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lunarduty · 3 months

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𝙏𝙐𝙍𝙉 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙂𝙃𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙊 𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙀

☾ 5 times simon scares you and 1 time you scare him. SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY X F!READER TAGS | canon-typical violence, slight nsfw, depictions of injuries WC | 6,405 x

it felt foolish, really, to be taking cover behind a vending machine.

there were few places to stay hidden that were still within view of your door, where you prayed ghost would reappear with a thumbs up and you can leave before somebody came up to buy a soda and you would have to pretend you weren’t cowering.

and apart from all that…it felt FOOLISH to even call ghost all the way down to the dorm building. on the phone, after calming you, he swore he wasn’t far. promised that you weren’t pulling him away from anything important. though, you figured even if he was having a meeting with a general all the way across base, he would’ve come anyway.

big or small, he never let you deal with things you weren’t equipped for. but this…

“simon?” you called out, hoping your voice seemed nonchalant. your eyes darted up and down the hall in case anybody showed up. still empty. nobody but simon would know. “is it done?”

carefully, you creep out from behind the vending machine. the door to your room was left ajar, and though you could see a tiny sliver of your carpet bathed in sunlight, there was no sign of simon or the intruder. your hand anxiously wrings itself, but you fought the urge to return to your hiding spot.

but why wasn’t he responding?

“fuck, fuck, fuck…” you breathe out once reaching the door. ears strain for a noise of any kind, but there’s just SILENCE. and so, with little choice, your boot comes out to nudge the door the rest of the way open. it slowly swings with a dull squeak - one that simon has been meaning to fix but never has.

it's the squeak that tells simon that you’ve finally found the guts to come back. he’s crouched by your dresser, back to you, head twisting halfway to glance back through the corner of his eye. “called me over for this?” he questions. and you expect to find a tinge of annoyance or frustration in his voice, but there was none. he sounds more amused than anything - you would’ve preferred if he was annoyed.

“is it done?” you repeat, bravely still standing in the doorway, on your toes to try and see over simon’s broad shoulders.

he sighs lowly and stands. “yeah, it’s done. now get dressed before you miss training.”

a relieved grin spreads over your face as you step in, fully prepared to walk straight up to simon and press a kiss on his cheek. call him your hero because you know it’ll either fluster him or goad him into staying a little longer - it really all depended on what kind of mood he was in.

but as he turned, holding a cup upside down against a sheet of paper, you froze. even scrambled back to the doorway, fully prepared to slam the door shut as protection. “simon, what the fuck-”

“relax, it can’t get out. ‘m gonna throw it outside.”

“i wanted you to KILL the damn thing, not let it loose outside so it can find its way back in!” simon takes a few steps toward the door, not caring about your proximity. and in a desperate attempt to stay far away, you bolt back inside and to the opposite end of the room.

simon looks unimpressed. “stop being dramatic. it’s just a spider.”

he swings the cup in your direction. a fearful whimper comes up, and you suddenly wish you’d armed yourself before being chased out of your own room. “simon, i swear to god, you better keep that thing away from me.” and by the way he pauses, silent as a mouse, you could tell he’s contemplating whether or not to keep up the torture. to keep teasing you about the little spider trapped behind the cup - but simon isn’t a stupid man. and he’s seen how vengeful you can get after soap or gaz pulls some shit on you.

“alright, alright,” simon finally relents. a relieved breath comes out once he takes a step back toward the door. “wanna come with? to make sure he’s gone?”

“no, no, i trust you to get the job done.” as if you wanna see that freaky little fucker again. “just make sure to let him go far away from my room, okay?”

“yes, ma’am.”

the room seemed so much larger when simon left. he took up so much space that he always left a feeling of emptiness in his wake. it usually made you feel a little lonely, and yearn for the next time he would be here to fill his place again. but between him and the spider, perhaps you’ve had enough company for today.

just as he said, you quickly changed into training gear. and it wasn’t until you were laces up your shoes did you hear an URGENT knock on the door, followed by simon’s voice calling your name. “i’m almost ready!” you answer him, not bothering to come and open the door.

he opens it anyway. the squeak is barely there from how quickly it swings open. that’s enough to draw your attention away from your shoes, and you notice instantly that simon’s eyes are roaming around your room - cup and paper at the ready. the look in his eyes is eerily similar to how he looks when an op goes sideways. “don’t panic,” simon says, tone flat and steady.

it only puts you more on edge. “simon…”

“i think the fucker must’ve escaped when you came in. was the only time i didn’t have eyes on ‘im. might still be in here, but since he’s scared, you probably won’t see-”

sneaker half-tied, in the middle of simon’s sentence, you jump up and sprint out of your room. maybe tonight you can have a good laugh at the fact a spider managed to make you clear a room quicker than bullets. but for now, it’s back behind the vending machine you go.

☾

IV.

adrenaline can be a blessing and a curse, depending on the situation. most times, it’s both.

like right now - there was little pain to inhibit your movements. a DULL throb at most to prove your opponent has gotten more than a few good hits in, but not blindingly painful enough to keep you on the ground. you felt the heat of swelling and the wetness of blood without the pain that came with it.

but just because you could keep getting up, doesn’t mean you should. the adrenaline, for all its benefits, seemed to be giving you some kind of delusions of grandeur. making you think you could kill this guy, even though doesn’t seem to be nearly as hurt as you are. like a little voice in your ear, telling you it’ll keep dulling the pain long enough for you to win this fight.

the voice usually sounded like simon. right now, it seemed to be scolding you more than encouraging you.

you stood. swung a fist. he blocks it and returns one of his own. it slams into your side. the air is knocked from your lungs. your head rushes out to slam into his nose. there’s a satisfying crunch, but it’s not enough. NOTHING ever seems like it’s enough to down him. a meaty hand grips your throat and throws you against the asphalt.

and like a cloud of vapor, the adrenaline bleeds away. every cut and bruise and swelled muscle rushes to scream in pain, but the only one you can really focus on is the hand on your neck. squeezing tight enough where you’re almost afraid he might rip muscle and break bone.

your feet start to kick. arms swinging out to try and hit him off. the man grunts, but doesn’t relent. “you fucking bitch,” are the only words you manage to hear through the pulsing blood in your ears.

maybe simon was right. you need more time in the training ring.

but just as the edges of your vision start to dance, the OPPRESSIVE weight on your neck is gone. your body instantly, instinctively, suck in the air it was deprived of - happily drowning in it by the way you cough and sputter. your arms and legs, numb and throbbing, push you away in anticipation of being attacked again.

it never comes. and once your lungs stop seizing, you can see why.

you’ve never really thought twice on why simon was called ghost. it always seemed to fit him perfectly and without doubt - a specter of a man, coming and going without a sound, not even allowing others to see his face.

for so long, you’ve seen him as simon rather than ghost. humanizing him in a way very few do. but right now, it’s like you’re getting a glimpse of how others see him. not the man who sneaks into your room at night with hushed whispers, or who drops everything to help get rid of a spider in your room, even though he thinks silly. simon had pulled your attacker off so easily. pinned him to the ground with a knee on his chest and further BREAKING his nose in the time it took you to gasp for air.

and now… jesus, now he won’t stop hitting him.

as the pulsing blood in your ears died away, you heard every crack of bone and squish of flesh. the man, who had been cursing you before, groaned unintelligibly after every strike of simon’s fist. mimicking your movements of desperately swinging his arms but failing to actually hit anything important. and simon, he didn’t make a sound. didn’t swear or yell or so much as grunt as he continued his attacks. on the surface, one might think it was a cold and detached beating, but you knew him better. simon was never so obvious in his rage.

still, this version of simon chilled you. in a way he’s never done before.

“simon…”

your voice was small - whether from pain or fear, it’s unclear. it didn’t need to be a shout. simon stops immediately, fist raised up for another strike but it’s never delivered. and now that he’s stopped, it’s easier to see him. to see the rapid falling and rising of his chest, and the way his other hand grips the coat of his victim. to see how he had a knife tucked into its sheath, never used.

you blink, and he’s suddenly over you - skull mask dirty from the mission, now dotted in a fresh splattering of blood. a sharp and UNEASY contrast from his eyes, which are soft. concerned. still hot in a way a campfire is - welcomed to chase away the cold, but dangerous if you got too close. “you okay?” simon asks. his voice is gruff, but unchanged.

somehow unchanged. even after beating a man to death.

when you don’t respond, he brings a hand up to your neck, where the first blotches of bruises have begun to bloom. he uses his unbloodied hand, yet you flinch away from it. as if it’s a hot branding iron. as if simon would ever use his hand on you like he did on someone who’d just hurt you.

his hand instantly pull back. “you’re alright,” he continues, thinking you’re probably just in shock. maybe you were, but your eyes fall to his STAINED hand. “c’mon, love. gotta get you outta here.”

simon wasn’t afforded the luxury of not being able to touch you when both his hands grip your arms and pull you up to your feet. once he gets you walking, it’s a little easier to come out of the fog. easier to remember the mission, especially as you walk further and further from the detour.

he still grips your arm tight, speaking about their next plans, captain price’s orders, a new target. important things you should be listening to.

your head twists around, and you catch sight of the broken body simon left behind just before he pulls you out of sight from it.

☾

III.

the cold should’ve chased you back inside long before now. before it had a chance to sting your eyes and numb your nose and stop making your breaths come out thick and white. price came out an hour ago to smoke, cursed the weather, and insisted you keep your watch from inside. but he didn’t force you - maybe he recognized that look on your face. knew you needed the silence of snow.

the world outside of the rickety cabin the team sheltered in was dark and still, the only light coming from the way the snow reflected the moon’s light. in any other circumstance, it’d be a beautiful sight. one you’d drag simon out of bed to see - he’d grumble and scowl but stay anyway to keep you warm.

he still would, if you asked him now. after today, it was made so abundantly CLEAR what exactly he’d do for you. how far he’d go for you. such knowledge felt a little too heavy to hold. too bright to focus on clearly, like trying to stare at the sun during an eclipse.

maybe that’s why you wanted to stay out here, preferring to watch a dark treeline than face the sun.

but much like the force of nature that it is, the sun will always rise. simon will always find his way back to you.

“aren’t you cold?”

his voice was rough and grated by sleep - and came so completely by surprise that it made you gasp in a lungful of frozen air. the adrenaline from the fight had faded long ago, but a soldier is never too far from feeling it again, CRASHING like a wave on a beach.

you swung around, fingers curled into a sore fist, aiming in the general direction of the voice. it was too dark to see even the stark white of the mask he wears, but in your head, he wore the face of your attacker. it faded between before and after. between healthy and scowling and bloody and fearful. when he caught your wrist, the hard grip of his hand was too similar. he was wearing gloves - the feel of his skin not even offering its usual comfort.

“hey! relax, it’s me. calm down. it’s just us.”

fearful instinct had you wrenching your arm back, and simon thankfully released it. but your heart still thumped painfully, skin erupting in goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold. you backed away from simon, leaning against the worn wooden fence of the front porch, and dug your nails into it.

for a few moments, simon was quiet. you felt his eyes on you, but couldn’t bear to meet them. because you know what he’s thinking. what he’s about to say. you want to stall it for as long as possible, but simon was still very much a force of nature. “not gonna bother asking if you’re okay,” he says. better that he didn’t. “you should go inside. get some rest. had a long day, love.”

“i’m not tired,” is your flat response. voice hoarse with disuse, weak with the ebbing of new adrenaline. and even as you say it, your body makes a liar out of you.

simon sighs and steps closer. the tilt of his head is outlined with moonlight. it’s always shocking how beautiful he can be without even showing his face. “something’s off, i know it is. you’ve been in fights before - plenty of ‘em. why’s this one so different?”

you scoff at his words, and for the first time in a while, your breath comes out white and thick. “you’re really asking me that? after today? simon, you beat a man to death. with your hands.”

even as you say it, you know how it sounds. how he’ll respond. you have to listen to it anyway.

“i kill men all the time.”

“yeah, but this… this was different.”

your eyes drop to the ground, as if in SHAME. ashamed of what, it was hard to tell. simon wasn’t heartless, but he was an efficient killer. to him, it was just part of his job. something he avoids if he can, but does if he must. you can’t see his eyes, but you know how they must look. “it wasn’t,” he says, like a fact. “he tried to kill you. almost did it, too. if you think i’d let anybody do that, you must not know me well, sweetheart.”

this time, you’re the one who’s silent. there’s more you want to say, but it’s impossible to find the words. how to fully describe how you feel - especially to simon, of all people. so, with little else to add, you just nod. your shoulders go slack, and maybe he’s right. you should get some rest.

you can’t even say so before he closes the distance. hands on your shoulders, pausing for a moment to look at your face, and pulls you against him in a tight, grounding hug. compared to the icy air that’s been your only companion these last few hours, simon’s heat was both intrusive and welcomed. his arms wrap around you, squeezing tight, and you barely think twice before hugging him back.

“i’m not sorry for saving you. i’d do it again, if i had to. ain’t pretty, but i would.” his hand runs up and down your back - meant to be a calming action, despite barely being able to feel it through your thick coat. still, his voice was doing more than enough to calm you. “still, i’m sorry.”

it’s unclear what he was apologizing for if not for beating a man to save you. the words still give a bit of closure. help the image of bloodied hands and flailing limbs ebb from your mind, tucked away to surely REEMERGE on another dark day.

but at least you know simon will be there when it does.

☾

II.

“looks like you’ll be on the mend in no time! i’ll tell captain price we can’t have any more fun until you’re back in top shape.”

gaz, above all others, always had this special ability to lift your mood. swollen bruises hinder the smile he elicits, but it shines nonetheless. “like that’ll stop him.” your words don’t exactly match the smile you attempt to give gaz - and not just because the nurse tied your bandage just a little too tight.

he picks up on it. steps closer to the cot, so he can speak and not be overheard by the nurses of the infirmary. “what’s bugging you?” he asks. “your injuries aren’t too bad. i doubt price will keep you benched for long.”

“it’s not price i’m worried about.”

his brows knit together, and then he blinks. you have to look away when gaz offers a sympathetic smile. “you saved his life. ghost might be a little CROSS for a few days, but at least he’s alive to even be upset. this could’ve ended a lot worse.”

gaz makes sense, of course. he usually does. but even his sensible words don’t lighten the weight on your chest - a weight that seems to grow when a shadow appears in the doorway of the infirmary. simon doesn’t spend too much time here. price has gotten on his ass about not going enough. so the fact that he showed up willingly doesn’t bode well.

“lieutenant,” gaz greets with a light tone. it was nice that he even attempted to keep simon in a better mood, but one glance up from the ground was enough to read his posture. tight and RIGID like a fist. like a held breath. the moments before a storm hits the shore.

“you’re dismissed, sergeant.”

it’s hard not to flinch at simon’s order, as if were another blow to take. and for a brief moment, gaz hesitates. you watch him, half-hoping he finds an excuse to stay. but with nothing but a pitiful glance at you, he simply dips his head and makes for the door.

the stretch of silence, in reality, isn’t as long as it feels. a few seconds maybe, but it feels like minutes. buried under simon’s gaze, unable to breathe or move or speak. it makes you wonder when simon gained so much control over you - he would argue the opposite. tell you how wrapped around your finger he is and blame you for it before kissing you.

“simon-”

“tell me why.”

you blink in confusion, and finally drag your eyes up to meet his. face hidden beneath his mask, it’s always his eyes that allow you a glimpse into how he’s feeling or what he’s thinking. but strangely, it’s easy to forget just who simon is. what he is. and you don’t find a single thing hiding in his gaze. “why what?”

“i know you’re not a fucking IDIOT, so that can’t be why you acted like one today.” his words still stung, even if they weren’t exactly an insult. again, your eyes drop - this time, out of shame. a weird sort of shame. one that you feel is unwarranted but forces its way in regardless.

“you were in trouble,” you start, “so i saved you.”

“i had it under control. you were ordered to fall back. you disobeyed. that’s all there is to it.”

in spite of his words, harsh and SHARP as a knife, you look up at him. spine straight, shoulders squared, much of your sheepish shame melting away under heat of anger. “you could’ve died, simon! was i just supposed to leave you behind? save myself?”

“yes!” he barks - and like an angry dog, he stalks forward. eyes narrowed, muscles tight, ready to lash out with teeth if you’d been literally anybody else on this planet. rarely, if ever, are you the subject of simon’s temper. you know he doesn’t intend to come off as frightening. not to you - never you. still, his presence is a looming shadow and you might as well be afraid of the dark. “you always save yourself, do you understand? if it comes down to me or you, it better fucking always be you.”

“simon, you’re asking me to not even try to ever save your life.” and dammit, tears start to pool in your eyes. prompted by fear and anger and exhaustion and worry and the implications of what simon is saying. you bring up a hand to wipe them away, knowing more will follow. “i- i can’t do that. not any more than you can.”

a harsh sigh rolls out of his lungs, and he thankfully steps away from the cot to pace beside it. his boots land heavily against the ground. he says nothing, but you can practically hear him say what he wants to say. anticipate hearing it. feel it hit you like a knife in the heart.

but he’s always finding ways to surprise you - as unpredictable as a storm.

“captain price asked my opinion of whether or not you need some time out of the field after your little stunt.” this time, simon’s words aren’t as loudly obvious of his anger - they’re hard and cold like winter ice. a way to detach his feelings. it still makes you whirl your head around to face him. “i suggested you should take some time off.”

“no, you didn’t.”

“i did.”

despite the deep, SHARP ache in your muscles, you spring off the cot. hands curling into fists, a harsh and breathy version of his name spouting out like steam. “you can’t just do that! i save your life - like you saved mine - and you want to punish me for it? that’s not fair!”

