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xbellaxcarolinax · 9 months

Note

Okay but imagine sex pollen with Miguel fucking you on your back and then even when he cums he just keeps going and it’s spilling out and refractory period who and you’re overstimulated and he’s like no no you’re not allowed to tap out and he — and he —!!!!!

Sorry

MONA. You put me in a fucking MOOD LMFAO This is way longer than I intended. And its pure filth 🫣

Word Count: 2k+

NSFW below the cut.

Part 2

...

Earth 703- A post-apocalyptic world in which New York was nothing more than a ferocious jungle.

You stared off into the distance, the familiar city skyline overrun by wild flora and thick green vines sneaking in through broken windows and cracked concrete.

“What the fuck.” You whispered to yourself, eyes now trained on the massive dragonfly that whizzed by you. Miguel grunted, punching a large finger over the screen of his watch.

The mission was supposed to be simple: Catch the anomaly—send them back to their own universe—go home. That’s it. No detours, no distractions. In and out.

“Are we close?” You questioned, pressing up against Miguel’s side at the sight of another massive insect, “I wanna get the hell outta here.”

“We just missed him.” He sucked his teeth. His mask disappeared in a flash of digital pixels to reveal his scowling face, narrowed red eyes and brows furrowed in frustration.

You’ve been wandering around the city for forty-five minutes, trekking through the godforsaken jungle with no luck. The anomaly, a Prowler from some random universe (you couldn’t remember, you weren’t paying attention at the meeting), was clever, quickwitted, and inconspicuous. You’d wished Miguel had chosen Jess for this one, but he’d refused. He’d used the excuse of her pregnancy but really, she’d already complained to you beforehand that the humidity would do her hair no favors.

“What now?” You questioned, plopping down at the base of a bulky tree trunk a few feet away. The trees were so massive that the branches seemed to kiss the sky, monstrous green leaves blocking out most of the morning sunlight.

“Keep lookin’,” he huffed, running his fingers through his hair, “we’re getting close.”

“Miguel,” you whined, your head thumping back against the trunk, “you said that forty-five minutes ago.”

“Get up,” he demanded, shooting out a web of electric red to swiftly pull you toward him. You yelped, crossing the distance within seconds, crashing into Miguel's sturdy body.

“I hate when you do that.” Your words were muffled by his broad chest, peeling your sweaty cheek away from the synthetic material of his suit. The tiniest smile ghosted over his lips.

“I know.”

…

You’d left Miguel on his own for a few minutes.

You’d gotten distracted, swinging up into one of the treetops to observe one of the colorful parrots squawking in the distance. It’d looked just like the ones back home, except this one was enormous, probably bigger than a medium-sized dog.

“Fuck!” You’d heard Miguel yell from down below, spitting out curses in Spanish, choking on the words as coughs racked his body. He’d been waving his hands in front of his face to clear his vision to no avail. You watched as his body reacted immediately to whatever it was that ailed him, his body hunching over as if in pain.

“Miguel!” You dropped to your feet in front of him and attempted to reach for him, but he recoiled, fearing your touch.

“Stay back!” he wheezed, crouching down and holding his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“It hurts,” he groaned, his eyes screwed shut as his body trembled, his fingers weaving through his thick hair strands to violently tug from the root.

“Stop,” you scolded, getting on your knees in front of him to pry his hands away, “tell me what’s wrong so that I can help you.” You shoved him down by the shoulders so that he was sitting with his knees out, bringing a hand to his face and yanking it up by his chin. His eyes, normally a mahogany shade glowed a disturbing red, his pupils dilated.

“Ran into a plant,” he forced the words from his throat, his skin gleaming with sweat, “s-some flower, I don’t know, some kind of pollen.” He groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Shit, ok, ok, ok, we can fix this,” you panicked, placing the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning, skin blistering hot. “Where does it hurt.”

Miguel remained silent, breathing harshly through his nostrils as beads of sweat began to trickle down his face. He looked down between his legs and you followed his line of vision. Oh. OH.

His bulge was tenting through his suit, fighting against the restraints of the digital fabric. The area glimmered brightly before his cock burst through the pixels, flopping out and twitching with need.

Miguel was big.

His cock stood tall and proud, bobbing against his stomach, the tip leaking a thin bead of precum that ran down his length.

You stared for a moment, transfixed on the angry red tip before you found your voice. “Miguel—”

“You need to go,” he spat viciously, his fangs protruding as if to scare you away, “if you don't I’ll—” He stopped himself, lips pressed into a tight line as his chest began to heave. You could hear his heart rate accelerate with every passing second.

“Let me help you,” you whispered, your hand hovering over his cock. He looked away from you, his skin flushed from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. “Miguel, please, let me help you.”

“I don’t want to force—”

“You’re not forcing me,” you breathed, letting the pad of your finger tap against his tip, smearing his precum over the surface. Your cunt throbbed, squeezing tight with an overwhelming desire to be filled. “I want to.” You cooed, your tone causing his eyes to flutter.

Miguel grunted, grabbing your hand and placing it over his throbbing cock.

“Then help me.” He hissed.

…

You needed a new suit. Immediately.

Miguel had torn into it, ripping the seams apart from the crotch, all the way up to your neck, revealing your chest and glistening pussy. You had no time to complain, mewling when he spread your thighs apart with his large hands, his eyes trained on the heat between your legs before diving in to eat from you.

You squealed, your hands flying to his head as he kissed and licked and spit over your cunt, his nose pressing against your clit. His tongue dipped into your hole a few times before licking one long stripe up to your bundle of nerves, swirling his tongue around it before sucking it into his mouth.

Okay—you’ve had your pussy eaten before, but goddamn never like this, never like it was a matter of life or death, as if your pussy alone was the answer to all things.

Miguel continued his ministrations, releasing a growl every few moments, licking to oblivion until you thought his jaw would lock.

He made you see stars, groaning loudly as you gushed into his mouth. He savored your tangy taste as he lapped at your wet folds, making sure to lick up every drop he could find.

His mouth and chin were soaked in your juices when he came back up, and it shot a fresh wave of arousal through your veins. His hand reached out to cup your face, his thumb smearing over the traces of his cum dotting across your cheek when you’d sucked him off earlier, catching some of it in your mouth before he'd pulled out, wanting to paint your face with it at the last moment.

He dipped his thumb into your mouth, forcing you to clean it as he slid his cock over your messy pussy, smearing the underside in your juices. His body shook with need, his eyes glazed and lidded, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he whimpered something about you being so wet.

He pulled out his thumb from your mouth with a pop and watched how you panted underneath him, your exposed skin now covered in a sheen of sweat.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, positioning your legs over his shoulders before draping himself over you, folding you in half, “I’m sorry if I’m not gentle.”

Gentle? You were a big girl, you didn’t need him to be—

You cried out as soon as he pressed his fat head into your tiny hole, forcing your pussy to open up for him as he pushed in deeper without giving you much time to adjust.

“Fuck,” you sobbed, your hands scrambling to grip his arms as he began to thrust his hips, dragging his cock in and out of you at a bruising pace.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Miguel began to babble, grunting when your cunt squeezed the life from him, the slick noises of your drenched pussy egging him on.

Maybe…gentle would have been nice knowing now how big he was, but you understood the circumstances of the situation. This was meant to be anything but gentle.

He had you coming again, your back arching and your bare chest pressing against his clothed one before he filled you with his own spend, pushing it as deep as he could into you. He pulled out harshly causing you to moan, watching his cum leak from your swollen pussy before slapping his length over your folds a few times and dipping back in.

He fucked you harder this time until your pussy throbbed and burned from the size of him, filling you up with so much of his cum, and delighting in the way it dripped out of you.

“Again.” He grunted, pushing his cock into your convulsing walls, slamming in deep as he licked and sucked on your nipples, leaving red love marks over your skin. You sobbed from the pleasure, feeling his weight push you into the ground.

“I can’t!” You cried, pushing weakly against his shoulders.

“You can and you will.” Miguel commanded. He couldn’t stop, barely giving you a minute to catch your breath after making you both cum again before sinking into your searing heat, stretching you beyond your limits.

You were lightheaded and spent, losing count of the number of orgasms he’d given you. Miguel growled, pulling out his cock from your abused hole and shooting his load over your body. He pressed it into your skin, smearing it over your breasts and tender nipples, down your abdomen, and finally, over your burning pussy.

He paused, his eyes tracing over your fucked out form before reaching down to pump himself with the leftover cum in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Hermosa,” he whispered, draping himself over you again, “I can’t stop, you feel too good. So fucking tight.” He slurped your nipple into his hot mouth, sucking the taste of him from your skin as he pushed his large cock into you.

Your eyes fluttered and you cried out, your fingers digging into the earth, focusing on nothing but Miguel's rich voice:

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m—

…

It was nightfall by the time Miguel was satiated.

You felt weak, eyes heavy with sleep and body limp. Miguel sat against a tree and had you cradled in his arms, your body nestled comfortably between his legs. He rested his head over yours, inhaling the scent of sweat and dirt trapped in your hair.

“See that flower?” He muttered, pointing straight ahead at a few giant white daisies clustering around a tree. They were massive, like everything else in that universe, the stems taller than Miguel when he was standing at his full height. You nodded sleepily, ignoring the ache in your still exposed cunt. “Don’t go near it.”

“Got it.” You absentmindedly played with the frayed pieces of your suit, letting Miguel shield your exposed skin from the elements.

You probably should’ve left already, should’ve gone back to HQ for a much-needed shower and rest, probably schedule another meeting, but Miguel wouldn’t budge, his grip on you tightening whenever you so much as shifted against him.

“Quèdate quieta.” He grunted.

“Miguel,” you protested, “we have to go home. The anomaly—”

“I know, hermosa,” he murmured softly, “I know.” You never seen him this soft before, nor speak in such a gentle way, not with anyone and least of all, not with you.

You both sat there in silence, processing what happened while listening to the sounds of the jungle, the birds chirping in the distance, the leaves rustling in the gentle wind. You sighed, playing with his interlocked fingers over your stomach. It was strangely intimate (despite everything else that happened), having him coddle you.

“Miguel?”

“Mm?”

“You better get me a suit like yours.”

“What’s wrong with the fabric ones from HQ?”

“It’s a waste if you’re just gonna rip it off again.” You heard him snort out a breath, just the tiniest thing that implied he understood your meaning. You were hoping this wouldn’t be the first nor last time you’d be under him. “We got a deal?”

Miguel chuckled, his hand leaving the safety of your abdomen to venture down into your sopping-wet folds. You bit your lip, spreading your tired thighs, whimpering as his thick fingers swirled inside.

