that time stopped at a certain point or time won't stop and they need to act quickly.

⭐️ The north node is where we stand in the collective in terms of energy and perception. With squares and oppositions, not as flexible or free as trines and sextiles. The collective's world has many differences to the native's inner world, perception of the world or life in general. The energy matches at certain times where the universe nudges or forces these individual to take action or change something in their lives, and it's rather a difficult and transformative change (this applies to transits too). These aspects give me the feeling of your turn coming "too early or too late", either before the native is ready or after they gave up already.

⭐️ I advice that if you use astro.com to increase the orbs of the aspects to 145%. You can also do that if you use astro charts. Even though tight orbs are more prominent and obvious, wide orbs are very important too and still mean the exact same thing. They almost always answer my questions about a certain chart pattern that's missing! I take conjunctions and oppositions up to 13° sometimes 15°, trines and squares up to 12°, sextiles up to 9°, quincunxes up to 9, and quintiles up to 4°.

Love y'all 💛💛💛

#astrology #astro observations #astrology aspects #neptune aspects #north node #north node aspects #astrology orbs #degrees #astrology degrees #mercury #jupiter #fame aspects #north node squares #neptune #mars conjunct uranus #mercury conjunct neptune #jupiter opposite moon #sun square north node

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