“i’m your lieutenant. i can make judgment calls when i see fit. orders exist for a reason - you can’t just ignore them when they’re inconvenient for you.”

“oh, fuck the orders, simon. you’re just being overprotective by keeping me from doing my fucking job. yeah, i got hurt. that doesn’t give you the right to bench me.”

the words tumble from your mouth, more heated and angry than you probably meant but everything ached and you were exhausted and this was the worst time to hear about this. simon didn’t respond at first - it was then when you remembered you were still in the infirmary. when you glance around, the nurses quickly avert their gazes away from the scene.

your face grows warm as simon steps closer. looming over you with his brows knitted together and a gaze that FREEZES the heat of embarrassment. it takes a willpower you didn’t know you possessed not to shrink under it. “get some rest. i don’t want to see you working for a week,” he states. another order he’s daring you to disobey, it seems.

the brush of his arm as he leaves might as well have been a shoulder check. it hurt almost as much.

☾

five days had passed. a day ago, your muscles stopped aching. two days ago, soap took pity on you and snuck in some reports on their upcoming mission because you were so bored. three days ago, gaz tried to take your mind off things by taking you out to lunch, and was the only one making conversation. four days ago, price came around to see how you were doing and give some anecdotes about his own rocky experiences. five days ago was the last time you even saw simon.

which was along the lines of his orders, only you took it a step further, just so he couldn’t say you were disobeying him yet again: not seeing you at all.

usually five days would have you clawing at the walls to even catch a glance at simon across the room, but with your last conversation repeating in your head, it acted as a BALM to the ache of being away from him. a wake up call when you were alone in bed, thinking about how easily he can get you to sleep.

but simon-induced insomnia was definitely a drawback. midnight came and went without a wink of sleep for the third night in a row. so when a series of insistent knocks pounded on your door, it was almost a blessing. something to do and blame on for the lack of sleep.

stumbling through the dark, shivering slightly from the loss of a lukewarm bed, you make it to the door and swing it open. “hello?”

in your groggy mind, you’d predicted that maybe it was a drunken soap and gaz stopping by after a night of drinks. or more hopefully, price suddenly deciding to cut your leave time short under dire circumstances.

simon’s presence was itself like a ghost tonight. there and not there. he stood imposingly, and when you blinked, his body was looser. he said nothing for a few brief moments, and it made you wonder if you really were looking at him.

but the weight of his hands on your shoulders was unmistakeable. and when he backed you into your room, you caught a hint of his scent, and it suddenly reminded you of all the times he’d come here late at night. quickly tugging him inside before anyone can see. this was similar but different. just slightly off, like the very first day summer turns to autumn.

you try to say his name, but it comes out more like a FEARFUL yelp. hands coming up to grasp his wrists, unsure of his intentions and past experiences with men much bigger than you only makes things more blurry.

it’s in his grip on your shoulders, harder and more desperate. it’s in the way he kicked the door shut behind him, not caring if others in the hall may hear. it’s in the way he backs you into the wall, hand coming up to protect your head but also crushing your body with his own.

“simon,” you gasp, but your misgivings are cut off when he crashes his lips against yours.

he’s only ever kissed you like this once before. after a mission gone HORRIBLY wrong, and he was blaming himself. you went to him, knowing he’d isolate and not allowing it. wanting to be there for him, and the only way you really could was to distract him from the knowledge of his own fuck up.

he doesn’t reply with words. just a short hum that thunders in his chest - with how close he holds you, it’s impossible not to feel it vibrate your own ribs. it isn’t until your hands are on his arms, gripping tightly, do you feel the cold dampness of rain that left its mark on him. how long has he been outside? why did he walk here in the middle of the night during a storm?

his muscles are hard and taut under your fingers. the temptation to simply feel them stretch and flex, letting simon have his way with you, was undeniably strong.

but you haven’t seen him in five days.

when you push him away, simon relents. but he doesn’t go too far. you taste his toothpaste on your tongue and realize he’s wearing an old t-shirt under his wet jacket - a failed attempt to sleep, it seems. you knew the feeling too well.

“why are you here?” a bit of embarrassment rises at the sound of your own voice - it sounds too SOFT and pliable, especially against the silence of night and a distant roll of thunder. you meant it to be harder. simon deserved a bit of attitude. but… well, it’s been five days.

his thumb caress over a little spot on your shoulder. a flash of lightning reveals his expression - he wasn’t hiding. “to talk,” simon replies in a stony voice.

the sound of it makes you shiver. it was hard and rough and reminded you a little too much of your last conversation. and with him looming over you, trapped between him and the wall, it was hard not to feel small again. to try and square up against a titan like simon, even if you feel the outline of his cock slowly begin to press against your stomach.

he leans in to kiss you again - another contradiction. but you keep him away, and your hands hold him back is like a leash on a dog. “i don’t know if we have anything to talk about.”

“i’m sorry, alright? i’m sorry. i’m…” he trails off with a sigh, head lowering as if to break eye contact. with the dark of night and his silence, it’s hard to gauge what he’s thinking. how he’s feeling. but you do know that simon rarely ever apologizes. not so outright, anyway. maybe a cup of tea exactly the way you like it after a little disagreement, or a kiss on the cheek if he annoyed you. never this.

he doesn’t try to kiss you again - when he leans back in, it’s to press his head against yours. “i love you. you know that, right?”

your hands grip his arms tighter. not to keep him away, but to stop him from leaving again. “yes,” you breathe out.

“if anything ever happens to you, and i could’ve stopped it…” another sigh comes out - HARSHER this time. as if the thought itself riles simon up. “maybe i was being overprotective, yeah? shouldn’t’ve gone that far. i told price earlier today that he outta include you on the next op. he agreed.”

“simon.” his name is a whisper. a morning mist. your hands finally drop from his arms, and he wastes no time in getting close again. large arms wrapping around your body - and even in the dead of night, his lips find yours with no hesitation.

you expect the kiss to be rougher than it was. a kiss after so long apart from each other usually includes a graze of teeth or his tongue chasing yours. instead, it’s slower. gentle in a way that simon has learned to be. lips interlocking with yours as if holding your hand, and you don’t even notice you’re close to crying until he breaks it to breathe and your throat aches.

“‘m sorry.” his hands slide from your shoulders to curve around each cheek, as if he’s cradling something precious. but when lightning strikes again, it must’ve been much closer than last time - it completely lights up simon’s face for the briefest moment. and the way he’s watching you is opposite from how he talks and touches.

“i know.” tired of feeling his cold, damp coat, your hands push it aside to press against the hard, hot plane of his torso. simon lets out a shaky breath, which turns into a hitch when you greedily push the offensive old cotton of his shirt up to touch his skin - utterly untouched by the rain and it nearly BURNS you.

“‘m sorry.” he curls against you, face burying into your neck and hips grinding lightly against yours. he’s wearing jeans, but you’re wearing shorts - it’s plain as day how much he’s missed you. or more truthfully, how hard it makes him at the thought of making up for his asshole behavior with his tongue and hands and cock.

one of your legs is pushed up and out to make room for his hips - curling around his thigh and being utterly dependent on him and the wall to stay upright. “simon, please…”

“forgive me?”

beneath the rough GRATING of his voice - the way it gets when simon is so close to just ripping your clothes off and having you against the closest hard surface - you heard a tinge of amusement. teasing, as if he didn’t just apologize for the worst fight you’ve ever had and isn’t still on thin ice.

in his favor, it’s hard to be angry with someone when they’re pushing their hand down the front of your shorts. waiting on your answer before sinking a finger in and stretching you out.

there’s no hesitation. you answer at the same time your hips buck forward, forcing simon to slide his fingers against your cunt. knowing he couldn’t stop once he realized how soaked you were. how you’d forgiven him the moment he darkened your doorstep and gave you a fright in the middle of the night.

“yes.”

☾

growing up, simon always associated fear with weakness. cowardice. a flaw in his character. it’s just a thing he left behind in his childhood next to his teddy bear. in spite what his reputation may say, he still feels the inklings of fear now and again. apprehension before a big mission. concern about his comrades. maybe some trepidation in the seconds before shit really hits the fan.

but the white hot horror that hit him when a building collapsed right on top of you? a TERROR so paralyzing, simon could barely scream your name, much less run to you?

that wasn’t something he had too much experience in.

it took soap shoving him from behind to get simon to move his legs. slam his boots against the dirt, calling out your name in a hollow hope he’d hear you call his back. not that he’d even hear it with the blood pulsing in his ears, still ringing from the explosion, soap and gaz both yelling your name alongside him.

simon reached the wreckage first - the dust and dirt floating in the air was still thick, and even through his mask, he tasted it. coughed on it. ignored it to start tearing back wood and stone and steel. where were you when the building got hit? on the edge, or right in the center? fuck, simon can’t even remember. he swore he saw you by the stairs, but you were still running, so maybe you were at the door by the time the walls started falling?

“fuck, fuck, fuck…” sand gritted between his teeth as he cursed. his glove had a hole in the palm and he’s pretty sure the splintered wood cut him there but he can’t feel it. not when simon keeps expecting to shove aside a rock and find your broken, battered body.

“lieutenant!”

he nearly snarled at gaz’s voice, not bothering to look up. “look over there! call rescue services - tell ‘em we need excavation teams!” simon threw a hand in the general direction of a pile of rubble.

bloody hell, he was right. he felt so fucking GUILTY recommending you off the op and he was right. simon’s suddenly wishing he’d just grown a fucking backbone against you for once. put his foot down and just faced the brunt of your anger because then you wouldn’t be trapped under debris in some god forsaken country.

“ghost, stop a second!”

you always told him how jealous you were of him. ‘things would be so much easier for me if i was as fearless as you.’

fuck, what would you say if you knew his hands were shaking so badly, he could barely grip pieces of debris? that his terror CHOKED him more than the smoke. that he couldn’t decide which frightened him more - finding you broken or not finding you at all.

“simon.”

again, he froze. a decade of war and fighting and blood, and simon has frozen twice in one day.

“hey, you okay?”

“yeah, i think i am.”

“anything broken?”

“other than the building?”

“yer real fuckin’ funny, lass. sure price’ll like that one when he finds out you almost got caught in all ‘at.”

when simon turns, he can’t even blame the smoke or his fucked up head for seeing you standing there, completely fine. leaning on gaz for what seems like a hurt foot, and taking soap’s canteen to wash down the smoke. but alive. smiling. turning and looking at him and motioning him over.

he’s silent as he stumbles back. boot slipping on loose debris here and there, but nothing that would stopped him from getting to you.

and once he’s close, you push off of gaz. knowing simon would catch you and hold you, and that’s what he fucking does. not truly believing you were okay until he felt you breathing against him. heard your voice right against his chest. “i’m okay, si. got out just in time. calm down.”

“i am calm.”

he wasn’t lying. he’s never lied to you. the flash of fear ran hot but burned out fast, already fading into a reassured calm - still as ash.

his eyes fall shut for a moment before you speak up again. "simon, don't be mad..."

he tenses up at your words, fingers suddenly clutching a little tighter. fuck, do you ever give him a break? "what's wrong?" simon asks, pulling back to really look at you. eyes scanning every inch, thinking maybe you were hurt more than he thought and wondering why he would be UPSET about it.

"i changed my mind." his eyes dart back up at your answer. "i want to take some time off."

new bruises were forming over old bruises on your face. but when you smiled, simon thought it was just about the best thing he's ever seen.

"i was thinking the same thing."

#call of duty x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x y/n

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mrworldwideshoulders · 9 months

Text

all the wrong places || reader x myg

After getting separated from your friends during a night out, you get stuck with a hefty bill – one that you can’t pay. So when a handsome, emotionless stranger covers your tab in a random act of kindness, you’re determined to track him down and pay him back. inspired by 24K Magic by Bruno Mars.

‣ Pairing: reader x yoongi (dual pov; feat. JK and Jimin) ‣ WC: 6.1k ‣ Genre: slight angst, fluff, strangers to lovers ‣ Warnings: alcohol consumption, reader and jimin joke about her being an alcoholic 🤪 (psa fr tho, please drink responsibly), credit card debt, yoongi (gently) manhandles the reader, bouncer!jungkook and his tattoos, jeon jungkook being freaking annoying, unrealistic scenarios that could only happen in a fic (is it fate, or is it just fanfiction?), reader in her dumb bitch era (said lovingly) ‣ a/n: same yoongi from my fics bang bang and give me novacaine; different y/n tho. i’d def recommend checking those two out first (though for this one i don’t think you really have to unless you’d like more backstory). i like this fic a lot and i think it’s cute so i hope you enjoy it too! as always, bannered and beta’d by the amazing april aka @onmypillow-onmytable, plus credit for the general idea of this story! 😘 thx! ly – robyn ‣ P.S. I do not own BTS, their likenesses, or the music of Bruno Mars, they just inspire me.

part of the 24k magic collection (masterlist)

This might actually be the worst night of your life. Or at the very least, one of the most embarrassing ones.

Your friends, who were supposed to be splitting the bar tab with you, have all but evaporated into thin air, and you’re so far gone you can’t even remember when you saw them last. And it’s starting to dawn on you, as your credit card declines for the third time, that you may have overdone it – in more ways than one. Declining once, that’s normal. Two times, that’s just bad luck. Three times declined, however, that’s just embarrassing. If there were ever a time you wished you were more proactive about budgeting and keeping your credit card paid off, it would be now. It’s not the end of the world, of course. You just won’t get your credit card back tonight, and you’ll have to come all the way back over here to retrieve it at some point – after you go home and recover enough of your senses to pay off some of the balance on your card. But going without your credit card for any length of time makes you anxious for some reason, and having to come back over here just for that doesn’t particularly fit into your already busy schedule.

“Are you sure you don’t have another card?” The bartender that’s trying to close out your tab looks at you pointedly as you’re rummaging through your bag. You can feel the weight of his judgmental gaze all over you.

“No, but, listen,” you ramble, face hot with a mixture of shame and too much alcohol. “I wasn’t supposed to be the one paying for everything. My friends, they stuck me with the bill, and I really need—”

“Sounds like you don’t have very good friends.” He stares you down unsympathetically. “Either cough up or get out.”

“Can’t you just…give me my card back?” you manage helplessly. You feel tears of frustration starting to form behind your eyes. “I’ll come back and pay you tomorrow. I’m good for it. Really. I just have to—” Rearrange my entire bank account, pay off my credit card, reevaluate my whole life, and promise to stick to a budget from here on out, no matter how much Jimin and Nayeon want to go out drinking. Yeah. That’ll last about a week.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” grumbles a low, irritated voice from behind you. You turn to find a man dressed completely in black, with dark eyes and an expressionless face shrouded under a heavy curtain of black hair. He hands the bartender a sleek black card. “Here. Will you leave her alone now? Go back to pretending to do your job or something.” Your eyes widen. Who is this guy? And what is he doing?

The bartender eyes you sullenly and hands you back your card. You turn to the man to thank him, but he’s already walking away, being swallowed up by the crowd. “Hey!” you call. “Wait up!” You push clumsily after him, jostling people left and right as you try to catch up with him. He’s at the front door before you’re finally able to tap him on the shoulder.

“Now what?” he snaps.

“I just wanted to thank you,” you say breathlessly, taken aback by his brusque reply. “For what you did back there. I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate it. I was about to cry because of that guy, and then you just appeared out of nowhere to save the day. You must be my guardian angel or something.”

He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Trust me, I’m no angel.”

Your cheeks seem to flush all over again and you almost forget the other reason you chased after him in the first place. “Oh! Money! I can repay you.”

His face doesn’t change. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.”

“But…it’s money.” Your face falls in disbelief. “Of course it’s a big deal. And I don’t like owing people anything. Especially money.”

“Well, I’m not big on people feeling like they owe me anything either.” He shrugs. “So consider it forgotten. And stop following me.” He pushes through the front doors and out onto the street.

You start after him again, but you stumble on your way out the door, falling almost directly into the bouncer’s well-muscled arms, one of which is adorned in a full sleeve of tattoos that recedes under the sleeve of his black t-shirt. “Careful,” he says, steadying you on your feet.

“Um – thank you,” you manage. “That guy I was following. Did you see where he went?”

“Down there.” He points you toward the taxi stand. “He’s not bothering you, is he?”

“No, it’s just – I need to talk to him, but he keeps running away from me.” You march wobbily toward the man from before. “Hey! You!”

He sighs resignedly and turns around. “Do you make a habit of following random men out of nightclubs?”

“Only when they do me favors and won’t let me pay them back.” You plant yourself in front of him, arms crossed.

“Look, I told you not to worry about it.” He scowls. “Do you really want to do something for me? Go home, pay your credit card bill, and forget you ever met me. You’ll only hurt yourself if you don’t.”

“Suppose I don’t want to.” You gaze defiantly into his eyes. “Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s a warning. I’d listen if I were you.” A taxi pulls up, and he grabs you by the arm, firmly, but loose enough that you could break away if you needed to, and pushes you inside. “Go home.” The door slams, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk.

“Well?” says the driver impatiently. “Where to?”

You stammer out your address, still too stunned to think about anything else. Who was that guy? And what was that about a warning? He doesn’t seem like a bad person – why else would he have paid a stranger’s bar tab?

Forget you ever met me. You’ll get hurt if you don’t.

Why did he say that? You don’t know why, and you’re still far too drunk to figure it out tonight, but one thing is for certain.

You’re going to track him down. And you’re going to pay him back.

Jungkook whistles as Yoongi heads back toward him. “That was a close one.”

“Too close,” mutters Yoongi. “She could have blown the whole thing.”