“Deal, Hermosa.”

...

Quèdate quieta- Keep still

#ask response #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x reader #atsv

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yamameta-inc · 3 months

Text

Mask recommendations for ordering online (NA)

Note: for consistency, practicality, and simplicity all prices are listed in USD.

masknerd has a comprehensive data set on hundreds of masks he's tested according to his own criteria and methodology (pinned tweet). find his recommendations on his youtube channel. many of the following are on his list as well!

DISPOSABLE MASKS

3M Aura and Vflex: one of the most commonly recommended brands of N95. Where to buy?

- US: see here - Canada: see here - Multiple sizes per model. These suppliers are good for bulk ordering. If you aren't sure if something will fit you, check out the sample kits in the next recommendation - Price point: varies from $1-1.3 USD per mask depending on supplier

Breatheteq (US):

- KN95s that come in small, medium, large, or XS (kids) - Offers sample kits so you can test out what your size is - Comes in a few different colours. shoutout to the lavender - Earloop only - Price point: $69.75 USD for a 50-pack (~1.4 USD per mask)

Canadastrong (Canada):

- The Canadian equivalent to Breatheteq, but also carries N95s of other brands such as 3M Aura and Vflex, Vitacore, and Drager X-plore

Vitacore (Canada and US):

- N95 certified, but actually has 99% filtration - Both earloop and head strap versions (warning that the head strap seems to fit considerably smaller) - Regular and small adult sizes offered, also a kid's size - Price point: $33.99 for a 30-pack (~1.1 USD per mask)

Wellbefore (US, ships to Canada):

- N95s, KN95s, and KF94s - Head straps, normal earloops, or adjustable earloops depending on model - Kids/petite size available for certain KN95 models - Wide range of colours (excluding N95s) - Price point: varies per model, from $0.79 USD to $2.09 USD per mask - Also sells Covid tests, over the counter medication, and medical supplies

Masklab (US):

- This is an indulgent option for if you want to go out and look good, while still staying safe. These are masks that are part of your outfit - FFP2 certified, equivalent to KF94s - Standard size and slim fit series - Many beautiful patterns - Price point: $24.44 USD for a 5-pack ($4.88 per mask) for the patterned KF ones, ~$3.4 USD for the plain KF ones, ~$3.3 USD for the slim fit series, including patterns.

ELASTOMERIC MASKS

Flomask (US, ships to Canada):

- Reusable elastomeric mask (with replaceable filters) that meets KN95 standards - Two adult sizes (low/medium nose ridge and medium/high nose ridge) and a kid's size - Adjustable straps - Price point: $122 USD. 50-pack replacement filters: $81.46 (filters to be changed after 20-40 hours of use, depending on filter type)

A humble P100 elastomeric respirator from your local Home Depot or similar store! Magnitudes cheaper than the Flo mask (both the respirator itself and the filters)--however, I can't offer estimates for how often filters should be replaced. May not look pretty, but the most economical option for the highest degree of filtration if you aren't self-conscious.

General advice:

N95 or higher are the most reliable. They normally come with head straps, which offer better protection by making a tighter seal around your face.

But fit and comfort are the most important! Find a mask that fits your face and leaves the least amount of gap possible. KN95s are often more comfortable and breathable--find what's right for you.

You can wear different masks for different situations depending on risk level!

If you're hesitant to buy online, here's advice on how to tell if your respirator is legitimate.

A SIP drinking valve can be installed on any disposable mask to allow you to drink in public with less risk.

If anyone has other recommendations, please feel free to add!

#i'm so sorry non-NA people i don't know enough but i will try to look into it #covid

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faesdreaming · 4 months

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Yandere Fae - Temptation

he just wants to know your name, that’s all. he promises.

tw: yandere themes, possessive behaviour, reader is lowkey okay with it, implied murder, unhealthy relationships, stockholm syndrome (?)

“Come now, darling,” he croons, so very sweetly, “it’s just a name. I promise I won’t tell.”

He leans his cheek against your arm, gazing up pleadingly. You sigh as you feel your resolve waver. He— the fae— Lucian, he says his name is but you don’t know if he’s telling the truth.

Fae can’t lie, you’d been told as a child. The people of your town nary spoke of the faekind, save in warning tales. They’d told of weaknesses, of iron and salt. Lies. Falsehoods born from ignorance. Fae could lie, could weave truths of honeyed poison sweeter than any ambrosia. One thing you did know was not to tell one your name. Your grandmother had told you. She was the same woman who warned you of the dangers, who thwarted the ignorant claims of the fellow villagers

“Please.” Lucian all but whines. You can’t help but giggle in amusement. For such a powerful creature, he’s acting as though he were a puppy. “It’s just a name.”

But it’s not just a name. Name’s are powerful. They hold history, stories, one’s very being. So, you’ll refuse him once more. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Lucian tilts his head. The slightest hint of venom tinges his tone. His slit pupils are dilated double their size, like a predator catching sight of its prey. “Tell me your name.”

Lucian’s been persistent in his efforts. Ever since you moved into a cottage deep within the forest. Unable to bear the repetitive, noisy life of your village, you left. He’s been following you ever since you moved in. He’s bound, tethered to the place. To the land. Through magical means you don’t understand. Lucian adores pestering you with questions, and inane conversation, that you’ve grown to enjoy. But above all else, he seems determined to get your name. Not that you plan to give it to him.

He makes a frustrated noise, a pout forming on his lips. “You’re so stubborn.” Lucian complains. “Just tell me. I won’t tell anyone else, I swear.”

Liar, you think fondly, It’s cute, really, the effort he puts in.

Biting your lip, you briefly contemplate your sanity. Should others find themselves in this situation they wouldn’t be as calm. They’d panic. You should panic. You should probably run for the hills. For it’s not his status as a fae that forebodes danger. He’s— Lucian is complex.

The good-natured mask he wears is just that. A mask. One he wears for you. Your relationship with Lucian is multilayered. Surface level, it is a give and take. What he gives and what you take remains unclear. Surface level, you’re companions. But that implies trust. You don’t trust him. You’re smart enough not too.

“I’m heading out to town.” You tell him. “To the market.”

Lucian huffs. He storms off like a petulant child, intelligibly whining and a pout on his face. You roll your eyes. Gathering a basket and pulling on a cloak, you step out of the cottage. The way to town isn’t marked by a path. You memorize trees and large stones. Landmarks. You trek through the woodlands, thoughts of Lucian occupying your mind.

You hold a certain fondness for him. For the little game you two indulge in. It’s an odd affection, a tired, old one. He makes you cook for him, bemoaning your atrocious mortal cuisine as he eats all of it. He follows you around the cottage with seemingly no concept of personal space. He lingers around you, as if he were a ghost and you his haunt. He entertains you. With tall-tales spun from silk. He offers you gifts in the form of odd trinkets, flowers, nuts, sometimes gems.

Lucian perplexes you. Because despite the casualness of your relationship, you’d be a fool to not be aware of the power imbalance in between the two of you. There’s something dark, dangerous. An ancient, primal magic tethering him to the cottage. To you.

You shake off your wonderings as you reach a clearing. Down, to the left is a quaint little town. It’s sparsely populated, everyone knows everyone, at least everyone who inhabits the area. Locals are wary of travellers, yet they are not so foolish to deny potential patrons business. Their market, tavern, and inn are what’s to be expected of a place such as this. It’s sufficient for your needs, though. Far be it for you to complain.

You stop by the market, examining items being sold by the vendors. As you take an apple in hand, trying to determine whether the produce is worth it’s price, a hand reaches by you. Curiously, you sneak a glance to the person it belongs to.

You’re met with the appearance of a rugged, rogue. Weary from his travels, if you’d have to guess. He gives you half-grin half-smirk that makes your insides flutter. Normally, you’d offer him a flirtatious smile. Perhaps he’d ask to take you out for the night, to the tavern. You’d drink sweet mead and suggest stopping at an inn for the night. Spend it together. Alas, the sanctity of your normal ended upon your meeting with Lucian.

“‘Scuse me, love,” he says, voice a rough timbre. It’s so different than Lucian’s smooth, honeyed lilt. You like it. “You ain’t from ‘round here, eh?”

You nimbly step aside, appreciating the view. You should leave, you know the consequences if you stay. “No.” You tell him. “I live a little ways away.”

He smiles at that. A small little grin that’s almost a smirk. What a dangerous thing, he is. He starts chatting you up. You know what he wants from you and you’re quite certain he knows what he wants from you. You should be beyond such inhibitions— but it’s been so very long since you’d indulged in a bit of fun. So you let him take you back to his inn, slip something in his beer so when he’s done and your sated, he’ll slip right off. The moment he does, you slink away, trekking through the woods back home. Most people wouldn’t, scared of the dangers lurking. But the forest knows that the true danger resides within your home, guaranteeing your safety.

The moment you make it back, Lucian appears, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Entertaining night?”

His tone is frigid and cold, almost the same as his usual indifference. But you know him better than that. “Very.” You hum. “And yet, I’m here with you.”

“Yet you’re here with me.” He parrots. The shift in his demeanour is almost imperceptible, a change so subtle it appears meaningless. You watch as he slinks away, the satisfaction of his tone lingering throughout your mind. The affirmation, to both him and you, that you were here. That you came crawling back to him. That the pull, the tether he held on your being remained tight as ever.

That you were—

Not his. You were still your own being. You let out a shaky sigh and head up to bed. You’ve had too much to drink, you tell yourself. The next morn, when you awaken, groggily blinking, something immediately feels off. After living like this— after living with him— for so long, you’ve come to understand to trust your intuition while ignoring the warning bells ringing in your head.

You head down the stairs. Your body is heavy from your hang over. It dulls your senses. You know you need to be on guard, lest Lucian have his way. Speak of the devil, you muse, as he leans on the kitchen island smugly. “Rough night?”

“Don’t.” You warn, grabbing a pot and filling it with water to boil. Lician laughs. His laughter sharp and smooth. “Forgive me, lovely.” He croons. “I do not intend to rouse that temper of yours.”

You eye him suspiciously. Of course, you’re always suspicious in regards to him, but this behaviour is odd. Odder than usual. He usually demands you cook for him, asks for your name, then huffs when you rebuff him. It’s routine and Lucian isn’t one for breaking routine. You rake over his handsome, pointed features. He sports an usual grin. Self-satisfied and almost victorious. Then, you spot a crimson splatter along the underside of his throat.

“Is there something wrong, lovely?” He inquires, tilting his head almost as if to show you the blood stained on his neck.

Don’t give in. Don’t pay attention to it. You learned early on giving in only worsens his behaviour. “No.” You answer firmly. You avoid his question, evasive and ignorant. Your ignorance serves as a shield. “I ought to make something, barely ate yesterday.”

Lucian’s eyes flicker with both annoyance and pleasure. “Make me some too.” He orders, before sauntering off.

It sends a shiver down your spine, your compliance. Barely able to deny him, yet unable to give into him. It irks him. It also pleases him. It’s a game between the two of you. One neither of you can quit. You tow the line each time, out of selfishness. The desire to be free. To be as it was. It ends in his possessive fits, with blood shed, staining your hands crimson. Yet you continue. His attention is intoxicating. As addicting as mead. It drives you mad, tantalizes you, taunts you. But you don’t give in fully. Can’t. At least, not yet.

“Come now, lovely. I know you wish to fall into temptation with me.”

#yandere romance #yandere x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere #yandere oneshots #yandere drabble #yandere oneshot #yandere fae #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere imagine

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buryustogether · 7 months

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kinktober day 4: size kink - miguel o'hara

In your defense, you thought your boyfriend just really liked to work out.

You had no idea that the reason he trained so hard, the reason he drove himself to the finish line, the reason he woke before the dawn and slept after the moon was because he was actually the masked vigilante swinging around town keeping it - and your neighborhood, specifically - the safest it had been in years.

Either way you put it, you didn't know why your boyfriend was so bent on keeping himself fit. But it wasn't like you were complaining.

Miguel has you pinned against the wall of your living room, his feet digging into the floor as he both supports you and fucks up into you like he's in heat. His large, wide hands are splayed beneath the plush of your thighs, nearing the globes of your ass, so that he can keep your legs wrapped around his waist while he rhythmically drives his thick, slick cock in and out of your core.

"Oh, fuck," you breath as you let your head tilt back against the wall. You don't think you'll ever get used to the stretch of his cock in your cunt, no matter how many times he enters you. It feels like you're being shoved to your limits - and you wouldn't have it any other way.

"You're perfect like this," Miguel murmurs against your ear as he presses his forehead against your neck and shoves his member deep inside you with a particularly sharp thrust. "Clinging to me in my arms, trusting me to keep you up. I like it."

"You - hah!" Your eyes roll back into your head as his tip hits that particular, wonderful, star-exploding spot deep within you. Your nails dig into his skin, sure to leave behind dents. "You like this any way we do it."

Miguel chuckles through a belly-deep groan, his grip so tight on your thighs you know there will be bruises tomorrow. You don't mind. You'll wear them with pride. "Of course," he rasps. "But this is my favorite way."

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel x y/n #miguel x you

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ceilidho · 8 months

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prompt: ghost and you are the only survivors of a military plane crash. you spend weeks alone in the wild together. (ns/fw)

In the years you’ve worked as a flight attendant, you’ve never experienced a plane crash before. It’s exactly like what you would’ve expected.

Clear skies rapidly turn grey outside the tiny windows to your left and right; you notice it almost instantly because it casts a pall over the interior of the aircraft. It makes the small group of men that you’ve been travelling with sit up a bit straighter in their seats, only a few of them looking genuinely concerned. Military men often do; it’s in their nature to worry and fret. You feel it like a twinge in your gut, like something telling you that you don’t usually fly through dark clouds.

The soft ding of the seatbelt sign comes on a handful of seconds later. The turbulence only a few moments after that.

Pilots are trained to avoid cumulonimbus clouds like they’re a harbinger of death (and they are). Even large airliners avoid crossing the path of a cumulonimbus. Your pilot should’ve known to divert and fly around the cloud, avoiding the possibility of flying through a thunderstorm altogether. The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom for everyone to fasten their seatbelts and you notice distantly that his voice seems frazzled.

Your hands grip the seat as you strap in. This is exactly the kind of scenario you’ve prepared extensively for, but in the face of it, your stomach tosses and turns. Practice can only hope to ape reality; it often falls short.

From across the aisle, you lock eyes with the lieutenant in the skull mask that politely refused a beverage ten minutes ago. The plane jostles you violently in your seat as it passes through a rough patch of turbulence. Even the lieutenant, twice your size and rooted into his seat, his hands clamped around the arm rests, grunts when he’s rocked side to side.

There’s a loud pop outside the aircraft and the plane teeters dangerously to one side. The bags in the overheads bash against the doors, the plastic squeaking under their weight.

Someone screams. The other attendant sitting across from you is already shouting, “Brace! Brace! Brace!” The mantra bursts from his chest along with spittle and the singular, quivering note of fear. There’s not much more you can do but follow his lead, dropping your head to your knees and wrapping your arms around your legs.

Your stomach drops when the plane descends far too suddenly. You would’ve been pulled back against the wall if your arms weren’t wrapped around your legs. You have enough time to peek up briefly to see all of the other men assuming the same position, some with their heads pressed against the seat in front of them before the aircraft nosedives and there’s a sharp whistle in your ear and the lights flicker ominously in the cabin and something tears and tears and tears and—

Then it’s dark.

Your grip must have loosened because the world disintegrates after you hit your head. There’s only a faint buzz and something ice cold, something that grips you from the inside and slithers over your skin. The aftermath of a crash is so quiet for the devastation it brings.

The big one in the scary mask is the one who drags you from the wreckage, lifting you into his arms when you’re still too dazed to do more than whimper pathetically. Fear and pain and adrenaline have crumpled you up into a little ball.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, and maybe it’s a shout. His voice is so loud. When you open them, you nearly close your eyes instinctively when you see the gaping hole in the plane where it’s been torn apart.

“Where are—” it hurts to speak, but you have no choice, “—the others…”

He doesn’t respond. That makes it worse. You slip your arms around his neck so he can hike you closer up his chest. Slung over his shoulder is a black duffle bag that he must have pulled from the overhead, or what’s left of them. When your head turns on a swivel, you startle at the sight of the other attendant still strapped in his seat, his neck snapped back at an odd angle.

You turn your head away.

“My leg hurts really bad,” you sob, fingers clutched in the sweat-matted fabric of your saviour’s shirt.

He palms the back of your head and tips you just enough for you to meet his eyes. Something dark shutters over his face for a split second. If your eyes weren’t filled with tears, you might’ve noticed it. It passes fast though, too quick for you to register it in these conditions.

“‘Gonna be okay, sweetheart,” he says, gentler this time, rough-sounding like he’s not used to using that tone. “Gonna get us out of here and then I’ll check your leg. Just hang on to me.”

It’s hard to catalogue every moment because you drift in and out of consciousness. You feel the man shift you in his arms whenever he clambers down the side of the mountain your plane must have flown into. There’s debris from the wreckage scattered around the rocks, the other half of the plane not too far away. When your eyes blink open briefly, you see how decimated the other half is.

There aren’t any other survivors. Only bodies. He doesn’t stop for them.

Far off from the wreckage, he sets you down onto the soft earth and rifles around in the bag he took. There’s a first aid kit with supplies that he uses to wrap your ankle, which is swollen and tender. The adrenaline crash is nearly more violent than the plane crash you just survived. It wracks through your body as the lieutenant strips your shoes and socks, gently manipulating your foot in his big hands. You notice he’s also lost the mask.

Ochre yellow and green plains spread outward from the mountains. You remember from the flight maps on board that you were somewhere over Mongolia, but the exact mountain range eludes you. This could be the Khangai or the Sayan or the Altai, but you have no way of knowing.

“Is there a…a phone in the bag? How’s anyone gonna know we’re out here?” You sound helpless, smaller than you’ve ever sounded.

He shakes his head. The tight ball of tension in the middle of your chest grows tighter. The thought that you’re stranded in the mountains in Mongolia, thousands of miles away from home and no way to get help is almost enough to send you into a panic attack.

A hand cups under your chin to tilt your head up. His face up close is exquisite and haunting—weathered in the way that career military men often are, burn marks and old scars littered across the delicate skin, lips perpetually chapped, and a nose that looks like it’s been broken way more than once. You can’t look away.

“Someone’ll be looking for us,” he says. It’s reassuring only because he says it like it’s a certain thing. “Don’t know if you saw who was on that flight roster. A lot of important men were supposed to arrive in Germany at twenty-one-hundred hours.”

You nod, tears still dribbling down your cheeks even when he swipes his thumb across to rub them away. He’s not wrong. There was a colonel on your flight after all. Dead now, hot corpse still steaming in the wreckage half a kilometre away, but he would’ve been important enough to warrant an immediate rescue.

You go still under his touch. “You weren’t on the flight list.”

He shakes his head. “Never am.”

“But you were with them?” You remember someone on the flight addressing him by his rank. It was early on in the service, when you were still strapping down bags and doing cross-check, making sure everything was in place. But you remember, even then, seeing that there were more bodies on the plane than names on the list; you’d brought it up to the captain, but he’d brushed off your concerns. Maybe he knew the reason behind the lieutenant’s name being held off the passenger list.

It’s all moot now anyway.

“Can’t bring a ghost on a flight,” he says darkly, like it’s a joke. Like you’re in on it together. “Can’t put it on the roster at least. S’bad luck after all.”

It’s a monstrous joke at a time like this. Your life feels cracked in half and the scarred brute of a man that pulled you from the wreckage makes jokes like it happens to him every other day. When the sky splits later that night and pours out a lake’s worth of rain, it feels appropriate. You huddle with the lieutenant at the base of a densely branched tree and shake.

Five weeks in the mountains go by slowly.

The shelter he builds is haphazard but meticulous, composed of various materials that Ghost scavenges from the plane wreck. A door becomes a makeshift roof. He makes you sit and wait as he collects dozens and dozens of branches, chopped down from the surrounding trees and fashioned into a lean-to. Padded with moss and leaves.

“I can help with getting the leaves,” you protest when he catches you hobbling around and carries you back to the nest of blankets and tarps that he’d pulled from the plane. He goes back every so often to see what remains and what can be used. It’s the only time other than when he hunts that Ghost leaves you alone for even a second, preferring to be within arm’s length of you the rest of the time.

“You can help by sitting your ass down,” Ghost grunts without even looking up at you.

You frown, fingers digging in the dirt by your feet. It’s a silly complaint but there’s never anything to do but wait.

In the early morning hours, Ghost goes off and hunts for you, when the world is still quiet and the animals are still asleep. They’re sluggish when dawn still hasn’t peeled its pink belly off the surface of the world. Ghost comes back with a deer slung over his shoulders one week, his knife still protruding from its neck, and your stomach only twists a little bit. Not used to seeing where your meat comes from.