“What did you do, anyway? Weren’t you supposed to be blending in?”

Yoongi shrugs. “The bartender was harassing her about her tab and her card wouldn’t go through, so I paid it for her. She wanted to repay me.” He thinks back to the look on your face, like you were about to burst into tears at any moment. A strange, unfamiliar surge of protectiveness in his chest, one that he hadn’t felt since he’d recruited Jungkook all those years ago. ”I told her she didn’t have to, but.”

“Aww.” Jungkook slaps Yoongi good-naturedly on the shoulder. “See, hyung? You’re a good guy after all.”

“Hah,” he scoffs under his breath. “No. I’ve just gotten soft, that’s all. I’ll probably regret it in a day or two. No good deed goes unpunished and all that.”

“You say ‘soft’ like it’s a bad thing.”

“Maybe not, maybe so.” Yoongi sighs, running a hand through his hair. “We should get back to work. We’ll stick around here until closing, then debrief in the morning.”

“All right.” Jungkook nods, resuming his post near the front doors, despite the sidewalk in front of the club now empty at one o’clock, an hour before closing. “I’ll be here.”

Yoongi heads back inside, his head still filled with thoughts of you, that defiant expression on your face when you’d asked him what would happen if you refused to forget him. Anyone else would have just accepted this good deed and carried on as if nothing had even happened, or worse, they would have screamed at him, told him he was overstepping and a creep, to fuck off and leave them alone. Why hadn’t you screamed at him? He’d even grabbed you, a stranger – and a woman – by the arm to push you into the cab. Yoongi knew for sure he’d overstepped there. You just didn’t do that when you were a man, not in this day and age – especially not when you were a man with a past like his. Even someone as supposedly stupid as he was knew that much. Why, he wondered, were you so intent on repaying him? Had no one ever done anything nice for you before? Purely for the hell of it, never expecting anything in return? The two of you must have something in common, then. No one had ever done anything like this for him – with the exception of Hoseok – but that was different. Hoseok was his friend, for one thing, and didn't understand the concept of taking no for an answer. At least Yoongi knew to just say thank you and get on with his life, instead of trying to push it. A chuckle rises in the back of his throat before he can stop it, and he swallows it down almost as quickly as it came, shoving aside the thoughts of you along with it.

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he forges back into the depths of the club. There was something about you, something that made you want to insist upon repaying a random man that had just done you a favor, something innocent, idealistic, even, that made him want to protect you. Something that made him want to know you, even if it was only as friends, to explore your thoughts, to live inside your head for just a day, to find out just what, exactly, was going on in there. But he would never allow himself to get close enough to discover what that was – or risk you doing the same. Someone like him and someone like you – that could be dangerous.

Especially someone like you.

As it’s beginning to turn out, tracking down your angel in black – that’s what you’ve been calling him – is far easier said than done. Somehow you’d stumbled up to your apartment after the cab dropped you off, and from there you’d somehow managed to let yourself inside and fall face-first into your bed, where you’d slept soundly until late the next morning, awakening with a pounding head and a foggy recollection of the man from last night, convinced the whole thing had to have been a dream and that your credit card, at this very moment, was probably stashed behind the counter of that bar. Or so you thought, because it’s definitely there when you go to check your wallet. That man, the angel in black – he was definitely real – and that means his warning was real too. The only problem is…you don’t have his name, and the only thing you can remember was that he was dark-haired and wearing all black – which could be literally any man in Seoul. Now it’s Wednesday, a week later, and you’re staring at your screen, open to a browser window that’s now littered with the failed remnants of your search, and rest your chin on your hand with a sigh. Ugh, what was I even thinking? How am I going to find some guy on the internet when I don’t even know his name and I can barely remember what he looks like? Talk about a needle in a haystack. You’re supposed to be working, as in, doing your actual job, but you haven’t been able to focus all week, and you've been off your game since that night.

“What are you so laser-focused on over here?” comes Jimin’s lightly chiding voice from over your shoulder. His sudden appearance makes you jump and knock your hand into your half empty mug, causing a small wave of tepid coffee to slosh onto your desk.

“Damn it, Jimin, you scared me!” You hurriedly reach for the wad of napkins you keep in the top drawer of your desk. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You know I startle easily.”

“Sorry.” Jimin grins mischievously and leans in to take a closer look at your screen. “Y/n, are you seriously still looking for your mystery man? It’s been a week. You know, if he wanted you to find him he would have at least told you his name. Or slipped you his number. He was probably just being nice. People do that sometimes. Like on those hidden camera shows where little kids will ask you to help them cross the street or tie their shoes. Just accept it and move on already. He’s clearly not that worried about it. You said he had a black card, right? That kind of money is probably nothing to him.”

You finish mopping up the coffee and heave another sigh, sitting back in your chair. “I know It’s stupid. And I’m definitely wasting my time. But he saved my ass in a really big way. I can’t just move on like nothing happened. There has to be some way for me to pay him back. And besides…” You debate whether you should tell Jimin what he told you before he shoved you into a taxi. “He told me to just forget I ever met him, that I’d get hurt if I didn’t. I know it’s a bad idea to keep looking at this point, but you can’t just say something like that and expect me to forget about it. It only makes me want to find him even more.”

"That’s a weird thing for anyone to say," says Jimin, leaning against your desk, "but I suppose that's your choice, even if I do think you’re only setting yourself up for disappointment."

"Thank you for the vote of support." You run your hands backwards through your hair and hum thoughtfully. "I guess I could always not pay my credit card bill and hope that it summons him out of the abyss to save my ass again."

"Then he'll think you're trying to scam him instead of repaying him.” Jimin pats your shoulder. "Cheer up, y/n. Maybe you'll find him. Maybe you won't. But we've got a meeting about the new skincare line in about…" He checks his watch. "...two minutes? And they'll kill us if we're both late so maybe put a pin in that for now?"

Of course, your actual job, the main reason you're able to have a credit card in the first place. "Shit, you're right. I completely forgot about that." You stand and gather your meeting materials into your arms. "What would I do without you, Park Jimin?"

"Mm, probably lose your job?" He straightens up and smirks.

"Mean." You slap him lightly on the arm. "I wouldn't even be looking for this guy if you and Nayeon hadn't ditched and left me with your billion dollar bar tab."

Jimin chuckles. "Okay, true, but need I remind you that you were responsible for most of it anyway?" He makes a tutting noise as you're walking down the hall. "Honestly, it's unnatural how much alcohol you can put away.”

"Please," you scoff, pushing open the door to the conference room. "I just have a high tolerance. It takes practice. You’ll get there one day."

“God, I hope not.” Jimin looks horrified at the prospect. “No offense.”

The meeting drags on, well into the afternoon, and your mind continues to wander in the direction of your angel in black, no matter how hard you try to pay attention to the subject at hand. Normally you’d be rapt with attention – skincare is your area of expertise, after all, and it’s been your dream to work at a cosmetics company ever since high school – but for the life of you, you just can’t seem to shake him from your memory and focus on your work.

Wait. The bouncer. He was standing there the whole time you were arguing with the guy. That sleeve of tattoos was pretty distinctive-looking; you’d definitely remember it if you saw it again. It would be way easier to find him than the guy in black. And he works there. He’s more likely to be there than the other guy. Maybe he remembers something you don’t.

As soon as the meeting ends, you hurry back to your desk, intent on getting all of today’s work finished by the time it hits six o’clock so you won’t have to work late, and spend the rest of the afternoon in a state of hyperfocus, only noticing that time has passed when you see that most of your coworkers are getting ready to leave. “Jimin.” You sidle up to him as he’s shrugging into his coat. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Probably just going to head home and—” He stops and narrows his eyes. “You’re up to something, aren’t you? Is this still about that guy?”

“I was thinking we could go back to that club,” you say earnestly. “There was this bouncer outside, and – well, I don’t really remember what he looked like either, but I’d know him if I saw him. I’m sure of it. I want to ask him if he remembers anything from last week. Maybe he knows something about this guy.”

“Y/n, it's Wednesday." Jimin says. “That place is going to be dead. I doubt anyone will be there, let alone your mystery man.”

You make your best pouting expression. “You’ll come with me, right? For moral support?”

“Fine.” Jimin sighs. “If it'll get you to stop fixating on this guy, I'm all for it. But you're buying me dinner.”

You throw your arms around him. "Jimin-ssi, have I ever told you you're my favorite person in the whole wide world?"

"On multiple occasions.” He smirks. “This is the first time you've ever been sober, though."

“Wow. See if I ever buy you dinner again.”

The club, as Jimin predicted, was nearly empty, with only a few clumps of people dancing here and there, a handful of people at the bar, and a completely different, tattoo-less bouncer working the front door, who seemed to think the man with the tattoos was a temp.

“There’s nobody like that working here!” he bellowed back to you, over the thumping music. “Your guy’s probably a temp!”

“No, I’m positive!” you shouted. “It was here. I tripped going out the door and he caught me. I’d know him if I saw him. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure!” he said. “Would you mind stepping away from the door? People are trying to come inside.” You didn’t hang around much longer after that, figuring that if neither the bouncer nor your mystery man were there now they probably wouldn’t be there later either.

“Well, that was a bust,” comments Jimin, once you’re back in a cab on the way home.

You blow out a frustrated breath. “Yeah. Sorry to drag you all the way over here for nothing.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” he says. “That’s what friends are for, right? At least I got dinner out of it.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” You roll your eyes. “I knew I should have just waited ‘til the weekend. I was just so excited to test my theory that I jumped the gun a little.”

Jimin frowns. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on making another special trip back over here to look for this guy.”

“Well…I was.” You turn to look at him, taken aback. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Y/n…” Jimin sighs. “I'm your best friend and I love you, but…don’t you think you’re going too far with this? You don’t think maybe it’s time to move on? I mean, what if this guy really is dangerous, like he said? What if you get hurt?”

You scoff a little. “Would a dangerous person really come right out and say they’re dangerous?”

“Yes. That’s absolutely what a dangerous person would say. Please let this go, y/n. I’m begging you. For your own good. The universe will forgive you this one time for not paying that guy back.”

"I know, but…" I won't. You sigh. "One more time, Jimin. I have to try one more time before I can tell myself I did everything I could."

"Okay. One more time." Jimin's face softens. "But I'm going to hold you to that. No more midweek club nights, internet searches, whatever. You have to let this go because it’s weird that you’re still hung up on this."

"I promise. One more time, and then no more. If I don't find him this time, I'm done."

"Good. Be careful, okay?"

"When am I not careful?" Your best friend raises an eyebrow and squints at you with the most skeptical of sideways glances, probably armed and ready with at least a dozen examples of how you’ve most decidedly not been careful in the past few years you’ve known each other. "That was rhetorical, Jimin. Drop the judgy look, please."

“What judgy look?” he demands. “This is just my face.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

If Wednesday night’s visit was bad, then Saturday’s is even worse. It’s crowded, almost as crowded as it was the very first night the man in black saved your ass, with barely any good vantage points to park yourself and people-watch in hopes of catching a glance of your mystery man. You should have taken the other bouncer’s inability – or reluctance – to tell you anything about his tattooed coworker the other night as a warning – because it’s obvious that no one else is going to tell you anything about him either, for one reason or another. You’ve asked bartenders, waitresses, anyone who looks like they work there, and all that’s gotten you is in trouble with management.

“We’re not allowed to give out that kind of information about our employees.” The manager’s eyes narrow. “Stop nosing around before you get yourself banned. Permanently.” With one final scowl he stalks off.

I guess that’s it, then, you think. You let out a sigh as you sit back down at the bar. God, what was I thinking? I never had any chance of finding this guy, not in a million years. Jimin was right. Why did I drag this out so long? It's time for me to move on. As soon as I finish this drink, I’ll walk out of this club and I’ll never think about him again. I’ll go home, and I’ll catch up on all that work I’m behind on because of him. No, I’ll get ahead. Yeah. That’ll show them. Part of you wants to feel relieved, but the realization only makes you feel dejected. Damn. I really wanted to meet him. You get to your feet, and collect your things, taking one last glance around the room.

That’s when you see him.

Your angel in black, drinking whiskey in the corner. Same black suit, same heavy bangs, same blank expression. Right as you’re about to leave and never look back, you just happen to see him? It’s too coincidental to be anything other than fate.

You draw a deep breath, steel your nerves, and march up to his table. “And to think I was just going to walk right past you and out of this place forever. It's almost like the universe wanted us to meet again." You pull out the chair across from him and sit down. “You know, I never did catch your name.”

“That’s because I never dropped it,” he says dryly. “What are you doing here again? Didn’t I tell you to mind your own business?”

“What, can’t a girl drink where she likes anymore?” You lean in. “Who says I’m here to mind your business? I’m busy minding my own. Which, as it turns out, happens to involve you – and making sure you get something in return for covering my ass that night. Thank you, by the way. You barely let me get it out last time.”

He scoffs, sitting back. “I told you to forget about it. I didn’t spot you because I expected you to pay me back.”

“Why did you do it, then?” You cock your head to one side. “There must have been some reason you felt like rescuing a damsel in distress. Nobody does anything without a reason.”

The question seems to catch him off-guard for a moment, before he quickly regains his composure. “Why does it matter?” He stares down into his glass. “You don’t know anything about me. I could be dangerous for all you know. Like I've been trying to tell you this whole time.” Dangerous. There’s that word again.

“Well, you can’t be all that bad, or you wouldn’t have helped me out. And besides,” you muse, “if you were going to do anything to me you probably would have done it already.”

“Suppose that’s true.” One side of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly.

“Then again, maybe it is like you said. Maybe you aren’t a good person. But I don’t think that necessarily makes you a bad person. And I don’t think you would have done anything to me, even if you did have the chance. Which you did, the other night.”

A hard laugh escapes from his lips. "Clearly you haven't been listening to anything I've been saying. Because you definitely wouldn't be saying that if you really knew me.”

You purse your lips thoughtfully. “Well, you know, I have this theory. Everyone has a color, right? Some people you can just tell whether they’re one way or another, black, white, whatever. But you…well, I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“Hah. I’ve heard that one before.” The man avoids looking at you and stares down at the table, features set in an unreadable expression. “So, what color am I, then?”

“Mm.” You grin. “First impression? Silver.”

“Silver, huh?” He smirks. “Why silver?”

“On the surface you’re a very gray person. Kind of an enigma. You’re not black and you’re not white, you’re somewhere in between, which makes you gray. But on closer inspection, anyone can see there’s something different about you that sparkles a little bit. Something that shines.” His face doesn’t move. “It’s just a theory, anyway,” you say hastily. “I’d have to get to know you a little better before I could really say for sure.”

“What makes you think that’s going to happen?” An eyebrow quirks just slightly.

“Hm. You seem like the type who would have gotten up and left already if you weren’t at least a little bit interested in me, even if you came off as rude. And you’re still here, so you must be somewhat intrigued, right?”

“That’s a compelling theory – but you're wrong. I might be an asshole but I'm not that kind of asshole.” He leans back, an arm draped over the back of the booth. “Anyways, before I answer your question, let me ask you one of my own: why are you so hellbent on paying me back to the point where you thought you had to track me down?”

“You know, I’m not sure myself.” You rest your chin in your palm. “It just feels like the thing to do, that’s all. Most of the time strangers tend to either ignore me or glare at me when this kind of thing happens. You probably think I’m a mess. I know I do. I also know from experience that I can only ever count on my friends to have my back, so imagine my surprise when you, a random stranger, had my back the other night. You did something only my friends ever do for me.” You shrug nonchalantly. “And I always repay my friends.”

“All right,” he says after a moment. “I won’t say I’m not at least a little impressed that you even found me. And now that you have…I’m guessing you’re not going to leave me alone until I give you what you want.” The whiskey swirls in his glass, resting in one long, slender hand. “Which is?”

“Dinner,” you say, boldly, without hesitating. “Or drinks, at least. I know I probably can’t afford what you’re used to. Obviously, considering the other night…but let me treat you sometime. Just to say thank you. Honestly, I’m a great date. Really. Or I should be." You sigh. "I've been on a lot, so I've had plenty of practice. But I promise I’ll make it worth your while. I even paid off my credit card. Just for you.”

He releases a resigned sigh and sets his glass down. “Okay. Say I agree, even though you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into and I definitely shouldn’t indulge you any further than I already have. Will you stop following me around if I do?”

“That depends. Are you going to ghost me as soon as it’s over?”

“Now that,” he says, “depends on whether or not you’re as good of a date as you say you are.”

“Oh, I’m positively delightful. Excellent conversationalist. Top-notch table manners. I won’t even stick you with the check this time. Best night of your life, guaranteed. Or top-ten, at least.”

He pauses, looking like he might regret what he’s about to say. “Fine. We can have dinner. On one condition.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“You really have to stop following me around.” His expression turns dark. “It’s not a good idea for you to get involved with me. You could get hurt.”

“This again?” You sigh. “Let’s just see how dinner goes, and then I’ll decide if you’re worth any more of my time.”

“You’ll decide, huh?” He eyes you. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t know your name yet,” you correct him, “and that’s only because you haven’t told me what it is.”

“Yoongi,” he says finally, after a moment of hesitation. A tinge of amusement plays across his features. “Min Yoongi.”

“Yoongi,” you repeat. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Yoongi. I’m Y/n. Y/n L/n.” You extend a hand across the table.

“Y/n,” he says, giving your hand a firm shake. It’s cool and dry, and you spot the barest remains of a scar on his palm as he pulls his hand away. “Only time will tell whether I’m going to be able to say the same for you.”

“Mm.” You shrug. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

“Like I said.” Yoongi gets to his feet, taking his glass with him. “Anyway. I have some business to take care of. Can you get out of here on your own, or are you going to be needing my help again?”

“I’ll be fine, but – wait, I didn’t give you my number. How are we going to get in touch?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He looks down at you and smirks, the unmistakable hint of a sparkle somewhere in those soft, dark eyes. “You seem to think we’re fated, so I’m sure we’ll run into each other again if we’re really meant to. We’ve exchanged names now.” Yoongi raises his glass slightly. “You can find out a lot about a person from just a name.”

“Hey, wait a—” Yoongi is gone before you can finish your sentence, swallowed up by the dense crowds of the club. “He still didn’t answer my question,” you mutter.

But despite all that – you have a hopeful feeling about the whole situation.

"Yoongi," you repeat. "Who are you, Min Yoongi?"

The silence in Yoongi’s office the next morning is nearly palpable, the air between him and Jungkook filled with the sounds of clicking keys as they’re finishing up their paperwork on the case at the club. Even without looking he can sense the younger man eyeing him over the top of his laptop screen. Yoongi heaves a resigned sigh. “Spit it out, Jungkook. I can practically hear the gears grinding inside that giant head of yours.”

Jungkook stops typing and leans forward, grinning in a suspiciously sunny manner. “I was just noticing how good of a mood you’re in today, boss,” he says. “Better than you’ve been in months.”

"Bullshit I am." Yoongi’s eyes don’t move. “You're imagining things."

“You are too!” Jungkook insists. “I told you good morning on my way in and you didn’t even tell me to stop bothering you and get to work.” He squints at Yoongi. “You said it back to me. And you weren’t even being sarcastic about it.”

“So I said good morning to you. Once. Big deal. I’ve been known to be cordial every once in a while, haven’t I?”

“But you’re never cordial with me,” insists Jungkook. “You're cordial with clients. And people who are gonna give you money. Normally it’s all grunts and scowling when you talk to me. Something good happened last night, didn’t it? I saw you chatting with that girl, the one you paid the bar tab for last week. She managed to track you down, huh?” He’s not going to let this go easily. He’s like a dog with a chew toy whenever he finds an interesting enough tidbit to hang onto.

Yoongi suppresses a sigh and presses his fingers to the sides of his temples. “Yeah, and? What are you getting at?”

“Oh, nothing.” He plasters an innocent-looking expression on his face. “She went through all of that trouble to track you down when most people would have just let it go. She must like you. Seems like you like her too.”

Yoongi snorts. “Y/n? Flighty, irresponsible, doesn’t even know her own limits, so impulsive that the first thing she thinks of when a man does something nice for her is to follow him out into the street y/n? No way in hell.”

“And you, a guy who’s so cautious, practical, and down to earth that he never does anything without thinking about it for weeks?” notes Jungkook. “All I’m hearing is that you’d be perfect for each other. Opposites attract, you know?”

“The worst thing she could do would be to get involved with me,” Yoongi scoffs. “Trust me. It’s not happening.” He rolls a pen back and forth in his hand. “It’s not like that, anyway. She said she’d leave me alone if I let her do this. She doesn’t like me, she just feels like she owes me. That’s all. I’m just humoring her so she’ll leave me alone.”

“Uh-huh.” Jungkook smirks. “You do like her, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that,” grumbles Yoongi. “Why don’t you mind your own business for once?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, hyung,” says Jungkook, still grinning, “you left me in charge of minding your business for the past six months. You know, while you were off the grid camping in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yeah, and I’m starting to regret it,” he mutters. “Humor me and let it go. It’s too early for this shit.”

“All right, fine.” Jungkook turns his eyes back to his screen, but it doesn’t last for long. “So when are you going to see her again?”

“We didn’t set a firm—” Yoongi’s eyes narrow, pinning Jungkook with a searing glare. “Hey. I’ll fire you if you don’t watch yourself.”

“Ah, go ahead and fire me, then,” Jungkook says cheerfully. “I’d like to see how well you manage without me covering your ass.”

Yoongi flings the pen in his hand across the table, aiming for Jungkook’s head, who easily dodges it. “Aish, you’ve gotten cocky since I left. I managed just fine on my own before you got here, thank you. You were the one who came bitching to me about how much you needed me to come back, weren’t you? This case that you just couldn't handle by yourself, even though you've probably handled about a dozen of the exact same type of cases all by yourself?”

“Come on!” snorts Jungkook. “We both know you were ready to come back. I just needed to make you feel good about yourself so you’d actually get off your ass and do it. You should be thanking me, hyung.”

“Thanking you?” demands Yoongi. “What the hell should I be thanking you for?”

“I think you know.” Jungkook’s eyebrows dance suggestively, eyes twinkling. “Y/n – she’s pretty, isn't she?”

“That’s it. You’re getting demoted.”

“Okay, okay.” Jungkook falls silent suddenly before he speaks again. “I missed you, boss. Good to have you back.”

“Ah, shut up,” Yoongi snaps. “And get back to work. These reports aren’t going to write themselves, you know.”

Jungkook turns his attention back to his computer screen again, eyeing Yoongi’s scowl with a knowing smirk. Yeah. He totally likes her.

#bts #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x reader #bts au #min yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi fanfic #suga fanfic #bts imagines #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #min yoongi #reader x myg #mrworldwideshoulders #i hate tags lol

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precious-little-scoundrel · 23 days

Text

Four Weeks in New York

gorgeous gif credit to @violaobanion

Requested: ☑️

Warnings: SO. MUCH. SEX. 18+, reunion jitters, potentially out of character actions due to rough sex? but then again, they’ve missed each a lot other, ok?! Also, i dunno, but beware he’s a horny over thinker and he’s in a funny headspace due to, ya know, war. Jean is a champ, Harry can’t manage to blow a load for awhile, mild breeding kink if you wanna call purposefully making a baby that…Gerry Hamilton and Margaret Blakely make tiny little cameos in here and I swear I’m half thinking of writing this trio of women all giggling over their legendary husbands

Word count: a hefty 7k and we’ve got more coming for ya

Coauthored with m’baby @crazymadpassionatelove

Synopsis: Harry Crosby is sent stateside to be with his wife for a month of terribly needed R&R in the summer of 1944

Caveat: this is based off a portrayal of real people in a tv series, while Jean wasn’t represented by an actress as Harry was, in this price of media I intend the same. I mean no disrespect to the real men and women mentioned and dramatized herein.

Scene One:

Jean had been at it so long in front of the mirror she began to notice every grain of powder collected in her smile lines and every infinitesimal blur of strong coal from around her eyes and -she needed to step away, at least a few inches from the reflective glass and get a grip. At the more sensible distance of gripping onto the edge of the counter -marble and swanky like everything in this posh and paid for hotel- she saw her face restored to what it was, a pretty decent cutie’s with a perfect mask of makeup and freshly styled hair: fit for a homecoming.

It was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. She was going to need to make him fine again, and give him back to them strong enough to come back to her for good. Happiness and dread swirled in a gnawing cocktail inside her, the cruel thought of almost wishing not to be teased with him at all until she could keep him for good fighting with the braver parts of herself that wanted every second of him she could have, even if it had a big red finish line drawn at a month.

A month was a long time, a month was about all they’d had to be married before he left. Technically, or at least Jean wondered if technically, it would mean she’d only been fully “married” for two months. Of course that was nonsense to the general public and the pastors who reminded about vows and the wedding band she flashed at over eager servicemen, but to her select little girl gang, the ones who worked at the factory with her and who had to give up their husbands too- they talked about their brief marriedness with hushed and giggly fondness, like something out of a dream and just as brief.

The fiancés in the girl gang were jealous of this topic and Jean supposed they had a right to be. She indulged the innocents with all their questions about being “actively” married, tried to repay them with the same frankness she’d so desperately sought before her wedding. But as it was, she’d only had a month of active service, and while it had been spent as vigorously as any young couple’s first four weeks of legal license, it had left Jean in the interim with a plain impression of herself being a little bit of a hussy.

She wanted Harry so badly this past year since he’d gone she hardly thought it medically sane. Wanted him so badly, and that was something not even the girl gang could always bring themselves to titter about. It was one thing for Margaret Blakely to joke about her Ev coming back the previous month ‘taking’ his leave in more ways than one, but they weren’t often out here asking each other if nothing really fixed the hunger since their man had been gone. It was all Jean thought of. Jean wanted to ask if it ever cooled, if the sticky frustration with one’s own inadequate fingers ever subsided.

By the dreamy eyed state of the recently visited Mrs. Blakely, the answer appeared to be a resounding no. Nothing ever beat the real thing. And that made Jean want to writhe in frustration before learning that she too, would be visited by a on-leave husband.

A year of being married and only a month of it “active”, Jean had concluded it was a chronic case on her part of salivating need for her Bing, the only cure would be him -him inside her, in perpetuity. All she’d gotten out of Maragret had been a grinning warning to Jean to “get in shape for Major Crosby’s furlough, you’ll spend it on your back.”

Jean could freely admit to herself that she needed to be ripped apart by her man, she needed him lingering inside her when he left again. She just feared that it wasn’t exactly their usual way. How could she tell him, what if that’s not what he needed. What if it was all different, what if it needed to be?

Jean pointed a finger at herself in the fancy gilt mirror, red nails pointing at her fancy clad self in pastel silk and tiny bows, “He’s your husband,” she told herself sternly, trying not to sweat at the idea he could be here any hour, catch her in this state of intentional undress, and help himself to her jittery body, “he loves you, you love him. All you need to do is let him have his husbandly rights and things will go smoothly. It’s a vacation not a death trap. You’ve got a man to patch up, get on with it.”

This speech gave her four whole seconds of empowered determination before a vigorous set of knocks on the hotel suite’s outer door made her jump out of her skin in surprise. She could go open the door but then -what if someone was in the hall with him? And saw her in this state of…lack of…well, her in her lingerie. He had a key, they’d have given him a key. He was the Mister to her Missus Crosby, they were allowed a shared suite.

“Jean?” Hearing that dear voice for the first time in twelve months, even faintly from far outside the bathroom door, flooded Jean with so much feeling her knees locked up and her throat collapsed on her response. He was her husband, her Bing, her first and only love, they’d be alright. They had to be.

Harry gingerly closed the door behind him, the heavy painted wood shutting with a finality that made him feel terribly anxious. While he had been trudging up the hall to their suite he’d been able to laugh a little at his dismal procession, morose shuffling and hang dog attitude. It had been absurd for a guy coming back to see the wife who he loved. He knew that and he could say that again and again in his head in a voice that morphed more and more into Bubbles’ voice an-

-and now he was in the room and he wasn’t anticipating anything, he had arrived and as if he’d just touched down in occupied Europe, he couldn’t help his braced posture or hunted surveillance of the oddly empty room.

“Jean?”

She wasn’t in here, but the en-suite bathroom door was shut. She wasn’t in here but from the bathroom came wafting something so viscerally nostalgic of her that he felt his heart pound in devoted recognition before his brain even caught up: her soap. Not some fancy hotel brand, it seemed she had brought her old stuff, the stuff he’d lathered on her as many times as he’d had the chance before leaving, the stuff she smelled of before church and the stuff that got more strong and pungent when he made her sweat in it from their exertions in bed.

It smelled like Jean in here and it was enough to make him drop his duffel bag with a decided thump. He was staying. This was his wife, everything might be different but some things like soap -they’d still be the same, as would the dry mouthed want it filled him with.

“Jean?”

He ventured further into the room, not bothering to call her name again, maybe being around guys had made him callous to spooking her but no real harm would be done, he was…him.

“Oh! Bing?” Jean sounded flustered behind her door and Harry found himself grinning. “I’m coming! I’m coming right out!”

It sounded less like a reassurance than it did an order to herself, which was amusing and it made him wonder, just how awkward were the two of them going to manage to make this? God knows he’d tripped over himself enough times winning her over the first round, he had such hopes never to revisit the bumbling stages of courtship. Seemed like once they’d married and joined it had been smooth as glass ever since- until…until he’d stopped being himself.

Until he had wandered into a hotel room with a woman who didn't wear a matching gold band. Jean knew nothing of that though. She never would. Sweet peaches and cream Jean who had come all this way to see him. Bringing that soap and the books he saw stacked on the night table. Bringing that sweet, pink pussy he needed to sink himself into. Remind himself of who he was. He didn't want to be Major Crosby at the moment. He wanted to just be Jean's husband. He heard the clock in the room ticking, felt the sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he waited for her. Her Elizabeth Arden lipsticks lined up like perfect little soldiers on the dresser. It had been so long that kissing her was surely going to feel like the first time all over again.

There was more amiss in the room, upon further inspection, besides her trunks and her hat boxes and the lipsticks. Amiss in that: there were elements no hotel should have, the plate of very delicious looking misshapen fudge, for instance, the plate itself looking suspiciously like their wedding set. Harry could describe that pink and green pattern on ivory in vivid detail if you had asked him yesterday, tracing it now was like no time had passed at all since that first breakfast as husband and wife, tittering over having “things” of their own. And beside the plate a book, one he’d not finished when he went over, he realized with a lump growing in his throat. Then there was the bed beneath these things, tidily made but not pristine, ha -how could it be with homey floral sheets in place of pristine white and a monogrammed pillow case each.

Giant embroidered C’s. For Crosby, of course.

Jeepers -he’d taken Jean for the first time on those very sheets, now he was recognizing them, and some very uncivilized part of him suddenly wanted to rip the covers back and find out if her virgin blood hadn’t fully scrubbed out-

“Bing!”

He is awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of Look Homeward, Angel when Jean manages to saunter out with a summoned amount of calm. His hair is sleek and trimmed, his jacket well fitting, his whole self in his army duds seeming so comfortable, filled out, self possessed -it’s the floral sheets beneath him that ruins the effect just a little, makes him seem shifty, out of place. That and those great brown eyes suddenly round as a newborn calf’s at the long awaited sight of her.

She’s seen the soldier’s return posters -does he expect the same greeting? No little party at the station in satin and lace here, but they’d both agreed it would be better to be private, secluded, uninterrupted. Now it feels too tame and mild.

Does he want that? That reunion embrace?

Before she can rethink it she rushes him. “Binger!” she gasps out right as he stands to meet her head on, long arms outstretched to engulf her. This she knows, this she dreamed of. If she squeezes too tight she must be forgiven, it’s too fabulous to be considered real for many moments, the feel of his flexing back beneath her hands and his chest under her cheek. It’s tight and jarring and not a bit smooth but it’s him, it’s him and all is well.

Harry has his nose buried in her hair, that smell is wafting in again. It’s Jean -hits him with the force of a rocket and he’s suddenly responding in kind, arms crushing her to him, can’t get close enough, can’t tell her enough about missing her and loving her and how he’s put one step in front of the other all these years for this moment.

“Oh Bing,” she exclaims again, her face just barely pulled away to really get a look at him, her hands on his cheeks, “I can’t believe it. I’ve prayed, every day I’ve prayed for this.”

Prayers -the word sours in his mind after what he’s seen, after how many he’s sent up and not plane returned with an answer. “Mmm, Mrs. Crosby.” he contemplates the dear face before him before dragging his hand beneath her hair, cupping the back of her head with his large hand, watchface cool on the back of her neck. She’s been waiting for him to kiss her, wanting to let him lead, hoping her initial enthusiasm would embolden him like before. Instead he seems lost in archiving her face, those dear, melancholy eyes flitting over every feature, the hands studying and firm but not a caress. It’s obvious there’s something missing here, a piece ajar from the puzzle.

Jean stands atiptoe carefully, and determinedly slots her lips against his plush, red ones. That seems to rouse him a bit, Harry responds instantly, making up for his hesitancy, deepening it as his tongue meets hers in a heart wrenching reunion of sorts. He always was fond of kissing, her Bing. Now he was kissing her senseless and this -this was more like what she imagined.

His hands trail from her neck down the her ribs and into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hips where he vaguely notices she’s adorned in some silky little something, no doubt chosen and worn just for him.

Say something Croz, you big idiot —he thinks to himself, confronted with the fact he is gripping at her and sucking face without another word said besides inane repetition of her name.

“Jean you look…perfect.” he mumbles against her lips.

It’s boyish and reminiscent, the stumbling praises mumbled so earnestly. It makes her giggle fondly. She breaks their kiss and takes hold of his face in her hands, indulging a little inspection of her own. “My beautiful boy,” she croons, “you came back to me.”

She kisses the prominent bridge of his nose and his perpetually furrowed brow and the smooth below each heavily fringed eye, his cheeks, his chin, the corner of his mouth -she pressed at his chest till she’s got him sat on the edge of the bed again. He’s fully dressed, taut as a bowstring and she wants him, needs him, to relax. She can feel the tension, the uncertainty, rolling off him.

She won’t let them take this away from them, she won’t let them rob them of their comfort with each other.

She kneels gently before him and undoes his boots, enjoying the way he pets her hair, quietly admiring its shine and style. His trousers are creased and starched and knelt between his legs Jean finally notices it then, the prominent tent beneath the olive weave. It makes her breath hitch. Was he always this big? Even camouflaged by trousers?

“You must be tired,” she frets aloud, working on the laces, “and cramped from such a long flight. Did you take something? Your eyes are a little…funny.”

Harry nods before realizing she’s not one of his men. Wives tend to value words and sentences, the more syllables the better. “Yeah,” he croaks aloud, “something for the stomach.”

Oh Bing and his stomach. Ever the dutiful wife, Jean rubs the sock feet she just liberated and kneads her way up his calves, hoping to leech some of the tension out of him. She works her way to his thighs, rising back up to her feet when he grabs her wrists and pulls her into another kiss. It’s even hungrier this time and his first moan of the evening sends a jolt of longing triumph straight to her core.