There’s not much choice when you’re on your own in the elements. Every day, you expect to see a helo appear over the horizon, and you end each night crestfallen when it doesn’t.

It’s not like you haven’t completed basic training, a prerequisite to applying as a military flight attendant, but admittedly it’s been several years and basic never taught you to hunt for your food. You did other things that seemed, at the time, inconsequential to your career path, like learning to rappel and how to wait an hour for your NCO to show up for PT in the morning.

Even if your ankle hadn’t been badly sprained, you wouldn’t be much help. Ghost’s remarkably self-sufficient. It makes you question whether he’s done this before—whether he’s gotten stranded in the woods for weeks on end and had to learn to live hand-to-mouth.

“Have you…where’d you learn all of this?” you ask him in the dead of night, when the wind is a shrill hiss through the trees and you cower close to him in your sleeping bag (also salvaged from the wreck, though his has a tear down the side of it).

Ghost is quiet for a moment. “All over the place. Been doing this for years, love; had to learn.”

“Anything ever like this?”

Even with the absence of his mask, it gets so dark at night that you can’t see his face. You can hear the wry smile that plays on his lips in his voice though. “I’ve had worse days.”

There’s a story there that you see like a fish darting under the water. Too quick for you to catch with your bare hands.

You wake up with your cheek pressed against his pillowy chest most days. It’s embarrassing at first, but you learn to let it melt off you when you meet Ghost’s eyes and there’s nothing there but piercing blue. They root you in place most of the time but they never tell you to move.

It takes a while before your ankle starts noticeably healing. In the intervening weeks, Ghost almost dotes on you, in a rough, untested sort of way. Like he doesn’t have much experiencing tending to another person besides himself for weeks on end. As the weeks drag on, it morphs into something unrecognizable, like a wounded animal healing wrong.

It starts when Ghost insists on sharing sleeping bags. It’ll be easier for him to pull you close if something tries to drag you off in the night (and doesn’t that thought put you on the brink of a panic attack until he shushes and soothes you). It escalates when you make the mistake of tending to the meat hanging over the fire while he fiddles with the little radio he’d dragged back from the plane, and the look he gives you when you tell him that supper is ready borders on reverent.

It gets even worse when he has you both strip your clothes off on a particularly cold and rainy night, wrapped around each other for warmth.

“Sweetheart, you’re shaking,” you hear him rumble, big hand drawing a line down your back. You do tremble at that. “C’mon, get closer. Gonna warm you up.”

You wake up in the middle of the night when your ankle is starting to feel solid enough that you think you can manage to go off on your own to relieve yourself instead of waking Ghost up again. That’s the plan anyway. Before you’ve even managed to crawl all of six feet away from your sleeping bag, a rough hand pins you by your shoulder to the ground and the heavy, over two-hundred pound body of your companion drapes itself over you.

“Where the fuck do you think yer going?” Ghost snarls.

For the first time in a week, there’s a moment of genuine fear. It’s like realizing for a split second that the animal you’ve let creep up behind you is a lot more dangerous than you thought it was.

“I have to pee,” you whisper-hiss, heart still skittering in your chest.

He’s silent behind you while he mulls that thought over; you think maybe he’s still half-asleep, his body acting on instinct before his brain’s ready to take over. The tension only releases you when he finally picks himself up off you, but it’s immediately made worse when he insists on accompanying you into the woods.

He doesn’t even turn around while you pull your underwear down and squat. Ghost’s eyes are bright in the dark, trained on you like it’s the thing that gives him purpose.

Things change in the woods. There are people who are only one bad thing away from reverting to their neolithic mind; as the weeks go on, you see the way his eyes change when they fall on you, no longer detached but gluttonous.

There’s a brown bear that slouches past your camp one day, sniffing around only because it’s curious, and Ghost all but completely obstructs your vision with how he shoves you behind him. He puffs up big when the bear gets too close, keeping you hidden until it snorts and ambles off, not interested in the pair of you.

Do animals act like this? He curls you around him in sleep, legs tangled together. When you soak in the lake under the glare of the sun, he slips into the water and comes up behind you until his hands close around your waist and he tugs you closer to the edge, away from the deeper parts. It’s testament to how long you’ve been out on your own that you’re no longer unaccustomed to the feel of his hands on your bare flesh.

His lips on your bare shoulder are a little less commonplace, but you only shiver and stare out at the mountains.

Then one day, you look up into the sky away from the sun and there it is, a black dot on the horizon at first. You scream for Ghost, who’s skinning a fish on a damp log near you and start waving your arms wildly in the air, unbridled joy streaming out of you. He’s quick to pull his mask on when the chopper lands a few hundred yards away and two similarly dressed soldiers spill out.

You ignore the stiffness in his body as he sits beside you in the chopper, pinning you against the side. Ignore the way he answers for you when the men start asking questions.

What does it mean to come back worse?

“Wha’s that, love?”

“Trauma bonding,” you repeat, swallowing nervously. It’s months later, but the weeks on the mountain and the forest still haunt you. The real world seems flimsier now that you’re back in it, less real somehow. Here, no one hunts for their food. “The therapist said that we trauma bonded. And—and that’s why you won’t—”

Here’s where the words can’t seem to come out on their own.

He sleeps in your bed these days—can’t stand to be more than a room away from you at any given time. Follows you into the bathroom when you need to clean up at the end of the day, crowding you into your too-small shower. The you from a month ago wouldn’t have been able to imagine inviting a six-foot-four soldier into your apartment, but—and here’s where your brain scrambles a bit to catch up—you didn’t invite him in.

He lifts a brow. The mask comes off in your apartment, so you’re able to see the way his lips slip into something unimpressed. “Why I won’t what?”

You swallow. “You know. Leave.”

“Do you want me to leave, love?”

That’s the crux of it. The heart of it. You really don’t. In the dark sometimes, if the wind rustles outside your window just right, shrill like those weeks in the forest and out on the open plains, your heart pounds in your chest until it grows so tight that you think it’ll just stop.

“No,” you whisper in response to his question.

Most nights, you wake up drenched in sweat, still half in a dream where you turn your head and the other flight attendant is staring back at you with wide, empty eyes. Blood dribbling down from his head. Where a plane is ripped in half, grey metal strewn across a mountain and the valley below is a dark pit where you go to die.

Then you roll over in your bed and Ghost is there, already awake and cupping a wide hand over your cheek, laying kiss after kiss across your face. Murmuring that it’ll be alright, that you’re safe. That he’s got you.

His breath is hot on your skin.

You let him roll you over and spread your legs when he says those things. Let him be a bit filthy after being so kind to you in the woods.

He spits on your pussy and rubs it in with a coarse thumb, chuckling when you yelp all breathlessly and squirm away. Sometimes when you fuck, he gets rough with you and slaps it, but he’s always tender with you after a nightmare, content to sooth you with his mouth on your pussy until you’re close to hyperventilating.

“S’alright, sweetheart,” Ghost breathes, spearing you on his turgid length, barrel chest heaving when he finally crams it all in. Always a bit too big for you to take without crying. “I got you, I’ve got you. Not gonna let anything happen to you.”

It’s a new development, but it feels older than time. You could’ve let it happen in the woods and you might have, if no one had ever come.

“Look at me, sweet girl,” he tuts when you turn your head to the side, holding your face in one hand until you have no choice but to stare at the bulk of him straining over you. He has shoulders like mountains that roll when he pushes into you. “Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?”

You don’t want to acknowledge what this is: that you found something in the woods and it followed you home.

#cod mw2 #ceil writing #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod simon riley #simon riley x you #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod

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swordsandholly · 5 days

Text

Double Date - Double Down

NSFW | MDNI

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!plus size!reader

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: When you get a call in the middle of the afternoon from your friend begging you to fill an empty spot on a double date your initial instinct is a hard no. After all, no one wants to go on a blind double date and be surprised by the fat friend. It doesn’t help that this Simon guy is stupid fucking hot and obviously doesn’t like you - if his lack of talking is anything to go by.

A/N: Just a fun little oneshot I used as a warmup between working on chapters of future multi chapter projects.

“I said *no*.” You snap, angrily folding the washcloth in your hands.

Your friend splutters from the other side of the phone, the desperation in her voice only growing now that she’s on her fourth ask. “*Pleeeaase*! Steph backed out last minute and no one else is free-“

“How do you know I’m free?”

“You just said you were!”

You huff. She’s got you there. When she first called, you admitted you didn’t have anything going on but that was *before* she told you the plan for the night. Before she mentioned that her very, very conventionally hot military boyfriend wanted to do a little double date with his friend and one of hers. Plus, you take a least a little offense to being second choice. Really, last choice, it seems.

“Cass, you can’t just set up a blind date and take your fat friend. That’s not-“

“You’re not fat, love. You’re beautiful.” Her words drip with turned honey. You make a gagging face to yourself in the mirror. “You just need more confidence!”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You could try, for the millionth time, to explain to her the nuanced ins and outs of dating as a fat woman. The rules and stats that could rival even the most complex rpg… or you could be petty. It takes less time to be petty. “If I go, you’re paying for my drinks.”

“Johnny’s friend will probably-“

“Yeah, and when he leaves you’re paying for my tab.”

“He won’t-“

“We got a deal?”

She clicks her tongue. “*Fiiiine*.”

At least you can get wasted for free either way. A small consolation. She texts you the time and location, barely leaving you with enough time to shower and turn yourself into something presentable. Not that you really care. It’s going to be shit either way, most likely. Staring yourself down in the mirror, you suppose you could at least try to look somewhat attractive. If you’re about to get rejected (or possibly shouted at, you’ll never forget *that* horrendous interaction) you might as well feel your best.

The pub is small as you push through the front door. Casual. A couple pool tables, some darts, a large bar and few booths with stools on the outer side. You scan the room, searching for Cass’s familiar face.

“Over here!” Cass waves with a wide arc at you, a grin plastered from ear to ear. At least she’s having fun.

You take a long breath, bracing yourself for whatever is about to happen. Cass introduces you to her boyfriend - who is somehow even hotter in person. You can see why she’s so smitten with him. Johnny looks you up and down as he shakes your hand. He doesn’t comment, or make a face, or really react in any particular way, but you can feel a shift. Something in his eyes…

Maybe it’s just your imagination. You’ve always been a little over sensitive.

“Si will be back in a sec. Stepped over tae get a drink.” He flashes a grin.

You hum, quietly folding your hand as Cass pushes a cocktail for you that she preemptively ordered. Criticize her as much as you like, she knows her mixes.

“There he is.” Johnny grins, turning slightly.

You follow his gaze, heart sinking as your eyes settle on the man approaching your table. He’s massive. Tall and wide. Total brick shithouse. His face is mostly covered by a black surgical mask. A few years ago you might have questioned it but at this point you couldn’t care less, especially when his dark eyes meet yours, small flecks of gold honey catching the low bar lights. Barely styled tufts of blonde hair stick up from his head. They look like they might curl if he let it grow a little longer.

All in all, wayyyy out of your league.

He settles into his seat with all the confidence of any military man - back ramrod straight. He extends a large hand. “Simon Riley.”

You murmur your name, somewhat enthralled by the half lidded, almost bored look in his eyes. Now that he’s closer you notice a large scar splitting his left eyebrow and light, newly forming crows feet in the corners of his eyes.

“S-so you’re military, too?” You stutter, eyes trained on his the massive hand holding his glass. It’s nicely vascular, his nails are well groomed but it also looks like he could snap you in half with it.

Not that that’s entirely a bad thing - whatever that may or may not say about you.

He nods. “I’m a Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Officer position. So you’re smart, then?” You try to be charming, to give him a sweet smile and keep your body language open.

“Enough.” He deadpans. It takes a few beats for you to realize he’s not going to say anything else.

“Uh…” You squirm awkwardly under his gaze. It’s intense - his dark eyes nearly black in the low light of the bar. “I do hair.”

Conversation is slow, to say the least. The longest answer he gives you is maybe five words. He only flips up the mask long enough to take a sip of his drink every so often. You start to talk less, opting toward a group conversation in which Johnny takes the lead, which he is obviously very good at. He regales you and Cass with a few stories of his and Simon’s adventures. Some funny, some brave, some worrying. He’s setting the man up to be a god, nearly, but Simon himself just shakes his head and insists Johnny is exaggerating.

You wonder what he sees in Simon. Alternatively, you wonder what *you’re* supposed to see in Simon. Besides his good looks, of course. He’s… bland. Obviously bored if his constant glances toward the exits and rhythmic, occasional tapping on the corner of the table are anything to go by.

“Want tae go dance, lovie?” You overhear Johnny as he leans in toward Cass.

She glances at you, then Simon, then back to you before nodding enthusiastically. “We’ll give you two some time *alone*.”

In any other situation, you’d probably beg her to stay in desperation for a conversation buffer. Here and now, though, you’re grateful. You can finally let this poor guy off the hook. You wait until they’re gone; fully out of earshot before turning to the man in front of you.

“I…uh… look…” You chew your lip, glancing between him and your folded hands on the table. “Sorry… I know I’m probably not what, uh, what you expected… I get it if you want to leave. It’s - you don’t have to stay, or whatever. Don’t have to be polite…”

He cocks an eyebrow, eyes boring through your skull. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I know what I look like. You don’t have to be nice.”

His raised brow turns into a slight frown. “I think you’re quite pretty.”

You scoff - blushing despite yourself. “Again, you don’t have to be nice.”

“Do I seem like the type to just be nice?”

You continue to gnaw at your lip. He’s got you there. Simon definietly doesn’t come off as the type to bow to polite society. “You’ve barely talked to me.”

He stares for a moment. It’s his turn to avert his eyes, swirling around the whiskey in his glass awkwardly. Almost bashfully. “It’s not you. I’m… not great in public… especially in crowds…”

Oh.

*Oh*.

You’ve completely misjudged him, haven’t you? Shit. He’s just a big awkward lug isn’t he?You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Oh God, *I’m* the asshole, aren’t I?”

He chuckles, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m sorry it’s just…” you scrub a hand over your face. “Most men don’t really want to be surprised with a fat girl on a blind date. Guess I assumed the worst.”

Simon hums. A low vibration that settles into your bones. He gets up, sliding into the booth side of the table beside you - his massive frame pushing into your space. He smells like spices. Cinnamon and pepper. A little hint of leather and tobacco underneath. It’s heady, and some primal part of your mind wishes you could roll around in it like a dog.

“Some men might like a waifish little thing, that’s their business, but personally…” He leans in, a large hand resting on your wide thigh. “Yeah. I like somethin’ I can get a proper handful of.”

“*Oh*.” You squeak, back stiff. Was that what you saw in Johnny’s face before? Approval?

“‘Ere’s a thought - we go back to mine. S’quiet. Can talk more freely. See where the night goes, hm?”

You smile hesitantly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. It’s honest. Kind. Dark pools of sincerity. It’s against your better judgement. Impractical. Out of character. Even so, you allow yourself to surrender with a warmth in your cheeks and a small nod.

“I’ll get an Uber.” He pulls out his phone, tapping away. “Five minutes out.”

“Want to wait outside?” You offer, nodding toward the front entrance. Simon just nods, following you out close behind. Neither of you say much of anything while you wait, but you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He taps on his leg a few times in much the same way as he did on the table.

He dutifully opens the car door for you, letting you slide in before climbing in beside you, long legs slightly cramped in the small sedan.

“You don’t live on base?” You ask as the Uber drives away from the infamous military housing. You’d been there once or twice - a while ago when you were younger and messier.

“S’too loud.” He shrugs. “Too crowded.”

“Well, at least you’re consistent.” You smile.

Simon hums, resting his hand on your thigh once again. It’s casual, not too high up or too much pressure. Not presumptuous.

“How’d Johnny get you out there in the first place? If you’re so *averse*.” You tilt your head.

He shrugs, “Was supposed to be another Sergeant we work with but I guess he cancelled. No one else was free.”

“Ah, so we’re both last choices, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Made Cass promise me free drinks if I came.”

“Smart girl.” He chuckles, holding out a hand to help you up out of the car upon your arrival. His hand is warm when you take it, and a small part of you feels disappointed when he lets go.

The building is small. Old. All red brick with a thirty year old intercom and an elevator that you’re pretty sure hasn’t been inspected since the place was built. About halfway down the hall, you start to second guess yourself. You don’t know a thing about this guy - you don’t know what’s going to happen as soon as you get on the other side of his door. His weird, bright red door. Wait - why is this whole floor covered in red doors?

“Alright?” He grunts, back turned to you as he wrestles with the lock.

“Uh - why is your floor color themed?”

Simon laughs, wide shoulders shaking with the movement. It’s a low sound, something that vibrates in his chest. Makes you want to press your ear to it, see how it feels. If it will reverberate into your bones as well. “The old lady that owns the building is a bit… unique. Likes to talk about colors and karma and destiny stuff.”

“Ah.” You nod, as if that makes any sense at all. “So you’re red?”

“Apparently.”

His apartment is actually quite homey, as you step into it. From a stiff military man like him you expected something akin to an ikea floor model. Instead it’s furnished with a well worn, green couch. A large TV with an extremely up-to date surround sound system and an entertainment center filled to the brim with CDs sits against the wall. A few movie posters fill the walls. All horror classics - you count three of the scream movies. The first two final destination. There are condensation rings on the coffee table.

Behind you, you hear the door lock and unlock three times, but you don’t pay it much mind.

“Want a drink?” Simon asks, already popping open a decanter full of something gold on a small drink cart beside the kitchen island.

“Sure.” The agreement is automatic - blurted out before you can second guess taking a drink from a total stranger.

You watch a little too closely as he takes off his light jacket, exposing his strong arms and a half sleeve tattoo. It’s a bit tacky, all skulls and military symbols. The black ink has been sun worn over time. The motif of a young getting his first tattoo after enlisting. He settles down on the couch with the decanter and two glasses, patting the spot beside him. You plop down. It’s pretty comfortable, honestly.

His fingers loop into the mask’s straps. You find yourself watching with wide eyes and bated breath as he removes it. His nose is crooked - broken more than a couple times, you think. There’s a scar running from his nose to upper lip that could only come from a cleft palette. It’s charming, in a way. When he turns toward you, you notice a patch on the side of his face that looks like a rather large burn all the way down to his sharp jaw. The roughness of him works, somehow. The scars and tattoos and choppy hair all coming together to create the visage of a life hard lived.

“You’re really pretty…” the words slip from your tongue before you can stop them.

Simon splutters out a laugh, the slightest hint of color appearing across his cheeks. “Didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“I’m not.” You huff before nodding toward the posters. “Horror fan?”

He hums, passing you a glass. “Are you a fan? Of horror, I mean.”

“Found footage!” You grin a little too excited. “It’s the best genre.”

“Terrible taste.” He scoffs.

“Wrong! Found footage can be anything you want it to be - slasher, thriller, mystery, mocumentary. Anything.”

“Which makes them messy.” He argues. “Anyone can make one.”

“Yeah! Theres so many hidden gems out there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, I’ll put you on them. We just need to get you a good one.”

“Askin’ me on a second date already, love?”

“Oh, fuck off.” You shove at his shoulder. He was right, it is so much easier to talk freely out of the bar. Away from everyone and everything. His posture is far more relaxed, laid back into the couch with his hips canted forward rather than stiff as a board.

“We could watch one now?” He offers. If you were more sober, you might have heard the twinge of pleading in his voice. As it stands you’ve already drained the glass he gave you and are perfectly buzzed enough to be ignorant to the subtler parts of communication.

How convenient.

“Okay.” You whisper.

After a bit of debating back and forth you settle on Hell House. After all, it’s been your tried and true method for getting anyone and everyone into the genre. You don’t notice it, at first, but you slowly begin to scoot closer to him as you fold your knees up on the couch. Eventually, tucking yourself under his arm sling across the back cushions. Between him and the drinks - which you’re pretty sure is a rather fancy bourbon - you feel what could only be described as snuggly. Limbs loose and pliant, smile easy and words flowing as you cheer and jeer at the characters together.

At some point, Simon’s dark eyes meet between yours. You lean in, so does he. Inch by inch until your lips meet. It’s tentative, at first. Testing the waters. His lips are soft and move expertly against yours. You part for him has his tongue darts across your lower lip.

It’s easier than it usually is for you. Easy to let him pull you over his lap. To rest your hands on his broad shoulders as you take each other in. Normally, you’re not a person for one night stands. A commitment kind of gal. You can’t exactly say no, though, when you have a beautiful man’s hands traveling over your body like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grunt, “Bedroom?”

“*Yes*.” You gasp between kisses.

Suddenly those large hands grasp under your ass as you’re hauled up. You grapple to hold onto the back of his neck, keeping your weight forward.

“Simon!”