“I’ve missed you.” she chokes out between kisses and he responds by biting her neck, his thumbs rolling the satin in circles on her hips. His front pressing hard and firm against her lower belly, making her mouth run dry.

Still, Harry’s not saying much and if he wasn't kissing and caressing her so ardently, she'd have no clue they were even on the same planet.

And so Jean decides to do something rather bold. Something her mother would not approve of. She puts her hands on his shoulders, briefly causing him to pull away from her neck, then she whispers temptingly in his ear, “Last night I…slid my ring finger inside me. pretended it was you…I won't have to pretend anymore, will I, Harry?”

She feels him twitch against her belly beneath his layers. It’s her turn to kiss his cheek and nibble his neck, finding his little groans to be intoxicating. His grip tightens on her waist as he buries his head against her with his eyes closed, breathing her in. That scent.

That's when she adds in a plea, “Y-y-you're gonna have to…open me

up again Croz.…..you know what I

mean?...my poor little fingers are so

tiny and now I'm back to how I was

on our wedding night…”

Harry’s groan is animalistic and pained and she -well Jean’s a horny, rambling mess and she can’t bring herself to be ashamed, she missed him too strongly. “You're a hero to America.” She swears into his panting mouth, “And to me. I'm gonna give you the strength to help you get through the rest of what you need to do. But I need something from you, I need you to put a baby in me Bing.”

That is what he responds to, like orders in war. He’s good at finding his way with directions. His head rears back and his eyes sharpen with concentration. Jean wants something? he’ll deliver it, always was that way.

He nods.

“Lay back on the bed Jean.” his voice is quiet but she’s never heard it so steady, so commanding. That must be the voice he uses when he speaks to his men over there. If she wasn't squeezing her thighs together and scrambling onto the bed to follow Major Crosby orders, well, she'd cum right then and there. This isn't the same Bing that reads the paper, his beautiful lips mouthing the words as he does, the one who brings her flowers just because, or is quick not to curse in public. This man before her is a war weary Major who is used to being obeyed. Jean intends to follow every word he says, the thought of seeing him off without a little piece of him nestled inside her would just devastate her.

She burrows up against their Crosby pillows, looking like an absolute treat and admiring her man's package that seems to be growing bigger by the second. He's panting like a wild horse above her and she realizes she should heed all that advice she'd been given. Be a good wife, take care of his needs. Her painted toes rub against the sheets as she slowly inches forward to help him undress. Major Crosby beats her to it though, ridding himself of his uniform efficiently and tossing it on to the floor in a rumpled mess accompanied by a huff.

Is he mad? Jean wonders to herself. His freshly exposed cock sure looks mad. It's red, and almost looks hot to the touch as it dribbles and leaks down his thick shaft.

Was it always that big? Were his eyes always so wild? Bright -she remembers them as being bright.

He collapses on her purposefully, a crushing embrace with his hands snarled in her hair, elbows to the bed, his belly to hers, his lips devouring her own. It’s a shock and a thrill, that first feeling of skin against skin again, Harry’s so warm his tongue is nearly scalding and she feels herself sweat in her skimpy finery. The anticipation is harsh, the dynamic fumbling in its ravenous rush, her head spins when an irrational spike of fear slices through the heady haze of desire that his touches coax. Touch? -a mauling of sorts, more like, he is all teeth and nails and assessing hands, grabbing at her ferociously.

Instinctively Jean begins to rub him, his shoulders, his neck, his forearms

-a soothing caress at a kinder pace than he allows but she means it well, channels that little spark of anxiety she feels to sooth his own keyed up self.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she keeps swearing as she feels him buckle just that little bit to the insistent kneading of her hands on his arms, “I’m not going anywhere.” she swears and the rigid line of his body sags further into her neck, some off kilter focus he’s carried about him slipping under her gentle persuasion. “Baby, how about a little rub?” she coos, lithely extracting herself out from under him before she thinks on it too long.

“That might be nice.” he manages, not sure what the hell it is he needs, “My neck maybe..took a little spill a few days ago...” he casually mentions the incident, underplaying that whole fiasco of passing out cold from exhaustion, splattering on the floor like the contents of a mop bucket.

“Then let me rub your neck.” she begs.

He allows it and with a slightly lost gaze he follows her movements as she props up beside him and brings him closer for leverage. She scoops his head into her lap with that familiarity that made him fall first and hard for her, and suddenly he is pillowed on the warm, giving belly of a woman. His woman. And Croz feels himself begin to melt from that feeling alone, long before her clever thumbs start working at the knots nearly calcified at the base of his neck.

She used to do this for him when he was at school, too much reading in an ill advised position had him often so stoved up he couldn’t be of any use on the baseball team. Jean had learned to work her magic then, and Harry had learned how very much he liked his face buried against the swell of a girl’s womb.

Oh fuck -her little speech comes rushing back to him- Jean wants a baby.

Damn the jet lag, the separation jitters and all the rest that got him sent here like a looney to a special holding facility. Jean wants a baby and he hasn’t been rock hard since Dartmouth only to let it go to waste by sleeping it off.

Right when she begins to feel the motion of her hands take effect on his rigid shoulders, her Harry is suddenly lifting his head again, face slightly flushed and creased from the lace of her nighty and he smiles at her then. Mischievous and warm, “C'mere,” he beckons with a voice that means something and so she follows him as he sits up, “stand up babydoll, show me that outfit. Let me appreciate ya.” He slides his warm palm into her smaller one and tugs her to her feet, an easy sort of dance move to bring her round in front of his position, swaying her back and forth just outside the v of his legs.

“Well, look at you.” he marvels at her, his expression gone soft under that wrecked mop of curls. Jean recognizes the old spark alight in him, the one that might go dormant for her when away or when she couldn’t make up her damn mind but anytime she wanted him back?—oh he looked at her like this, like he was lucky as hell to have her and intended to be brave with that luck. “Turn around for me, loverdoll, c’mon, show me what I’ve got, come onnnn Jeaaann,” he insists, his voice playful and insistent as he spins her with a hand at her hip until she shows him the back of this frilly little excuse for nightwear, “Look at that.” he whistles behind her and Jean feels her cheeks burn pleasantly, “Pretty as a fawn, Jean.” he punctuates this odd little compliment with the back of a finger running up the length of her thigh, to the little swell of her rump and Jean knows her legs tremble in helpless response. “Go on, strike a pose for me, I know you didn’t put on this get up for nothin’. Who'd believe it? My Mrs. Crosby out here lookin’ like one of those girls.”

‘Those’ girls, whoever they are exactly, are left nebulous and Jean likes it that way, it gives her a saucy bravery to pitter patter away from his hold and turn back to face his unabashedly admiring gaze. Jean cocks a hip and drops a shoulder, knee turned in, toes pointed. Gerry had made her perfect it a million times in the mirror when she should’ve been sensibly getting into a gown and getting some shut eye instead.

Thank God for Margaret Ann Blakely and her fun loving pastimes. And also: “Screw him for us Jean!!” -thank God for Gerry Hamilton and her brazen preoccupations with her own man, for how she piled on as she convinced Jean of an assortment of little silk things thrown into her suitcase, “Screw him good, for all of us! For Americaaaaa!” the young and empty Mrs. Hamilton’s candor had built until Jean was close to frantic to get into the taxi and leave her best friends and their antics behind.

Jean didn’t doubt for a single minute that Hambone and Ev would shortly be receiving letters that good naturedly bemoaned Jean and Croz’s luck.

“You think you needed to look like this to get me to nail ya?” her Croz teases her now and his grin is lewd and Jean likes it that way, it matches the disrespectful hands that reach out without her Harry’s usual calculation and instead paw at her tits like a sex starved man. It sends a line of electricity straight to the little button between her legs and Jean ends up leaning into those hands until she’s suddenly so near him she’s on top of him and then, easy as anything, he knocks her sideways and under him once more. Legs splayed wide and with a husband lying on top of her with a very determined look on his face -she reckons the games are over.

“Gonna be like a second wedding.” she squeaks out, giddy eyed in excitement, toes curling in terror, he feels so big slotted at the spot.

Was he always so big?

Harry slings her leg over his hip and he’s suddenly in her without even needing to fumble for entrance. Little Croz pries her open all at once in a smooth, brutal, unyielding shove and that’s all it takes, he’s so overwhelmingly substantial that Jean finds herself bowing under him in a climax from the painful pleasure of reunion alone.

“Really, already?” he chuckles at her as she hoarsely keens out her ecstasy beneath him, her nails digging crescents in the flesh of his tense shoulders, his own thumbs stroking along her throat, “I missed you too, Mrs. Crosby.” he laughs.

She slaps at him, lovingly as her throat still hasn’t fully come back to use, “God you feel good.” She croaks.

“Just wait till you learn there’s more.” he teases before pulling his hips back and keeping that far tip barely nestled in her petals before slamming in again so forcefully she feels something funny in her chest.

“Bing!” it’s not a protest on her part but, my God -he, they…they used to give it the ole college try before he left, but this? This must be what it’s like to get really and truly screwed.

Screwing her, that’s what he’s doing and she wonders in a vague haze of helpless sensations if he’ll auger a hole straight through her back to the mattress with this merciless rhythm. She’s as vaguely impressed by his strength and capability as she is by her own body’s ability to absorb it, her freshly rediscovered hole burning at the use and somehow it’s all just a wonderfully heated, overwhelming miasma of delight as she keeps on seizing under him and he bullies her right though one peak after another with only a wicked grin on those full lips to suggest he’s got any idea what she’s so happily enduring.

“I can’t stop, I just can’t stop, it's just so -it’s so much.” she babbles, very keen to get her point across but very unsure what her point actually is. All thoughts, feelings and intentions center around Harry and that fat schlong of his rearranging her insides. She’s not sure her toes have been uncurled in over a quarter hour and her mind’s not been her own for longer still. “You’re so much.” she wails, and for half of it she means not his size but how long he’s been going at it.

“And you’re gonna take it.” he confirms, the hand on her hip inexorable and his pretty face is half snarling at her in desperation. “You miss this?” his voice shakes from his exertions and Jean is sure she’s never heard a more attractive sound than his wrecked breathing, “Miss this, huh? Bet you did, so goddamn tight. No married woman’s got any…any…any business being so tight. Gonna fix that, gonna make you so married you’re not gonna-“ he presses her legs back until she feels her hamstrings burn, knees to her chest, his body lunging into hers…angry again? she doesn’t know he just keeps grunting “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She’s milking him so perfectly, peaking and shuddering and clenching more frequently than he ever remembers and he should be so saved up he can’t manage to hold on but instead -the fuck if he can blow. It just won’t let go. The noise of his work is a lew phwap phwap phwap of split splat suction and from her whimpers and begs he knows he has already spent her but-

Goddamn! Came all this way, waited all this time and he can’t let loose?

Through the haze of her overstimulation Jean can feel something amiss, the tension back and worse than that, there’s the frustrated anger of before. Harry is breathing hard and his face is dark and the prominent vein across his alabaster forehead is popping so significantly she worries about stroke. He’s about to crack a tooth at this rate, his tension is so extreme and then suddenly, there’s a pause.

He stares down at the wet mess where they’re joined, brows knit together and mouth firm before a flicker ignites in his eye and in a fit of rage at himself and this deficient cock, he grabs at one of the decorative pillows and throws it across the room. It bangs dully against the window and flops to the floor.

Unsurprisingly the outburst against cotton batting and fancy trim does little for his pickle, he’s still stiff as a board and nowhere close to relief. He fought a whole goddamn war and came back just to not be able to get his rocks off. What a joke.

Gently as he can, and with rampant self pity running loose, he disentangles from Jean’s snug self and throws himself beside her on his back.

Bewildered Jean is more than a little grateful for the intermission. She does her best to collect her wits, looking over at him and clocking his defeated expression and closed eyes, the hand pinching the bridge of his nose. And poor Little Croz that is a furious magenta red with veins about ready to burst from swelling, sticking straight up from between his legs.

Shifting onto her side to face him rubs her poor kitty just wrong -or right- and a helpless mewl escapes her as she creams herself again from that little movement alone. The sound and shudder of his wife makes Croz crack open an eye, watching intently as Jean bites her lip and timidly runs her fingers through the hair on his chest.

“Come sit on my lap, Jeanie.” he mumbles.

She perks up with a smile, “Whatever my hero wants, baby.” she condones before shakily straddling his lean hips and sinking down with a noticeable squelch. It earns a drawn out moan of satisfaction from both of them. Sensing the agony and desperation of the man beneath her as she begins to lift her hips and slam them back down, juices splash on her feet from the movement. To lift his spirits she attempts her best at shoving her tits in his face while she does it and gets her nipples tugged in thanks.

This right here is perfect, she’s so full she can hardly bear it but he feels so good she ignores the burn of her legs and keeps her pace up, the beautiful expanse of her man laid out before her a perfect spur. The sun seems to have set by now and through the open curtains the sounds and lights of the city pour in, glistening off his sweaty skin like a million stars and doing nothing to dim the noise of his appreciative moans, the hoarse grunts of her name, the sounds of their sticky hips colliding.

“I've dreamed about being full like this every night since you left.” Jean tells him, stuffed beyond her limits it feels like he’s so damn deep he could describe the feel of her cervix in detail.

She can feel those tight bowling balls she's sitting on that need to unload inside her, and precariously she reaches backwards to fondle them with one hand, remembering how he used to react to it. She gets her first high pitched whine of the evening from him at that, his chest heaving and his head thrashing, curls everywhere. “Bing -- oh it's big, it's big, I'll take it all though I-I promise….we gotta make you cum, baby.” she determines, not needing the discarded pillow or fuming passion to alert her to his desperation, “Lemme help you…just fill me up, let it alllll out... you need to, must be aching so bad”

At the mention of the ache he begins to buck into her wildly like a feral thing. Jean would have toppled off from his vigor if he hadn’t seized her hips in an iron grip and held her still for his assault from below. Jean hears herself squealing and whimpering and begging nonsense, still a bit fresh -and respectful- to this new and ferocious side of him. Somewhere in it though, Harry’s beginning to crack, frustration going from anger to fury to desperation to some boyish and pitiful need for relief.

Harry doesn’t mean to groan so loudly, so pathetically but it’s all so perfect and he’s so damn close and Jean’s like a sprinkler down there she’s enjoying herself so much and -why the hell can’t a fella just blow?

Jean instantly stills atop him and cradles his face tenderly, soft searching eyes and lips whispering about …something, something something “baby boy” -and he shudders. His pants are harsh as if he’s about to have a heart attack and his chest is so winded and achy he thinks he might. Or else cry.

Wouldn’t that be fun.

Beneath his hands he feels Jean’s hips begin to flex and she’s grinding on him again, twisting her hips in a slow figure eight that feels like a man’s heaven beneath his palms, and ten times that for his cock. It’s not doing it enough to make him blow but for a moment he decides that’s fine, he inflates his poor lungs again and lays back, admittedly a bit too stiff and rigid, and touches her as she pleases herself on top of him. She giggles shyly to him and her near constant moans are music to his ears as she swivels on his cock. He enjoys watched the pink little folds absorb him and the way their curls brush and mix where they meet, his lower belly a wet mess and streaks of the same running down to her ankles, they’ve made such a soup.

Clam fuckin’ chowder, by the looks of it.

Maybe he did blow. Doesn’t feel like it. And after watching and coaxing her through another melting peak, he lets her sag onto his chest for a minute and regroup before, with a kiss to her hair and a hard smack to her ass, he tells her,

“Hands and knees, Jean, if you want that baby -hands and knees.”

He barked it like an order, and while a little startled by it, she still wastes no time in flipping herself over and off him, scurrying into the position he specified, shaky from so many orgasms and the anticipation of him back atop her. Wincing inwardly at the thought of that package at this angle with how sore she already is-

-and he wastes no time. But instead of a cock she feels the shockingly familiar but never less exquisite feeling of his tongue running up the messy length of her slit. Her face collapses into the pillows along with her pleased shriek of “Bing!”.

He he laughs warm and wicked behind her, enjoying the ass up display of what he’s done to her.

“Spread ‘em Jean.” he tells her, and two dainty hands leave off from gripping the covers to bashfully pull her cheeks apart and show her husband where his fat cock belongs. He can see her pulsing down like a living entity of its own, even in this dim light.

“I'll be good... I'll be good for you, Major. Tell me what to do.” Jean swears hoarsely, those fawnish legs trembling again.

“Just take me.” he mutters simply, mounting her suddenly with his hand on the back of her head, keeping her cheek to the pillow and her scream muffled as he shoves in and begins to plow this squeaking little lady like tomorrow is indeed not promised to men like him.

Beneath him, between the high pitched squeals of pleasure and the urgent whines of endurance, Jean is muttering a litany of …something. Again and again she’s saying words like “it’s ok baby, it’s ok” and Harry isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or her, she sounds like a drunk fairy and his head begins to buzz with likelihood. “It’s ok baby, they told me you'd be like this, it’s ok. I can take it. I’ve missed you—“ she just keeps muttering that and vaguely Harry is pretty sure that comfort is meant for him and he wonders who ‘they’ are and what ‘like this’ even means.

On Jean’s part she is legitimately unsure who’s she’s trying to convince, likely herself but also, maybe that part of her between her legs that’s torn between panic and absolute ecstasy at his rough usage. Jean's mind spins at the realization of how much she likes it, likes the feral proof of how badly he missed her, needs her, wants her still. Her sweet and mild Harry climbed on top of her and is now railing her, and while it’s not your average little jaunt in the sheets, she clings to her pillow and takes it with something like pride…in between the moments when Harry’s fat cock wipes her mind a starry white as her legs kick up helplessly beneath him and her back arches and her hole clenches and another happy mess slides down her inner thighs to the sodden sheets.