“Yes, love?” He asks as if he didn’t just life you like a sack of potatoes.

“A-aren't I heavy?” You question as he makes his way through the apartment, peppering kisses over your neck and jaw.

“No.” He replies bluntly. Like what you asked was stupid.

You’re placed on a bed with all the gentleness of a rare china plate- one hand cradling your upper back and the other tucked under your thighs. There isn’t any time to take in the room before Simon is kissing you again but you do count approximately five pillows and zero navy sheets.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Simon leans in close, nose ever so slightly bumping yours. “Before we keep going, I want to establish a rule. Red light means stop. At any time, for any reason.”

You can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

“Say it back, doll.”

“Red light means stop.” You reach up and cup his face. So handsome. So warm.

“Good girl.” He murmurs. “Let’s get these off, hm?” Simon pulls your clothes off deftly - dragging those rough palms over your skin as he moves and kneading at the plushness of your hips appreciatively.

You reach up to tug at his shirt. “S’not fair if I’m the only one naked.”

Simon chuckles and hastily sits back to yank the shirt over his head, giving a lovely show in the process. You think this what people mean when they talk about an Adonis. There’s a comfortable soft layer of his strong abdomen. Something you want to sink your teeth into. Your fingers trace each dip and curve of his muscles, the lovely shape of his pectorals, the raised scars littering his body. Floral shapes from bullets along with slashes and smaller jabs. A particularly nasty one runs down his side, coving his ribs. A burn, you think.

“You’re beautiful.” You murmur. Definitely out of your fucking league. You move to sit up, reaching for his waistband.

His hand pushes your shoulder back on the bed. “Let me take care of you tonight, bird.”

Your face warms. Simon kisses your cheek, continuing down to your chest and taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Gently sucking and nipping at it while flicking the other with his hand. A shameful whimper escapes your throat.

Simon leans up to murmur in your ear, “What do you want, sweet girl?”

“Want you to fuck me…” You murmur, embarrassment making you want to close your legs. His solid hips block you.

“Oh, I will, but first I want those beautiful thighs wrapped around my head.” Simon continues to place kisses down your body, over your stomach, stopping right at your panty line and tracing along it with rough fingers. His arms circle your thighs and in one swift motion your hips teeter on the edge of the bed, Simon kneeling between them. His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear.

“W-wait…” You sit up on your elbows.

He freezes, looking up at you.

“I, uh, I haven’t exactly *landscaped* in a while… wasn’t really planning-“

Simon huffs out a laugh. “I’m a grown man, love. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?”

All thoughts related to anything within the proximity of embarrassment come to an instant halt as Simon’s lips wrap around your clit- sucking and nipping and lapping like a man starved. Like he’d die without it. A low groan rumbles through his throat.

“F-fuck!” You gasp, whimpers and moans interrupting any chance you may have at putting words together.

“Taste so fucking good, princess.” He mumbles against you. A shaky moan rattles through you as he pushes a thick finger in, working it gently. His other than grips your hip tightly, pinning you in place. The pet-name sends a shiver down your spine - leaving you rolling your hips and clenching on the finger inside you.

“Fuck, Si…” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I can tell your close, baby.” Simon groans. “Cum for me. Come on, be a good girl and cum all over my fucking tongue.”

The bastard knows the power he has in that voice. He *has* to. That baritone gravel sinks in your veins and all you can do is whimper. Panting pathetically the closer you get. His fingers curl up and your back arches harshly as your climax washes over you. Your legs tremble as he works you through it; stopping just shy of pushing you too far.

“Hey!” You gasp indignantly as a jolt shoots up your spine as he settles a final, harsh suck on your clit.

Simon taps your hip, climbing back over you as you scoot up on the bed. He carelessly kicks off his pants as he goes, toeing them off before settling between your legs. Those dark eyes rake over you leisurely - taking in every inch. Every curve and dip and flaw categorically. He sucks in a breath and sighs. “Bloody ‘ell, look at you… so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your face heats and you look away. “Who’s the flatterer now?”

“Not me. Just bein’ honest.” He places a quick kiss to your soft jawline before reaching over to dig through his nightstand drawer. You don’t miss the gold foil of the condom wrapper.

You can’t stop yourself from licking your lips as he pulls off his boxer briefs. Simon is uncut, already ruddy and leaking and just begging for your mouth. Maybe next time, though. He’s already slipped on the condom, carefully hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and the other around his hip. The man has a laser-focus to him, you’ll give him that.

“Still want t’ keep goin’?” He mumbles, eyes locked on his cock as is drags between your folds.

“*Please*.” You whine pathetically. Simon’s chuckle turns into a gasp as he presses in. It’s achingly slow and you roll your hips in demand for more.

Simon lets out a low groan as his hips meet yours. The stretch is perfect - just enough to feel completely full without pushing you too far. As though your bodies were made to slot together just so. Your head falls back, chest heaving as you beg him to move, to fuck you, just *please* for the love of god-

“Needy little thing.” He gives you a sloppy smile before setting a brutal pace. You find yourself clawing at his back, clinging to him as your back arches and the most obscene sounds are systematically torn from your throat. The angle he has your hips placed causes his cock to bully that sensitive spot inside you - dragging over it with every thrust.

Simon leans toward, bracing himself on his forearms and pinning you under him as he fucks into you. “So fuckin’ good f’me. Knew you would be. So soft and sweet and goddamn *pretty*.”

“*Fuck, Simon*.” You gasp, nose bumping against his as your lips intertwine. Breaths and moans intermingle as you both chase that edge. There’s nothing else, in this moment, just you and Simon and the sounds only he has ever managed to pull from you.

Your orgasm hits you like a train. Out of nowhere and all at once, tensing every muscle into a trembling mess as you clamp down around his cock. Simon sinks his teeth into your neck as his own climax takes him, cradling you close and moaning out your name so muddled you almost miss it.

For a few moments, you stay frozen in place trying to catch your breath as you come down. Your limbs feel like jelly when you finally try to move, body limp and pliable. It almost feels like a loss as he pushes off of you, leaving you open and vulnerable to the cool night air while he ties off the condom.

“Be right back.” He murmurs, slowly climbing off you and heading for an attached bathroom off to the left.

You let your eyes slipped closed only to jump and shoot back open as a dap rag drags between your thighs. A little yelp escapes you as the rough material drags across your oversensitive clit. Simon chuckles at you, tossing the rag back somewhere in the bathroom before crawling into the bed beside you. It’s so easy to curl into his chest and let those strong arms encircle you.

“Have fun, love?” Simon murmurs into your hair.

You just hum happily, smiling against his hard chest.

“Good.”

It’s just as easy as the rest of it to fall asleep like that. To seek out the warmth of his body in your satiated haze and press into him, allowing the night and rhythmic beating of his heart to overtake you. You feel four small taps between your shoulder blades just before tipping over the edge into comfortable nothing.

You wake slowly to an empty bed. The light from the window above you streams in - bathing the room in a light golden tone. It’s cozy. The blankets seem to pull you in, keeping you snugly in place. Distantly, you hear the sound of pots and pans clinking.

Shockingly, you’re not hungover. Well, not much at least. There’s a slight twinge in your head and a not unpleasant soreness in your hips. You dig around, finding your clothes strewn across the room haphazardly. Your underwear are nowhere to be found and you eventually give up with a shrug. They weren’t one of your best pairs anyway.

When you come out of the bedroom, you pause. Simon stands in the kitchen, working on something over the stove wearing only a pair of sweatpants. They hang loosely around his hips, showing off the rises and dips of his strong muscles and well defined waist. This scene somehow feels too intimate despite your activities the night before.

“Perfect timing.” Simon turns, placing a plate down on the kitchen island. The omelette before you looks immaculate, all the way down to a light garnish on top.

Your eyes turn to saucers. “You…you made me breakfast?”

“Course.” He nods sharply as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if *not* doing so would be some sort of affront. Either you’re still asleep and this is all a dream or you stumbled upon the perfect man through pure happenstance.

He turns the stove off and on and off twice before standing at the counter across from you while you sit on one of the stools at the island. It’s a comfortable silence as you both eat. Simon keeps glancing up at you as if waiting for your disapproval. Boyish, somehow, despite the size and breadth of him.

It’s perfect. The eggs practically melt in your mouth and the goat cheese and vegetables taste fresh. You can’t help but him happily as you eat.

By the time you’re done, you think you might be a little in love.

Maybe you should text Cass and thank her or something. Maybe a gift basket. “Oh. My phone’s dead.”

“Didn’t charge it before y’left last night?” Simon cocks an eyebrow, chewing on his last bite.

You snort. “It was last minute, remember?”

“What if I’d been some sort of psycho? What was your plan?” He grins as he takes your empty plate. If you were a more impulsive woman you may have gone so far as to lick the damn thing.

“Are you a psycho?”

“Not generally, no.”

“Well then, nothing to worry about.” You grin, watching a little too happily as he rinses down the dishes and loads the dishwasher.

Simon just scoffs at you.

You glance at the time above the stove, disappointment settling deep in your chest. “Shit. I should get going.”

“I’ll get you a cab.” Simon offers automatically, reaching for his phone.

You shift side to side, twiddling your thumbs. “Y’know… we never finished the movie…”

Simon cocks and eyebrow. From the pleased smirk on his face you can tell he knows what you’re implying. He still patiently waits for you to say it out loud.

“Would, uh, would you want to exchange numbers? Maybe… meet up… again…?” Your voice is more timid than you’d like. This fear of rejection is new. Being rejected is nothing new for you, so why does it suddenly feel so high stakes with this one guy you barely know?

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up ever so slightly at the question. “I’d love to.”

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prosciuttulipa · 1 month

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Period Pain, Go Away

how the JJK men help you through your period

content: afab reader x jjk men, just fluff this time! brief dirty joke in Toji's one (because he's Toji), but every one of them is a good boi in their own way <33

a/n: on my period and am in much pain v_v i can't decide who i want to comfort me, so i'm writing for all of the men i want

Gojo Satoru who isn't just your boyfriend during your period, but a "girl's girl". He wants to spoil you with desserts and eat the leftovers that you can't finish, do face masks with those cute cucumber slices over the eyes. You want a bath? He's already drawing one, dunking in bath bombs till the water looks like a small galaxy, putting on your comfort show so you can watch it while you soak.

Dealing with pain through fun and smiles has always been his way of coping. So, yes—maybe he does look a bit silly, gossiping with you while you paint sparkles onto his nails, his hair tied up with a pink scrunchie. But what's a boyfriend for, if not to be your Ken doll during your time of need?

It hurts him more than he likes to admit, to see you wince at a bad cramp, or come out of the bathroom with the colour drained from your cheeks. When you can't manage anything more than lying in your bed, he'll rest his head against your stomach, peppering kisses wherever it hurts. "Be good to my girl," he'll jokingly threaten your uterus, poking your tummy gently, "she deserves the world."

Geto Suguru who knows your period is coming before you do. Your irritable mood and food cravings clue him in, and he takes action without saying a single word.

The day your period starts, you realise that the feminine products you usually use have been fully restocked without your notice. The fridge is filled with your period cravings, enough to last a week. Before you can even say anything, a large hand wraps around your waist and presses a hot water bottle against your abdomen. "Good morning, princess," he greets you like he hasn't just pulled off what can only be described as a small miracle, "is everything to your liking?"

You don't know whether to laugh or cry at how perfectly he's predicted you. He's a step ahead of you throughout your entire period, knowing which snack or act of affection you want just by your expression. Some might call his behaviour unreasonable; frankly, he thinks it's bullshit. "Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer," is what he quotes, when you ask him why he's so observant. "What makes you think I do not absolutely and utterly worship you?"

Nanami Kento who is obviously written by a woman, and so does not flinch when he sees the blood on the bedsheets when he wakes up earlier than you. Instead, he kisses you good morning till you're giggling, distracting you so you don't get a chance to see the stains. He changes the sheets while you're in the bathroom, throwing them in with the rest of the laundry. When you come back out, worrying you dirtied the bed, he merely shrugs. "I didn't see anything, darling."

He treats you like a queen on the daily, but during your period, you're his empress. Each word is law, each action his cue to immediately come to your aid. He'll cook every meal, and won't let you hold the spoon to feed yourself if he can help it. As far as he can see, your only responsibility this week is to lounge around, and let him spoil you rotten.

He thinks it's a crime that you still have to go to work, when you have to pop painkillers with your breakfast just to make it through the day. "I can take care of you, you know," he'll inevitably murmur, kissing the shell of your ear, "I make enough money to support us both. Take the day off, dearest. They don't need you more than I do."

Toji Fushiguro who manages to piss you off on the first day of your period. "What size pussy you wear?" he calls to ask, when he's picking up your feminine products at the corner store, "gotta make sure I take care of that kitty for all the squeezin' she does on me."

When he gets back home and finishes getting an earful on how you're more than just his pocket pussy, he apologises by scooping you up in his arms. "You know you're more than just a good fuck, doll," his words carry a rare sort of honesty, coming from him. "You're a good woman. My woman. Gun's in the second drawer, sweetheart—shoot me if I ever do wrong by you."

His touches turn softer, the smack to your ass replaced with a squeeze on the hip, kisses on your shoulders. He's got a hand on you at all times, just rubbing idle circles against your stomach or lower back to soothe your cramps. When bedtime comes, he makes you lay on your tummy, massaging away the tension in your muscles until you're all nice and pliant. He may not always know what to say, but he'll be damned if his actions make you feel like he doesn't love you.

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slushycoookie · 2 months

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My Husband Has a Symbiote! Pt.1

Pt.1 - Pt.2

Relationship: Symbiote! Miguel O'Hara x AFAB! Reader

Word Count: 1956

Content: Smut, definitely smut, p in v, oral sex, overstimulation, belly bulge, breeding kink in FULL display, fertility issues, Minors DNI!!

Summary: You find out Miguel has a symbiote for the most unexpected reason.

A/N: I kept thinking about Symbiote! Miguel and I just had to do it. If yall saw that recent concept art of him, he looks fucking huge. So as a birthday present to myself, I wrote this. Something to get us by while I continue writing the Valentine's Day one.

Miguel had a symbiote.

You knew the first day he got it. He was acting strange. More aggressive, energetic, and driven to his Spider Society cause. Also rough. You knew it when he pulled you in for a passionate goodbye kiss.

Plus, he was huge. You didn't think it was possible for your husband to get a bigger size in his suit. It oozed a foreign entity. He was rougher with his enemies. Causing them to be bruised and bloody at the end of the battle. Your Miguel showed some restraint. You weren't sure what this Miguel was.

Jess told you at the end of the day, confirming your suspicions. “He has a symbiote.”

“I figured…” You played with the necklace that had your wedding band between your fingers. “How did he get it?”

“No clue. One day, he was his grouchy self. Next day, he was extra grouchy.”

“What can we do? We have ways to get rid of it.”

Jess gave you a knowing look, “You know it's not easy with symbiotes. The wearer has to get rid of it on their own. Part of the-”

“Canon event. I know…” You sighed. You weren't going to get scared. Be afraid for your husband's life. You would take the knowledge you knew now in stride, even if that meant dealing with the fact that your partner had an alien on his body.

You didn't confront him about the symbiote. You saw no need to. Ben and Jess were informed. You wanted them to watch him so he wouldn't go too far. But you didn’t like how he was acting. He never took it out on you, but everyone else was a different story. It was hard for you to sleep, knowing your husband was in control of an alien.

One night, he came home late. You were still awake, watching his hulking form linger throughout the house. If you were normal, you'd be terrified.

“Miguel?” You called from the hallway. He turned towards you. His mask was still up. The eyes were sharp, filled with an unknown emotion you couldn't grasp.

“Our wife.” His voice was deep, rumbling to your core. Sharp teeth and a long tongue caught your eye. He inched to you like a predator. You backed up, mind playing out hundreds of backup plans you had once you found out about his new form. You jumped when hitting a wall. Cornered as Miguel hovered above you. His head trailed up and down in fascination. “So pretty. To eat.”

“I said we're not eating her.” Half of Miguel's face appeared, causing you to relax a little. He was still in there. To a certain extent.

“Not the type of eating we were talking about.” The symbiote sized you up even more. You didn't know how to take that. Miguel entirely took over, his face in view.

“I'm sorry. I'm still getting the hang of this.”

“Why did you do this?” You motioned to all of him, “For a man who doesn't play when it comes to canon events, you go ahead and play around with an alien.”

Miguel sucked his teeth, “I had a good reason, baby.” You blinked, waiting for him to come up with a good explanation. He shifted, his large form shaking the photos on the wall. You couldn't see any reason for him to form with a symbiote.

“I thought…it would help in our process of trying to have a baby.”

You froze. The extensive trials you and Miguel went through in trying for a baby were unsuccessful. He knew about your fertility issues. He knew before you got married. You didn’t expect him to go and fuse with a symbiote to boost the rate of being able to have a baby.

“The symbiote enhances my body.” Miguel explained, “Maybe we could try to use it to help us conceive.”

“Won’t the symbiotes…genes get in…?” You placed a hand on your stomach, not believing that you were considering it.

“No. It won’t affect any of our genes. It just increases the output.”

You scoffed, “So you would have super sperm?”

“In a way.” Miguel shrugged, hovering over you. You noticed how small you were compared to him. Your thighs squeezed together at the sight. “We should try it. See what happens.”

Common sense was starting to leave the window. Just having Miguel’s hulking frame above you, his eyes lowered in lust, was not helping. You were curious yourself. Would the symbiote help you finally be able to conceive? So your family can get bigger?

“You want me to have sex with the symbiote?”

Miguel chuckled, face down to your neck, taking in your delicate scent. “It’s still me. I promise.”

You placed your hands on his shoulders. His suit was sticky and you felt restraint when tried to remove your hands. You had no idea what you were doing. But it was your husband. You trusted him, knowing he wouldn’t harm you. So you had to take a leap. Literally. Miguel was so large you had to jump to even kiss him.

Your body flushed against his own as his tongue dove into your mouth. You were so caught up in kissing him, absorbed in how his hands groped and felt you, to realize you were in your bedroom.

You yelped when landing on the bed. Miguel's form hit the ceiling, standing at the edge. Waiting.

“Strip.” The voice was back again. Low, deep, and commanding. You blushed at how much that turned you on. Even with the monstrous teeth and all. You weren't wearing much besides a t-shirt and shorts, tossing them into darkness. Only remaining in your panties.

Miguel cupped himself, eyes trained on the prize between your legs. “All of it.”

You slid down your underwear at a slow pace. Even if you were about to get bred by a symbiote, you knew Miguel would still go crazy over your teasing. Pride swelled in your chest as his breathing became ragged. Every ounce of resistance he had in fucking you into the ground was waning. It wasn't until your panties were thrown aside that he pounced on you.

The bed creaked at the extra size. Miguel's symbiote used its long tongue over your neck, tasting the slight sweat. Your breasts, twirling at one nipple while his fingers pinched the other. Before going down to your stomach and over what he wanted most.

“We deserve to know how you taste…”

If you could squeeze your thighs together right now, you would. But your partner kept them separated. Spread wide enough for him to get a full view of your dripping sex. The tongue was back as it was his turn to tease you. Gliding along your inner thighs, not touching an inch of your cunt. You whined at how close he was. You tried to move your thighs to get him where you wanted but to no avail.

“Please…” You swallowed, heaving at the lack of touch. “Don’t tease…”

A guttural growl resonated in the room, which made you quiver even more. “You're so pretty when you beg.”

His tongue was heaven. Taking turns licking at your sensitive bud, thrusting in and out of your hole. Slurping sounds letting you know how much he loved tasting your cunt. You weren't sure if digging your hands into his covered head was a good idea so your hands fisted the pillows. Head back and unable to control your sounds of pleasure.

“Miguel…oh my…” You felt that familiar sensation rise in your stomach. Not stopping as he continued to please you. And you accepted it, climaxing for him. This was different from your normal Miguel. While he did make you see stars, this one was determined to make you see God. The way he didn’t stop after you came for him, eating your pussy like a starved man. When you tried to have the strength to pull away, his hand placed flat on your stomach. Overstimulation crept in as you shook under his hold. Thank goodness he pulled away, showing you his mouth glistening in the moonlight.

“We need you. Now.”

Your eyes widened when seeing his cock on full display. Miguel was big. Very big. Cock enlarged, veiny, pre cum beading around the tip. He was going to kill you if he put that thing inside.

“Where?” You gulped, pushing back your rising fear.

Miguel sat back against the headboard and settled you into his lap. Your back lay against his chest, staring at the gigantic cock. He grabbed a hold of your thighs, lifting and spreading you as wide as he could. You bit your lip as his dick slid against your sex, coating himself in your arousal. You couldn't do much in this position. Besides lie back and take it.

You shook as he entered you. Arms around his neck and digging into them as you sank down. Your mouth gaped, but nothing came out.