And all through it the best of it is Harry and his voice, half sane sounding for once this evening as if to balance out the animalistic pose he has her in, groaning above her,

“That's it, be my good girl..my good, good girl. Always so good to me.”

He’s petting her hair like she’s a damn Labrador or something, wrapping her beautiful curls around his hand, arched over her like a cat, it’s perfect and he’s so deep he thinks he could fuck his balls in, foot placed sturdily on the bed beside her for further leverage.

“-Croz! You gotta!” His wife wails nonsensically beneath him, he picks her head up by the hair to hear what the hell she’s jabbering about now, husbandly rights or how she was ‘told’ he’d be.

She’s so cock wrecked it ain’t even funny but when he prods her with a “What's that Jean?” between thrusts he gets a slightly more formulated thought-

“You gotta put a baby in me!” she insists through sobs, orgasm after orgasm turning her into this shaking, shuddering, limp excuse of a woman.

A loverdoll, for real.

Her words ping in his head like that damn red light everywhere he goes on base. A light at the end of the tunnel, an eminent thing he’s needed for. Tightness seizes his belly and takes him unawares, suddenly Harry’s roaring out a resounding,

“Oh FUCK! Jean! Fuck-“ that bounces around the room like a cacophony.

The hotel guests next door might be

wondering why a moose is dying in

Manhattan? But no sweat, it’s just Major Crosby seeding his willing wife.

Like a soothing balm on a surgical wound, Jean feels him exploding warm and sticky and healing inside her at last. It doesn't stop coming, rope after rope of the thick, steaming hot gold of his body swelling her own and this adds the finishing touches to what was already a melted woman. In his last rapacious thrusts, she can feel her body playing the minx, trying to squeeze him out but her Croz is having none of it, like a dying man to water, he uses every bit of strength left to shove himself back in and flood her until she’s a collapsed and leaking mess.

In a haze, Croz pulls his now mercifully limp cock out of her and surveys her wrecked self with bleary, appreciative eyes. “Looks like you been through a war of your own, baby.” he jokes but his voice is so wrecked from his previous yells it startles his newly moderated self and he ends up toppled over beside her, no longer capable of giving a damn about anything.

His eyelids refuse to stay open and his neck is laying funny but -fuck! He was just inside Jean!

“You ok, Bing?” he hears her sweet voice whisper beside him and it was no dream then, and God forgive him he was probably mean. She’s panting beside him and when he can’t manage to answer he feels her hand grab his wrist and gently guide him somewhere until he’s petting startlingly warm petals that are saturated with his spunk.

“Think you managed to open me up, alright.” she titters, still sounding drunk and he can’t help the way his cheek crinkles in a returning smile.

Smashed into the pillow as it is, it’s still the prettiest expression of the best man Jean has ever known. “Y-Yeah.” her man croaks, half insensible but his beautiful hand keeps petting her where she’s sore and recently excavated, his identification bracelet jangling softly in the stillness, “You were such a good girl Jeanie..a good wife…ya did your job.” he mumbles more, fully in Major mode as he begins to drift off, forgetting entirely that maybe a fella shouldn't praise his wife like she's one of his men gotten back from a mission.

But Jean takes the compliment well, knowing how it’s meant, knowing that maybe tomorrow when he’s more conscious and healed, she may be blocked out from that world entirely. It’s a little glimpse and she takes it for what it is, with soft appreciation. Smilingly she lets go of his hand to give deflated Little Croz some pats, the sticky, shrunken thing is playing at being harmless and she has a longing to meanly suck on it until it shows it’s true colors again.

But no, for now, Croz’s heavy and nearly insessible arm throws itself over her waist and drags her to him, slotting the married couple together like spoons in their drawer.

They could try to shower but that seems too daunting a prospect at present, and highly futile considering what lies in store -more of the same. And for her part, Jean doesn’t dare move and slosh and waste any of what her Bing gave her. His forearm is heavy over her battered womb, cum and abuse swelling it just that little bit as if she were on her menses. She’s not, those were two weeks ago.

When his hand splays and cups the swollen bulge he made, Jean whispers to his already snoozing self, “We made a baby Bing, I just know it.”

And if not— there’s four more weeks to make certain.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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#mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #masters of the air #mota #harry crosby #anthony boyle #Harry crosby x Jean Crosby #Harry crosby fanfic #Harry crosby imagine #mota smut

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eliecasa · 11 months

Text

summary: reader see’s a man spank a box on tiktok & it awakens a monster

warnings: minors i know I said I wouldn’t but we all lie as humans. this is one of those times where you mustn’t interact, plss ( contains these mentions: asphyxiation, verbal, and spanking kinks ) the reader is mentioned to have a vagina.

wrdcnt: 2K

inspo

A small huff of frustration pushed from your nostrils as you’re once again opening your eyes to stare out into the rainy darkness of the night. The sight is usually lovely and heart-warming as it was Simon’s wish to live somewhere with nature all the while staying a generous 20 minutes away from the city. It’s quiet here but there’s a memory that echoes loud and vibrantly in the back of your mind.

Simon sat still, sleeping as quiet as a mouse as you squeezed your eyes shut and subtly rubbed your thighs together. If you’d never downloaded tiktok, you’ll probably be sound asleep and dreaming of a dog handing you something as strange as a sweater with your own face sewn into it. Soap suggested that it be a good idea to keep a good balance of humor and seriousness since Simon would be left alone to tease you without anyone else jumping in to defend you, and the only way to do that was to give in and download the god-forsaken TikTok app.

Oh how you wish you’d never listened to him.

The first thing you’re greeted with is a video of a buff man underhand smacking a box to fit evenly with the others atop and below it. It came immensely loud from your headphones and caused a barely-audible yelp to part your lips. Your first thought was to get out of there so, you did… by scrolling one video down as Simon came over from the kitchen and asked what was wrong. And of course, having lacked a good answer, you merely waved him off and cleared your throat, saying that your headphones were accidentally turned to maximum volume.

He squinted those dark and suspicious eyes before humming and going back to make dinner- which was the deal for an old bet that he lost. Anyway, you’re instantly back on the video and fluttering with little butterflies of heat and embarrassment… that was until you opened the comments and saw that everyone else was thinking the same. Even married people were saying things such as “I try to get my husband to do this but he doesn’t know manual labor too well” which tickled you a little bit.

Though you were laughing at the time, you found yourself staring at Simon’s hands a bit longer than usual as the two of you ate dinner together. Don’t be mistaken, Simon had done nearly everything you desired with those strong pair of hands but still, that new seed planted in your head was quickly taking over and growing vines up and down the walls of your busy mind.

“What’s on your mind?” He said after watching you daydream for five minutes. It almost seems deliberate as he moved to hide his hands underneath the table. Classic Mr. RIley.

“...Nothin’,” you shrugged, connecting your gaze before promptly taking a good chunk of spanish rice.

Simon paused and did that empty stare where he kinda just assessed you before going back to whatever business he was originally doing. The judgemental gaze causes the slightest of shame to boil your skin as you roll your eyes. He’s your husband and has seen and touched every nook and cranny of your body and for some reason, you don’t want to tell him what’s bothering you.

Fast forward back into the present. The fluffy white comforter seems to get unbearably hot just as the heat radiating from Simon does. Sex and experiment is no taboo between the two of you and your coyness was just overall pitiful, however, that small little angel in your head keeps saying “Well, you have to really ask yourself if he’s the type to wound his loving spouse” while the devil said “Tell him to throw you over his lap and spank you like that goddamn cardboard!”

Again, you rub your thighs together. Maybe your mind was turning into one of those awful hormone monsters from a show that shall not be named. A small sound of anger escaped your mouth as you try to clear your mind, knowing that Simon would get woken–

“Having a strop, are ya’?” His heavy voice felt heavy and trapping as you knew that this was the most reasonable time to just get it over with.

Almost too quickly, you flip in his arms and lock eyes with him. Well, he was still waking up but your patience led you to gently pinch various areas of his face before he’s basically stretching his neck to be freed.

“Fuckin’ stop will ya?”

“Why haven’t you ever gotten rough with me?”

In the moonlight that shows through your windows, you can see the way that Simon’s face bunches into one handsome twist of confusion and tiredness. His eyes slowly open to look at the ceiling before he turns his head and stares dead into your eyes.

“What do you mean?”

Your right hand moved back a couple of inches and came back to gently slap him as his face remained cradled in your hands. A small chuckle escapes him before he pinches your thigh.

“Why’re you kicking my ass instead of explaining–”

“I obviously mean- like during sex,” you spoke with the tiniest amount of annoyance in your voice as the sexual frustration was beginning to plague.

The hand on your thigh rested as his face relaxed.

“I do… it was your idea to get into the choking thing-”

“No! I mean- yes that but why don’t you ever hit me?”

He seems to relax into the pillows a bit more as his eyes darted back to the white and plain ceiling. Simon was taking a moment to actually think if he’s never done such since it seems like a problem that could have been bothering you for who knows how long. Maybe you were doing that classic tactic of trying to alter his memory for your own benefit. There’s been multiple times where you’d lay on top of him and ask when was the last time he’d give you proper praise despite him clearly remembering it happening two days ago. He tilts his head, thinking of the past five months. The two of you had gotten into a couple new positions, areas to have sex, as well as experimenting with verbal kinks. Not to mention that asphyxiation kink that appeared to stay and make an appearance during each session.

“Simon!”

“I know, I know… just making sure you aren’t lying,” he said, casually sitting up to turn on the blinding light next to the bed. You try not to grab him as he moves from over you to settle back and rub his eyes.

“What needs to be done to get you sound, eh?”

A lightning bolt strikes as you pretend to think as if Apollo was saying “Don’t you dare waste that man's time, Y/N.”

So, instead of pissing anyone off, you decide you sit on your knees and face Simon with your chin up and your shirt covering your sweaty palms that were hidden underneath the oversized fabric. You’re ex-military and you’re especially all but a coward. Simon Riley will not stop you from reaching your dreams.

“I want you to start…” your lips twist in the slightest as you try to find the right words just to settle on “spanking me…”

He tries not to seem surprised but the smallest raise of his eyebrows gave it all away.

“Today,” you finish, almost coming off stern and unmovable.

Many would disagree with this but you could say that Simon had very telling eyes and right now, he was not only questioning just how freaky you were as well as how much of a possible masochist you were underneath that loving and soothing base of your personality. The asphyxiation thing was brought up during sex so he couldn’t really so no to you in the heat of the moment but now you’ve caught him fresh out of an innocent sleep.

“Are you… sure?--”

“Simon,” you dare, looking away for a second before shaking your head at his timidness.

He wasn’t following the script; you’d admit that you wanted to be spanked and he would pat his lap and get to work. That’s how it was supposed to go! However, Simon wanted to play the long game and see how long he could drag this until the sun began to rise.

“Why didn’t you say this instead of staring at my hands the entire meal?”

“Who the hell would just come out and say ‘Hey, mind hitting my ass when we fuck’?”

A small smile spreads his pink lips as his shoulders momentarily hunch.

“You’re not shy any other time.”

For the 800th time, your pupils roll to the back of your head. As you’re shaking your disappointed little head, you pause to see that the storm seems to calm down a bit, instead turning into a windless pour that wouldn’t wake anyone if they were sleeping. The silence left you no choice as Simon indeed began to follow the script written in your head.

“Guess we’d better get to trying before you’re all snappy then,” his heavy mancunian accent coming loudly as he stood up and stretched.

The movement caught your attention and glued it onto his strong thighs. Simon was a brief type of guy— which was honestly a bit surprising when you first discovered it. The soft fabric remained comfortably on his strong thighs that would soon have you stretched across them.

There’s a couple of heavy steps across the bedroom floor before he settled on the front of the bed and in front of the black screen of the television.

“Are you serious?” you purse your lips, crawling towards him as he looks at you from over his shoulder.

Instead of being verbal, he jerks his head to coax you over as a barely-noticeable smile squints his eyes.

And be damned; you were over there in no time. But instead of instantly giving you what you wanted, Simon couldn’t help but tease you a while longer. Only now do you wish he was a quick mover that despised roleplay. Your hips jump a little as two of his slightly-calloused fingers slid down the smooth and silk skin and dew of your cunt.

“Why the long face, doll?” He laughed, taking a glance at the way your lips and eyes were tightly closed shut.

“Do your thing, Simon,” you spoke quickly to muffle a sound of pleasure by covering your mouth and turning away from his eyes-view.

“I just wanted to feel you a little bit, no harm done,” he gently slapped your soppy cunt before lifting your shirt to bunch around the waist. Tonight, you were just wearing a normal pair of lace panties without the partner of a bra. Bras are vibe killers and the world could do without. Plus– it gives your lover easier access to rest or warm his hands when he’s bored.

Anticipation made the fabric become nearly insufferable as the room seemed to double in heat.

“Keep these on?”

You thought, looking at the shiny oak of your bedroom floor before giving him a muffled response.

“I don’t mind them staying on.”

As so, his ring finger released your panty and turned into a palm that smooths over the entirety of your plump ass. The feeling of Simon’s hands on your bum had often aroused you more than it probably should have. He’s never spanked you but he's grabbed it and caressed it as often as you allowed. The way he’d squeeze long enough to make it hurt had always brought out the bedroom hormones even though sometimes he would do it somewhere other than the comfort of your home. anything that made you feel like his was enough to keep it wet for hours.

“What are you waiting fo-AH!” you nearly turn into a flailing mess before your hands quickly resettled onto Simon’s strong thigh which was trembling with amusement.

For someone who was wary of hitting you, he’d come down really heavy handed. You’re a first-timer, it wouldn’t have killed him to at least warn you. However, the hot and stinging feeling is an arousal-multiplying sensation that has your mouth feeling a little numb and your adrenaline flowing.

Your eyes nearly comically blow wide as the two of you make eye-contact, Simon’s face being one of subdued delight as you gently pant out.

“Do. That. Again.”

#call of duty imagines #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #call of duty #cod smut #ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod x you

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alhaithamsproperty · 1 year

Note

Hi!! Can you please write hcs about gn!wildfire!reader x Gepard. And reader is genuinely nice and playful person BUT they're so mistrustful of Gepard and Silvermane guards (and people from overworl in general) and they're kinda mean to him too but oh boy he's pining like crazy because he knows that they're a very kind and caring and brave person and he just wishes that they would tease him and smile at him because they're like that with others but not himmmm. But he's also so sexually frustrated because they have this tendency of grabbing his collar and they talk to him on a very commanding voice and he's ready to act like a damn dog for them fr

Oh MAN do i LOVE specific requests!😩 Yes yes yes I absolutely love this idea! I also included Sampo being a lil’ too flirty flirt and Gepard being a little jealous sh!t bc why not. Enjoy! 🤍

Gepard made it his new personal goal to often visit the Underworld and help people there. After all, his oath made him swear he would protect ALL the people of Belobog. He felt guilty more than ever that he did not protect half of them for a decade.

Whenever he made his way over there, he did his best to fight off monsters, help scared children (tho kids here were more likely to kick his ass than the actual monsters), provide for homeless elders. He tried his best, and never, ever did he seek gratitude or praises for it.

Well… except for maybe a warm word of “you’re doing really well” from that one person.

❄️ Gepard first met you when him and Serval met with with Oleg. He would’ve thought it would be hard enough to gain the chiefs trust, but he accepted the help of the Silvermane Guards rather quickly.

❄️ After him and his guards defeated monsters and helped a pair of kids to safety, some people could not stop singing him praises. People of the Underworld had a new hope to look toward to.

❄️ YOU did not accept his help at all, tho. He heard you rambling to Oleg and Natasha about “why do we need them here?” “we survived without them” or sometimes you’d scoff and call them snobs from the overworld.

❄️ Overall he understood rather quickly that you did not like him. You made it clear with your glares, or the shameless negative comments about what he tried to do here (you would talk shit to Oleg about him right in front of him, for fucks sake), or, in case it really wasn’t clear enough, you’d bump his shoulder on your way out.

❄️ The feelings were somewhat mutual at first, but on his second visit, he heard a group of kids giggling and laughing and was shocked enough to hear your pretty and calm voice laugh and tell them to share the candy - actually teaching the underground kids manners. His heart swallowed with warmth at that very sight. And maybe he was staring for too long, because your laughs stopped and you glared at him, and turned away.

❄️ What did he really do to you?

❄️ This question ate him alive. At first it was pride: I didn’t do anything!

Then it was guilt: Did I do anything…?

And then he settled on the fact he must have done something.

❄️ He approached you, with red ears and tugging on his collar to create some space for him to breathe properly (why was he so nervous?)

❄️ “Hello, Y/N,” he greeted you politely, and got nothing in return, “um… I might have a question to ask you.”

“I might not have time,” you said, and turned away from him again.

“No, no, please,” he ran in front of you, and you frowned when he stood way too close, and when you saw his pleading eyes you almost wanted to slap him. “It’s a quick one. Did I do something?”

“Excuse me?”

“To upset you,” he spoke, and the way he was tall and leaning over you was annoying enough, perfect prince, with his perfect blue eyes and perfect overworld life (it didn’t matter he wasn’t actually a prince, he sure as hell looked like one… and that was irritating too).

“Ah, no, don’t worry about it,” you shrugged your shoulders, and gave him a sweet smile. He almost returned it, if you didn’t continue immediately: “You know, besides living your stupid lives up there,” you pointed your finger up, and then at his chest, actually, which made him more nervous, “and leaving us to starve, and die of sickness or cold here.”

Oh. You now poked his chest, and he felt his heart rate quicken. “Don’t ask me stupid questions again.”

He stared into your eyes, pretty [eye color] shade, and a glimpse of broken emotions behind that mean, ruthless glare. He almost wanted to… nevermind. He cleared his throat, and didn’t push your finger away from his chest. “These were my orders, us guards… we never really knew—“

“Ah, you guards and your orders. Following every single word of that bitch blindly.” You scoffed and poked him again, it actually almost hurt. Or maybe it was something inside that hurt him, he wasn’t sure.

“Don’t speak of Madam Cocolia that way, she—“

He didn’t get to finish, you grabbed his collar and pulled him inches away from your own face, finally facing him face to face, without him having the stupid adventage of being two heads taller. Suddenly he felt like he might just jump out of his body, his cheeks got hot, and his breath caught in his own throat. And he wanted you to do it again. But then he remembered you were actually angry with him, and not having butterflies flying around in your stomach… like he did.

“Don’t tell me what to do. Ever.” Your voice got low, threatening. His eye trailed down your body and saw the two daggers tugged behind your belt. The way he stared at your weapons got you even more worked up, so you tugged on the collar to pull him closer, “got it?!”

“Yeah…” he mumbled, and swallowed hard.

❄️ Gepard was screwed. He liked you. And you hated him.

❄️ He was quick enough to notice you didn’t hate anyone else, tho. Hook? That little brat that called Natasha an “old witch”? No problem at all. You played hide and seek with her the entire afternoon. Anyone that stopped by Natashas clinic to ask for medicine or to complain about some painful spot on their body? You smiled at them, and chatted about how things were going back at their home. You were sneaking candy to kids and greeting almost anyone on the street, giving them a wave and a warm smile. And the second a Silvermane guard appeared in front of you? You were ready to murder them with your eyes.

❄️ He loved it, to see you being nice, caring and protective of other people. It reminded him of his own self… well, in a way. He certainly wasn’t that murderous.

❄️ He didn’t love it to see you being overly nice to Sampo, tho. That guy caused him enough trouble already, and now, with him approaching you every morning, he wanted to put him in jail more than ever.

❄️ “Ah, my beautiful babe, shining more than ever,” Sampo sang you praises, and sneakily allowed his arm to rest on your shoulders. You gave him a laugh and hit his ribs gently with your elbow, calling him a horny ass.

❄️ Gepard felt his cheeks flush, and he looked away. Him and Oleg were just discussing something about a monster near an old couples house, but he could just not hear a single word Oleg said. Instead all he heard was “I mean, if you ever get cold at night…”

“Sampo stop being gross!”

“No, no, pretty, see these fingers?” He grabbed your hand shamelessly, and you let him. You actually let him. His thumb gently stroked your fingers. “Ah, those are cold fingers. We can’t allow that! Sampo won’t allow that. Tell you what, pretty, tonight why don’t we—“

❄️ Yeah, he got hurt pretty badly that night. His guards never, ever saw him so unfocused, so ruthless in a battle.

❄️ He breathed hard and groaned in pain when Natasha tried to clean his would. You arrived at the clinic, and she called you over to press down on his wound. Oh yeah, you had no problem with that. You pressed down hard, to remind him how stupid he was, and to be more careful next time. He groaned again.

❄️ Natasha left to get one specific medicine for him. You stood with your arms crossed and a bit of his blood on your hands. Your expression was unreadable, tho you glared down at him - as usual. When Natasha returned and you left, he’d swore he heard you say “Don’t do that next time, the kids like you.” It must have been the painkillers drugging his brain.

‼️ nsfw:

❄️ Remember that time you pulled him down by his collar and threatened his life? Yeah. That very night he kept stroking his dick hard, fast, and imagining your hand around his throat, eyes gazing deep into his soul, your hips rocking on his dick. He loved that so so so much, he wanted you to use him, to choke him, to do absolutely anything that pretty head of yours would come up with with him.

❄️ He felt guilty about it, disgusted with his own self. But then he did it the night after again, and the next night again, and again. Coming hard each time he imagined you raising his voice at him, he imagined you’d pull his hair and force him to go down on you. Gosh, he’d do anything you wanted.

❄️ He felt so guilty, in fact, that he’d get red in front of you sometimes — thinking back on all his scenarios he came up with at nights. You noticed him getting flustered, and honestly, it was mildly amusing.

❄️ One night, after a succesfull battle, you, him, Serval, Oleg, Natasha, Caelus and, unfortunately, Sampo, drank a bit in order to celebrate victory. Everyone got wasted eventually and left to go to sleep, only you, Sampo and him remaining by the table with bottles in your hands. It was a silent battle between him and Sampo to stay up longer, to stay with you alone.

Sampo, eventually lost. The guy almost crawled away wasted, and Gepard’s eyes laid down on you. Alcohol made his flusterness go away.

“What?” You scoffed, and gave a little smirk as you took another sip. “Oh, sorry, I bet all girls in the overworld beg to bounce on your dick day and night.”

Hm? Was that what you really thought? That wasn’t the case at all… not that he’d know about it.

“N—no, that’s not—“

You leaned closer to him, eyes scanning him up and down, and you took his chin in your hand, squeezing his jawlines a bit. “Oh, come on, perfect boy. They do, don’t they? They beg you to fuck them just as you keep begging to fuck me with your eyes.” You laughed, and pushed him away, and sat back in your chair.

And just like that he was sober, and speechless, and looking away.

“Hey,” you said, and traced your foot gently along his leg, up, up, and up, until you could rest it on his crotch, pushing down not so gently with your heel. He hissed, and looked at you. “Isn’t that true, perfect boy?”

❄️ You left shortly after. To just get another drink, but he thought you left completely, so he wanted to head on his way home too. But God, he could not stop thinking about you. And your hand gripping his chin. And before he realised it he was leaning against a dark alley wall, sliding his hand in his pants. He was so, so drunk, he didn’t even properly realise what he was doing.

❄️ You heard the silent slapping sounds, and the closer you got, the clearer his whimpers were: “Y/N, ah, ah, please, um,” he whimpered and begged in little whispers, his head hanging low in the dark alley, one hand resting on the wall, facing it. Other hand in his pants, making wet sounds.

❄️ You turned him around, his eyes widened in shock, he did not hear or see you come. He wanted to apologise, or to ask what were you doing there, but you gave him no chance as you pushed him on the wall, and trapped his so much taller body between you and the wall.

❄️ You kissed him, and it was messy and hungry. You kept biting his bottom lip to a point it’d get swollen, you pulled on his hair, you kept gringing on his dick through the fabric of his pants and kept groaning, while he whined and begged you.

You grabbed his shoulders and forced him to move away from the wall. You leaned on it now, pushing your own pants down. “Get on your knees, Gepard.”

And he did, immediately, without a single hesitation. And he let you pull and tug with your hands and grind your hips against his mouth until you were a crying mess.

❄️ During days you’d scoff and glare at him, and give him nasty comments and call him worthless or useless, or a guard garbage, or you’d flirt and basically promise to fuck Sampo in front of him… but at nights you’d grab his hand and lead him to an alley, or to any tent around that at least had a pillow. And you’d do absolutely anything with him, just as you wanted.

❄️ He always whimpers. Always goes on his knees first, giving you pleasure, any pleasure you ask for. He’ll do it.

❄️ Fucks you really rough from all the frustration you build up in him.

❄️ Wants your hand around his throat, even if he’s the one fucking you and making you cry and sob and whimper, you’ll be the one choking him.

❄️ Goes slow and sloppy and messy and weak whenever you allow him to cum in you. He loves it so much, and holds your hips against his with his hands, enjoying the little moments you don’t glare at him, but beg him to go deeper in you.

#gepard x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #gepard #gepard landau #gepard landau x reader #gepard hsr #sampo #honkai star rail sampo #sampo x reader #sampo smut #gepard smut #gepard landau smut #hsr smut #hsr x reader

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blueinkjpeg · 4 months

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Okay but one thing I really like about Kit’s characterization is that she’s the antithesis to the Disney princess stereotype but also fills the stereotype perfectly?? But also in a way that subverts the troupe??

Like okay, we can guess from her line about how she wishes she were “anyone but a princess” and the general way she acts that Kit has a complex relationship with femininity. I’m mostly just speculating, but it’s probably just because she associates most feminine traits she has or is forced into with her royal title, and so hates it all.

Being a princess political and socially demands a few immovable things. Having the patience and emotional bandwidth to run a nation, present herself in a distinctly feminine and uptight way, and marrying specifically a man her mother chose so that she can give birth to precautionary heirs.

These are all things Kit is incapable, or relatively incapable, of doing. Kit, just base personality wise, isn’t a patient person. She doesn’t think ahead most of the time, and she doesn’t have the interest in learning it. Also, she’s literally a lesbian and if she goes through with the marriage her mom set up, is doomed to a life of misery and unfulfillment, not to mention that the s*x part of the marriage will be traumatic no matter how it happens. And I literally cannot imagine her as a mom, sorry. Forcing Kit into this role is like trying to shove a circle into the square hole of those baby toys.

I can only imagine Sorsha trying to continuously shove Kit into this role that she cannot fufill would leave Kit frustrated with herself for being unable to fit, and hating anything having to do with it. Like— the whole reason Kit was born was to fill this role. Imagine being physically and emotionally incapable of doing the one thing you were born to do? Kit’s never feeling good enough trauma is just apparent in the show as her abandonment issues. Despite knowing she can’t fill this role and clearly not trying to anymore, doesn’t mean she doesn’t hold a lot of frustration with herself for it.

As an obvious butch, I think Kit would end up in her style no matter how her life turned out, but I also think that the more her mom pushed Kit toward femininity where Kit wasn’t able to fit correctly, the more Sorsha ended up actually pushing Kit in the opposite direction. Frustrated she can’t go one way, she’s clearly ended up going the opposite way.

Just like when her mother didn’t want her to learn sword fighting, she sought a way to learn “on her own” with Jade. Kit isn’t really an authority person. She likely sees it as getting farther away from her mother, and closer to her dad, like how she lost her mom’s sword and picked up her dad’s in the show.

But it’s not just fashion, Kit’s shown distain for “feminine traits” (or traditional Disney princess traits wink wink) she has in her personality. The most obvious example is Kit’s feelings for Jade. They’re very deeply ingrained onto who she is as a person. They’re raw and venerable and Kit goes like five whole episodes after kissing Jade to even consider talking about them. Kit goes lengths to avoid talking or confronting her deeper emotions.

But it remains that Kit feels things very deeply. When Sorsha yells at Arik and Kit in episode 1, Kit’s the only one that starts crying. She loves Jade so much, and is so afraid of being rejected, that when she confesses, she also starts crying. When locked in a cage thinking Jade might be in trouble, she freaks out on Elora. On truth strum, she borderline begs Elora for advice. When she finds out her dad might be alive and that he thinks Elora is “what matters most in this world,” she breaks down and yells. She uses the power of love to save Arik’s life.

Girl cannot hold a grudge to save her life, btw. She’s so pissed at her mom episode 1, the next morning she’s crying at her bedside because she’s worried Sorsha might be upset with her. Jade says she’s abandoning her and Kit’s over it and kissing her on the lips in the span of a few hours. Kit apologizes to Graydon for being a bitch at the engagement dinner. She gets pissed at Boorman for potentially leaving her dad to die and then it’s literally never brought up again bc she’s over it. She tries soooo hard to be mad at Elora for mattering to both her parents more than Kit does, and fails miserably after like a week max.

She’s a teeny ball of rage but it’s not in her nature to hate people for whatever reason.

She’s a very sensitive person. So much so, that she has a quiet arc about how she can’t really stand death.

That possum she has to go fetch for Elora? She can’t even look at it. When the jar breaks and she has to go hold it in her hands? She’s pinching it a full arms length away from her body. As Elora’s cutting it up she’s physically gagging. She tries to talk about Ballentine with Jade, but she can’t even say the word “killed.” She tries SO hard to be macho and tough and be the one to kill Graydon, but Jade and Boorman both already knows she’s weak shit. Kit BAILS. It’s the moment of truth and Graydon’s dying and Kit ORDERS Jade not to kill him as she SOBS and BEGS Elora to figure out a way to save his life bc she can’t stand to watch him die. A throwing star hits her in the arm and she SCREAMS ANS PASSES OUT. Jade has to mentally prepare her to rip it out and she SCREAMS AGAIN. She’s the most reluctant person in the world to fight her brother. And when she wins the fight and tries to kill him, her body won’t even let her. When Elora tells her to stand down, Kit collapses into tears like she was praying someone would stop her.

And it’s clear at the beginning of the season, Kit hold a lot of resentment towards herself for having these traits. They’re not inherently feminine traits to have, but she associates them with being a princess and hates them on principle. She’s probably been told her whole life to be nicer, politer, more empathetic. She doesn’t want to be any of those things, she wants to be who she remembers her dad to be; a brave, admired, tough knight. Kit wants to be brave and strong and she thinks she can’t have that if she acts like Sorsha wants her to, since it’s clear Sorsha doesn’t want either of her kids to be like Madmartigan. She wants them to be a certain way, she wants them to be the opposite of the militaristic way she was raised. But the truth is, there’s nothing Kit can do about it. She is a sensitive, loving, empathetic person, that’s it. This is who she is, and her arc in this show is learning to be herself. All parts of herself.

Kit gets to love the venerable, sensitive parts of herself without giving up the masculine badass sword fighter that she’s always wanted to be, the way she assumed she’d have to. She gets to be both!!! She gets the cool ass armor and she can be emotionally available. She can express fear and love and still be brave and strong!!!

Kit emerges from this show at the heart of the questing gang. Y’all have no idea how much I love that.

#willow disney+#willow 2022 #kit tanthalos #tanthamore

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chishiyasleftnut · 3 months

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Hii I love your fics <3

Can I request chishiya x fem!reader but, he's alone masturbating while reader it's busy on the beach(? Something like that

Thanks <3

Hi! (´｡• ω •｡`) Writing a solo Chishiya fic was actually so much fun. I was giggling the entire time, haha. I hope you like it because I had a blast writing it!

Thinking of You

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤 Warnings: Smut. Pairing: Chishiya x fem!reader.

Plot: Chishiya can't stop thinking about fem!reader. However, as she was off partying and therefore not available to help him out, Chishiya decided to take matters into his own hands.

1662 words. 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Chishiya wasn’t a horny man. He could go ages without sex or even masturbation in the real world. To him, there were way more important things to focus on that getting off. Sure, it was nice, but it was otherwise pointless - and Chishiya hated doing pointless things.

He took this view of sexual pleasure with him into the Borderlands - well, that was until you showed up. Never would he have thought that he would willingly spend countless hours on sex and love it. It was as if he was unable to be alone in the same room as you for long before his fingers found their way around your waist, travelling all across your body in an attempt to make the both of you feel good.

What he didn’t expect as a by-product of this, was how much he wanted you even when you weren’t there; how even the thought of you would make his dick uncomfortably hard. This was entirely new territory for him and for the first time ever he had no idea of what to do. To his knowledge there existed no step-by-step guide explaining how to get his mind off of dirty thoughts.

Normally this wasn’t a problem. You were never far away and always willing, so he didn’t have to sit with his horniness alone for long. Tonight was different, however. You were indulging in the wonders of the Beach, celebrating something he had forgotten. Of course, partying wasn’t really Chishiya’s type of thing, but as long as you promised to stay safe and alert, he wouldn’t stop you from having fun. In fact, although he would never admit it, he loved caring for drunk you.

He could see you from the hotel window, drink in hand and dancing around with other members of the Beach. Even though you were far away, Chishiya couldn’t help by notice how your curves bounced with each little carefree hop you made. God, you looked good, and God he wished you were in the room with him now instead of by the pool.

The more he watched you, the more he felt blood rushing from one head to another. A frustrated groan sounded from him as he forced himself away from the window. He had to get this under control. Normally, he would just wait for you to come back, but that wasn’t an option right now. He had no idea how long you would be away for, and he wasn’t about to potentially wait hours in this state.

With his back to the wall, he began palming himself through his swim trunks, imagining that it was your hand instead of his. He closed his eyes to help his mind creating the feeling of your soft, warm hands caressing his length. It helped somewhat, at least enough to make him grunt and desperately reach inside his shorts for more stimulation. His hand was immediately met with the tepid drops of precum that were oozing out of his painfully hard dick and staining the inside of his swim shorts. That didn’t matter, he could wash them later.

Chishiya tried to remember how you would touch him so he could replicate it. With gentle fingers, he circled around his tip, gathering a generous amount of sticky precum just as you always did. Using this natural lubrication, Chishiya began stroking himself up and down. Unable to stop himself, his touch getting more and more frenzied as time went on. But no matter how hard he stroked, it was as if something was missing.

Suddenly getting a genius idea, Chishiya immediately pulled his hand back up from his shorts and briskly walked to the bathroom. With clear intend, he began searching for your makeup bag. He knew it was around here somewhere - he saw you use it every morning. Once found, he brought it with him back into the bedroom, spewing its contents all over the bed to easier get an overview of the many items. Chishiya rarely made messes, but he didn’t care right now. He was on a mission.

Just as he was about to go insane, he finally found it: your hand lotion. Perfect. With a relieved sigh, Chishiya pulled his trunks down and got comfortable on the bed. He squirted a liberal amount of the cream into his dominant hand and brought it up to his nose. Right that second it felt as if you were there in the room with him. This would work.

After one last deep inhale, Chishiya brought the lotion filled hand back down to his hardness, wrapping his fingers around himself and immediately stroking up and down. Closing his eyes, he allowed the scent to help his mind imagine you more clearly. The almost sinful sound of his lubed-up hand pulling furiously on his dick belonged more in porn than real life, but it only further helped him visualise you in the room. To him, the sound was similar to the one he heard when he would relentlessly fuck into your wet core. All that was missing was the sweet, sweet sound of your moans. Well, he would just have to imagine that.

His own moans filled up the room as his hand moved faster and faster. Although it felt good, at the same time he felt as if something was missing. While the thought of it being your hand that was choking his dick was highly enticing, he at the same time wanted more than your hand. His hand slowed down while he troubleshooted how to create an even more arousing scenario.

Suddenly, it came to him. All he needed was a position change to emulate real sex even better. Chishiya turned around so he was laying on his stomach and placed a pillow underneath his pelvis. This would work perfectly, he thought.

Just as he was about to fuck the pillow, he spotted your perfume bottle on the bed and another stroke of genius hit him. Inspired by the hand lotion he had used earlier, Chishiya grabbed the perfume bottle and began spraying it generously on a second pillow, the image of you getting more and more visible with each spritz.

With his face buried deep in the now you-scented pillow, his hands began squeezing and fondling the soft material, as if it was your boobs. The thought alone made him wild and caused his hips to savagely thrust into the soft fabric of the pillow. The sounds that left his mouth were almost animalistic, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to be relieved from his throbbing, hard dick no matter how that happened.

The pillow effectively muffled his moans in the same way that it so often did to yours. He could almost see the scene in front of him: you on your knees, ass high up in the air and face pressed into the pillow. It was one of his favourite positions. There was something beautiful about you in such a vulnerable state, in seeing you completely under his control. Oh god, the thought alone made his hips move even faster.

Sure, the pillow was no match to your body, but it did its job. Breathing in your scent deeply, he felt himself get closer and closer to the release he so desperately wanted. When he closed his eyes, he could almost see your fucked out face, your eyes glazed over and mouth permanently open. It was as if he could hear your voice too. ‘Come in me, Chishiya. Fill me up.’

With a final, stuttering thrust and loud, shaky moan, Chishiya came hard, emptying himself all over the pillow’s satin fabric. Never would have had thought that coming on a pillow could feel so good, but it did. With shaky arms, Chishiya pushed himself up in a seated position. It was first now that it clicked just how much of a mess he had made. Your toiletries were everywhere, the bedsheets were all tangled and damp from his sweat, and the pillow…

The pillow. Well, this was a problem. For what felt like hours, Chishiya stared at the soiled pillow, trying to figure out how to handle this new situation. Finally, Chishiya picked it up and removed the pillowcase. Maybe the pillow itself was fine? Shit, no. The pillow was wet too. Seeing no way to salvage the pillow, Chishiya stood up and got dressed, before disposing of the pillow in a plastic bag. His plan was to leave no trace, so he quickly and efficiently began cleaning up the mess he had created, carefully putting your toiletries back in the makeup bag and put it back on its spot in the bathroom.

Just as he finished up cleaning, the hotel door opened, revealing your silhouette. You looked happy, but also very, very drunk as evident by your wobbly steps and giggling demeanour. Chishiya walked up to greet you, immediately taking on the caretaker role that he had demeanour to love.

“Did you have fun?” he asked with a smug smile before guiding you over to the bed. You laid down without help yourself, getting comfortable on the soft mattress.

“Hmmm… Very,” you giggled before noticing the lack of something. “Where’s the other pillow?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll grab a new one from the laundry room tomorrow.”

Thank God you were drunk because you decided not to ask any more questions about neither the lack of a pillow or the fact that the room was thickly smelling like your favourite perfume. Instead, Chishiya watched as you closed your eyes to relax, looking completely at peace. For a few seconds, he just observed you before laying down behind you and pulling you into an embrace tight enough that you could share the only pillow.

If only you had walked in 15 minutes earlier, you would have had two. He didn’t mind, though. Sharing the one pillow just meant he was closer to you. He would never complain about that.

#aib chishiya #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya smut #chishiya x reader #shuntaro chishiya #aib #alice in borderland #chishiya x you #smut #chishiya fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #chishiya #chishiya shuntaro smut #alice in borderland smut #alice in borderland chishiya shuntaro #alice in borderland chishiya

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lurkdragonstuff · 2 months

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I'm an atheist and a philosophical materialist. I don't think there's anything more to the universe than what can be observed and measured. Disagree if you want, that's fine, but take as read that this is where I'm coming from.

As you can imagine, this makes it very strange to me that my brain thinks I'm a dragon.

I have been trying to square this circle for years. Since around the 2000's, when I first made contact with the Internet, I would look in on the otherkin community, and the draconic community nested inside it, and I would think, man. I wish I could believe that. I wish I could believe that souls were real, and that I had one, and that it was a dragon, and that's why I was so odd. For quite a while, I just explained it as a furry fandom thing. Sure, yes, my fursona is feral, but ferals are furries, too. This is still true! I'm still in furry fandom, and my dragonself still acts as my fursona. But they are also, in a deeper sense, me.

I'm a secular pagan. I don't think gods exist, and I don't think magic is literally real. I can't really cast a curse on shitty charities. The moon's a big shiny rock. It doesn't care if I roar at it when the sun reflects off it just so and I can see the whole of its tidally locked face.

But my dragon brain doesn't know that. It likes the big shiny rock. It likes little shiny rocks, too. It likes to light things on fire, and considers this a sacred act, both bringing destruction to noxious things and bringing honour to things worthy of it. It likes to growl and hiss when things annoy it. It likes to collect things, to have a hoard. It likes to range around its territory, keeping an eye on what's around in what season. It finds it frustrating that its wings don't seem to work at all, and its other limbs barely better. It wants its tail back. It wants its fire breath.

I'm autistic. Sometimes speaking is hard, and I growl and hiss when things annoy me. I like to collect things related to my special interests; I have a sprawling collection of cetacean, Nintendo, and SEGA figurines, as well as lots of little animal figures. Plushies, too, and videogames, and books. I do wildlife photography, as well, marking who's around in what seasons. This is, to my frustration, limited a lot by waning energy because of chronic health problems.

If backed into a corner, to say what I really believe, of course I'm a human. It is in my DNA, expressed in a bipedal body plan, five fingers on the forelimbs only, nails and not claws, no wings, no muzzle, no tail, short neck, skin and fur instead of scales. Not even any horns. I find this frustrating, but it is what it is. I also find it frustrating when people call me 'she' and not 'they', and that really there is no feasible gender presentation that would guarantee that strangers would use the right word. The best I can hope for is that people will read the 'they/them' button on my hat, or otherwise call me 'he'. Still wrong, but at least novel.

I honestly think my draconic identity developed when I was younger as a way to explain why I was so weird. I have never been normal. I will never be normal. As an adult, I have fancy words like "autism" and "anxiety and depression secondary to post-traumatic stress disorder" and "seasonal affective disorder" to explain why I'm abnormal.

But a part of my brain, I think the same one that still believes in magic and deities even though I don't, tilts its head, then grins a sharp grin and says, "Cool story, bro. I'm still a dragon."

I generally have, for any given of my eccentricities, the philosophical materialist explanation (generally that I am either brainweird in some way or another or am playing pretend for placebo purposes to manage executive function etc.) and the dragon explanation (generally what the pretend play revolves around). But - and this is hard to explain - it isn't exactly playing pretend, either. It's me.

When I'm pretending to be Link, either playing a Zelda game or writing Zelda fanfic, Link isn't me. I might be inhabiting him as an actor, but he isn't me. When I play Animal Crossing, and I'm playing a character named after me, that's closer. It's me but greater. Me but more. Me existing in a life I wish I could have.

When I put on my mask, when I sit and daydream about the multiverse-hopping shenanigans I get up to, when I hiss at someone startling me by getting into my space, that's me. I'm not a dragon, I'm a human wearing a mask, daydreaming, hissing because "back the fuck off!" isn't allowed in the workplace.

Yeah. Cool story, bro.

I am still a dragon.

#original posts #stream of consciousness #perhaps you can catch my vibes #so to speak #dragonkin #otherkin #secular paganism #musings #original writing #psychological otherkin

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chrollohearttags · 1 year

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so we can all come to the general consensus that levi is a classy, boujie ass man. We all know he despises messes and making them even more. Everything must be spotless..

that is until it comes to fucking you..and then he becomes the nastiest man alive.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰──── ───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.

themes: black !fem maid reader, dom levi (with hints of ocd) thigh riding, degradation (use of slut and whore) pet names (kitten, princess, sweetheart) spit kink, throat fucking, use of sir and daddy, mentions of anal sex and masturbation, there’s a lot of other stuff too. Minors, you’re not welcome.

📝: not sure of the word count but this is a little drabble because levi is on my mind heavy.

oh yes, (y/n), his gorgeous little housekeeper turned personal whore, who he fucks at will and abandons all of his neat freak tendencies for. The absolute vision of beauty strutting around his huge estate with those long legs, plump ass and perky breasts swaddled up in that cute uniform. A skirt about three inches too high…

just barely covering that backside. Enough for him to daydream about bending you over and breeding that pretty pussy as he worked away at his desk.

damn you and the urges you drummed out of him. It was so unbecoming of such an accomplished man. Having vivid wet dreams about his help like a prepubescent teen? It was embarrassing! But not shameful enough to stop him from enacting on said desires..calling you into his office and answering with quite the request when you so sweetly asked:

“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

and indeed it was. Waving you over with a finger, the normally stoic stock broker, who had amassed millions from his trade, requested for you to join him as he looked over some paperwork. It was no secret, at least to you how Mr. Ackerman felt;

all but obvious when you caught him one night in his study, stroking his cock and moaning your name..loud enough for you to hear him from the other side of the door. It was so fucking hot! This multi-millionaire, busting a nut at the sheer thought of you.

god, he must’ve sounded so pathetic but he could care less. He was sexually frustrated…having been long time single and not looking in the slightest. Granted, he could pay for it if that’s what he chose but purchasing pussy wasn’t really his style. Especially when he had it in house.

being the dutiful and diligent employee that you were, you’d gladly come and assist. How so? By letting him use your slutty mouth as a flesh light and draining his cum down your throat. It was such a mess; that warm nut splattering his bare thighs and your exposed tits. Mixed fluids all over the carpet and chair…but you’d be happy to lap it up.

if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve sworn he saw heaven that night. So naturally, it couldn’t stop there. When the other staff were away, you two would play: having the nastiest, most disgusting sex ever. Complete polar opposite of his public image.

just like that very moment: when you’d obey and come sit atop his lap. That ass brushing his crotch and your clothed cunt slowly straddling his thigh like a helpless puppy. As busy as he was, he needed a distraction..only the kind you could provide. “Kitten, I’m just feeling so fucking tense right now. Work’s got me stressed. ‘Think you can help me out?”

uttering that precious pet name he had adorned you with. And like always, you’d fulfill his wishes with bells on. Once you had worked yourself into an aroused frenzy; dripping through his black slacks and wetting his skin. Practically whimpering when he hoisted your shirt and began groping those beautiful breasts.

even deciding to shove a hand in those panties and press against that swollen pearl..tracing tiny circles and massaging it.

“Y—yes. Whatever you want, sir!” And what Levi craved more than anything was to put you atop that desk, fold your legs behind your head and pump you full of dick until you came everywhere. So fast forward and that’s exactly what came to fruition..

papers and whatnots shoved to the floor, pushed to the wayside and your body was the only thing that remained. Rocking back and forth as he stuffed that sweet spot, stretching it open. “G-ahhh. That’s it, just take this dick, sweetheart…your only job right now, it’s what you’re best at. I don’t even need you to think..” Not to say you didn’t do exceptional work at the other duties but something about the way you tightened around that cock was something special.

gripping at the sides as he jolted you around, making you toss your head back and release a yelp when he so casually decided to shove his all of those thick inches into the deepest part of your throbbing heat..even pressing down when he started bulging and touching your cervix with his tip.

“Hhhngh! It feels so good, sir. Oh shit!”

“You’re making such a mess on me, kitten. Surely you’re going to clean this up, right?” referring to the milky puddle of cream spilling from your little hole, onto his shaft and the mahogany wood underneath you. Mocking the fact that you couldn’t help your body’s reaction..it was all but inevitable to nut all over his dick when he fucked you this good.

but it’s when you don’t answer his question fast enough, because you’re too busy screaming that he snatches (y/n) up by the center of those beautiful curls and forces your head up; making you meet his gaze. Oh, he turns into such an unhinged feign when he’s inside of you. Unable to control himself and ends up pounding your pussy like a brutish animal…so damn hot.

that’s when Levi shoves three of his perfectly groomed digits into your mouth and begins finger fucking your jaws, turning you to a drooling mess..that dumb, slutty expression on your face making him lose it. The trail of saliva trickling down your chin and chest filling his mind with all types of filthy, perverted ideas. “You answer me when I speak, slut. I hate being ignored..”

it’s then that he reluctantly pulls out and goes to the front to fuck that throat. But not without drumming out some of your squirt with him and letting it splatter his barely buttoned white dress shirt. You’re getting your fluids all over him and his workspace…it’s so disgusting, so nasty…and exactly what he wanted!

“I’m sorry, sir..I just—“

but your excuses are of no consolation to him. And instead, he fills your mouth with his dripping erect. Immediately pumping it between those pretty, plump lips of yours. But not without lubricating the inside with his own trail of saliva.

he’s so conflicted…on one hand, he hates the idea that his office is now in disarray. He’s the type that needs to maintain a spotless environment at all times..on the other? Watching you taste the sweet remnants of yourself as he sloppily throat fucks his little slut; strings of saliva bubbling and dangling all over the place. Not to mention the way your nimble fingers toy with that clit because you’re just feigning to feel him inside of you again…

it was the most divine thing ever and he didn’t give a fuck how filthy things got..it was a mess well worth it! “Oh fuck, kitten…I swear you bring out the worst in me. I know it’s not right but I just want to keep pounding this throat until you suck me dry..I want to do all the nastiest things with you, babe. Daddy just wants to give you all of his nut..in here, in that beautiful pussy..”

mindlessly rambling as he tosses his back onto his shoulders, trying to regain a semblance of self restraint. The ever so poised Levi Ackerman has never spoke so vulgar and vile words to anyone but it’s something about you. He’s gently stroking your cheek as you gaze up at him with those big doe brown eyes and fluttering lashes, suckling on his tip like a piece of candy. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll train that cute little ass next. How’s that sound?”

earning him a fateful nod. “That’s my good girl..always doing whatever the fuck I tell you. Exactly why you get whatever you want from me..” his cock twitches once more when you squirt all over those fingers and display the dripping mess mid air. Feeling the vibrations of your moans around his base.

raking a hand through his hair, he proceeds..sucking his teeth and trying to maintain his composure but it’s fading fast. In all honestly, he’s losing his goddamn mind. Like a feral creature in fucking heat, Levi just keeps thrusting upward, getting faster until sweat begins to head around his forehead. As with the rest of his sheen slicked body. He can’t believe that you’ve both been going this hard. Losing track of how many times he’s watched you climax now but it was damn sure time to add his own to the mix.

those heavy, full balls colliding with your hairline were just begging to be emptied and of course, with the assistance of those warm jaws, you were bound to taste his cum in a matter of minutes, if that. Releasing one of those heavy, loud grunts, the normally less than vocal businessman coiled his thumbs around your throat and palms to the back of your neck and fucked your skull with all he had. You could see how desperate and deranged he was..

“C’mon, princess. Swallow this nut for me, okay? Suck this cum out of me like I know you can. Just drain me already..fuuuck.”

never having seen him so vulnerable like this. All of it: the language, the filthy dialogue between you two and the disgusting mess of bodily fluids..it’s all your doing. Only you could drum up such a scene from him. But none of that matters now, and with your tongue scaling the underside of his shaft, you grant his wish sooner rather than later.

with one final twitch, breath catching in his windpipe..Levi releases an extremely loud groan as well as those sought after strings of semen. Pouring every last drop of his warm liquid into the back of your welcoming throat. “Ohhhh, fuck! Take it..take it all from me, baby..” Bubbles and escaping droplets are pooling down the sides of your face and after a full minute of pumping, he finally pulls his sensitive, overly stimulated cock out of your mouth. The tip is practically glowing red, emitting all types of mixed fluids from it.

at that moment, he’s so delirious and spent but feeling prideful all the same. You’ve just swallowed every drop of his cum as if it were nothing..a sign that he had trained his little whore very well. “C’mere..” When you finally come to, you’re greeted with a peck to the forehead, followed by a deep, sloppy kiss from your boss and lover. He has no shame shoving his tongue inside of your mouth after just getting the nastiest head possible.

“You did great, kitten..thank you for clearing my head up. I needed that…” making you grin from ear to ear, your cheeks burning and face twisted into a smile. That white and clear liquid painted all over that beautiful brown complexion like a canvas and undoubtedly, you were his work of art.

chuckling, you’d find the strength to make it onto all fours, teasing that ass in the air; subtly twerking. You were really something when you got going. “It’s my pleasure, sir. Always..” muttering so sweetly as you leaned down, akin to the pet he had been calling you, and lap up your own puddle of juices; gliding that tongue pad across the surface before glaring back up at him..who was already hard as rock once again and in awe of how utterly slutty you got for him..and decided that one round wasn’t going to suffice!

“…matter of fact, let’s just take the rest of the day off. I think we could use a little more time together.”

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