“Come on.” Miguel pushed, his own voice coming out a little tense. “You can take more…”

You clawed at his neck, sinking down further. It was to the point where there was a slight bulge in your belly. Which has never happened before. Once he bottomed out, he gave you time to adjust. You knew Miguel was being gentle, his arm muscles tense as he didn’t want to hurt you. You nodded when you were ready and he took control. He slid you all the way up, only leaving the tip of his cock inside before thrusting up into you.

He was massive. Easily filling you up while he pumped inside. Tears brimmed in your eyes. There was no coherent thought in your mind. With each intoxicating thrust, you couldn’t think. All you wanted was for him to keep going. To use you like this as long as he wanted.

Your eyes rolled back when his cock hit a perfect spot. Not feeling any of your lower body. “M-Mig…”

“We have you. Pretty little thing…” His face snuggled against your head, still maintaining the hard and sharp thrusts. Miguel’s suit made a tendril, slithering over to you to give more attention to your aching clit. You gasped at the sudden sensation. The familiar burning of your release was quickly rising again into something more. You struggled in Miguel’s hold, wanting to move away and escape your impending doom.

“Don’t…You’re gonna make me…” You whined, frantic breaths escaping.

“We want you to do it.”

There was no room for negotiation. Between the exhilarating way his cock stretched you and the advance on your clit, you were going to explode. You cried for your husband while soaking his cock with your fluids. Tightening around him for his seed. Aching to have him breed you. Miguel’s grunts turned into growls. Grating noises that shook the entire room. His thrusts were rough as now he was chasing his original goal. To pump his cum into you.

You didn’t move, watching your husband desperately paint you inside. There were one, two, three more thrusts before he let out a roar. His seed filled you up perfectly. It was so much that it was leaking out, even as Miguel tried to thrust more in. You didn't know what else to do if you didn’t get pregnant by this.

Once Miguel had his fill, he slipped out, placing you to the side. His face was back as he peppered your own with soft kisses.

“You okay?” You hummed, your throat a little sore. He held you close in a protective way, not wanting to let go for a moment. “Hopefully this works.”

“If it doesn’t…” You struggled to say with your raspy voice, “you’re getting rid of that thing.”

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o hara x reader #slushycoookie writes

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chibikittens · 1 year

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aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

#why can’t sleep labs have a good stock on fullface masks I’m gonna flip a table #heavy mouth breather and I only got a couple medium sizes and like 198282838473847 useless itty bitty teeny tiny fullface masks that are sht #why did we get more large nasal masks why why why we already HAD those!!!

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sprout-fics · 2 months

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Oh Muse, Tell me of the Things Done by Golden Aphrodite

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F! Reader)

Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 5.6k Warnings: None Tags: Greek Mythology AU, Greek God inspired, Human sacrifice reader, God of death and wrath Ghost, Size difference, Size kink, Praise Kink, (Marriage kink if you squint?), PiV sex, Aftercare, Eros and Psyche inspired, Cliffhanger A/N: Part two dependent on reception

They call your fate a tragedy.

It’s a necessary one, the temple priest says, as you weep at the steps leading up to the grand mausoleum- inlaid with gold and obsidian. You wrap your arms around yourself as they tell you of your duty, inform you of your sacrifice. The statue of the god of wrath and death looms tall and menacing behind him, his bone white mask a single flash of pale amidst the dark, swirling robes that cover his limbs. You shiver as you look upon it, flesh cold as you imagine your final moments pleading at his feet.

A sacrifice, they say.

One to appease the god as death ravages your city, an holy offering innocent, beautiful and pure to quell his anger and rage. Eyes rest upon your trembling shoulders in a mixture of hope and pity, and you know even if you cry out none shall aid you. Your destiny is to die at the hands of a god so that they may live, and if it means your life is called for, they shall offer it for you.

You do not scream or struggle as they take you into the temple, you do not speak as they wash you and smooth aromatic oils into your shivering skin. You do not even look at them when they clothe you in a dark chiton and allow a veil to flutter over your despairing, tear-rimmed eyes.

When they close the altar doors behind you, you dare not throw yourself against them in one last bid for freedom.

The altar is dark, black marble columns stretching high above you and vanishing into a ceiling that the candlelight doesn’t reach. Lanterns litter the steps leading up to the sacrificial altar, with opulent offerings of jewels, weapons, and polished bones stacked high. Shadows dance between them, casting long and sinister against the temple walls. Your bare feet skim the cold stone floor as you ascend, tracing your hand against the frigid, dark mirror surface of the altar. You were not told what to do, only to wait.

So you wait, and you wait longer, sitting upon the edge of the altar, trembling and holding in your cries until they break apart inside your throat. The chamber is silent as the grave, with not a breeze or whisper of warm air to comfort your frigid flesh. Eventually only the sound of your hiccuping sobs fills the emptiness, as you weep for your fate, for the tragedy that has befallen you, for how they shall remember your name in poems, until at last you fall asleep splayed upon the dark altar and awaiting your demise.

As you dream fitfully of the ever after, the candles waver and snuff out with a cold gust of wind. Dark eyes regard your pliant form prone atop the piles of offerings.

and quietly, arms reach forward and cradle you to him as you are taken away.

---

When you awake, it is in somewhere new.

You come to far more gently than you anticipated, soft dreams still clinging velvet to your slumber. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’re no longer curled tightly atop the hard surface of the altar, but rest instead upon silk sheets and soft, plush bedding. The veil still drapes across your face, and as you delicately lift it, your surroundings are revealed to you.

It’s a large chamber, far larger than the temple, but sparsely furnished. You lay upon a bed fit for a man larger than any you’ve ever laid eyes upon, adorned with dark sheets and embroidered with gold thread. Torches flicker with a strange black light against the walls- silver dancing along the outer edge of flames. The blazing hearth does the same amidst a mantle of dark stone, stretching upwards into a ceiling you’ll never reach. A mirror and a basin stands in the corner, and beside them curtains blow in from the balcony, where dawn glows yellow against the horizon.

You’re alone.

You’re careful as you creep from bed towards the balcony, the wind ruffling your gown as you stand at the precipice. Below, a stark mountain valley yawns dark and fathomless without end.

The door groans as it opens.

You flinch away from the sound, spinning and feeling terror pool low and vile in your stomach at the sight that awaits you.

It’s him.

Taller than any man, a being of pure power, the god Ghost stands at the doorway clad in billowing dark fabric, his dark eyes boring into your shivering form from behind the stark white of his skull mask. The sheer size of him is enough to send goosebumps racing down your spine, his immortal stature ensuring you scarcely come up to his chest. The strength of his limbs is curled in tight muscle discernible even with his cloak, and when you meet his eyes you think of the space between stars- a void into which no light escapes.

He takes only three strides to cross the chamber.

You cower backwards until your spine hits the railing of the balcony, and as you glance over your shoulder the valley wind roars from the depths. You wonder if it is a more fitting end to hurl yourself from here than face whatever slow death the God of Wrath has ordained for you.

He stops just at the threshold, regarding you as you look up at him with tearful, terrified eyes. At this nearness you can sense the pure energy that rolls off of him in waves, a strangeness that speaks of something far from human, an unfathomable power that your mortal soul will never fully understand.

“Don’t.” Is the first word he ever says to you, looking past you to the valley. He reaches out his hand, not an inch of his flesh visible beneath his gauntlet of white bone. “Come.”

You stay where you are, heartbeat fluttering as you eye his outstretched palm.

“If I was going to kill you, I would have done it when you were asleep.” He intones, voice deep like distant, rolling thunder. There’s a strangeness to it you cannot place, the tone of it ringing between your ears in a distant echo, otherworldly.

“Don’t hurt me, please.” Are the first words you return to him, desperate as a thing wheezes from your lungs.

Ghost stares at you unblinkingly, and despite the black ichor that paints his gaze, his eyes look almost kind.

“Come away from the balcony.” He tells you, his voice softer.

You cast another glance down at the dark valley, swallowing hard, before at last reaching your hand forward and settling it in his cold palm. He draws you inside, out of the wind, and you find yourself hovering near the hearth with its strange, dancing flames.

“Your name.” He tells you, watching as you hesitantly warm yourself, carefully looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

When you tell him, he repeats it. Slow, purposeful, as if tasting a foreign fruit for the first time. It shivers through you, as if he somehow has wound magic through the sound alone.

“You will stay here.” He tells you under no uncertain terms. “In my palace. No harm shall come to you here.”

You blink at that, face falling open with confusion as you turn to him fully.

“Why...?”

Ghost regards you coolly, but when you focus on his eyes you can swear they crinkle with a wry smile.

“I have no reason to hurt my bride.” He explains simply.

“Your...” You echo, blinking. “I...”

“You were given to me.” He tells you, advancing upon you until he’s mere inches away, one arm braced on the hearth so he bends over your smaller, mortal form. “As a sacrifice. I saved you. Your life is mine by rights.”

Fear pulses bright through you, limbs awash with dread as the blood drains from your face. You had expected death, but the daunting reality of this, of being given to a god as a bride...

Ghost must see the terror in your eyes, for he removes himself from you, striding towards the heavy, ancient door.

“I will not touch you unless you ask.” He states, voice lower. “You are free to roam this palace as you like. There is food in the banquet hall.”

He pauses, observing you as you hesitate near the hearth.

“I will return at dusk.”

and with that, your new husband vanishes.

----

True to his word, no one stops you from roaming the palace.

It’s a massive structure, with towering black columns and high ceilings. Obsidian, marble, and gold accentuates every corner, and you find treasures and trophies displayed at every turn. You are entirely alone as you wander, bare feet skimming against the cold tile as you take in your new home. Each room reveals a new wonder. A bath with glimmering water that billows steam from golden fountains, a garden with dark roses that creep along stone walls, a library with scrolls in tongues you don’t understand, and a banquet hall filled with food that doesn’t seem to rot.

You eat until your stomach is full, and with every bite the food tastes more delicious than the bite before. You scrub yourself in the bath, and when you exit you find fresh garments awaiting you, embroidered with glimmering thread. The finery is beyond anything you dared imagine, and quietly you feel your reservations departing you as the thought of possibly escaping ebbs slowly from your mind.

Dusk finds you back at his chambers, watching the shadows grow long against the walls as slumber slowly descends upon you.

You’re on the brink of sleep when the bed dips, and a bare hand curls gently against your cheek. In your half-dreams, you nuzzle into the touch with a languid sigh, feeling the air fan across his palm. Ghost is silent as he lays beside you, observing your restful face with half-lidded eyes. His mask lays on the table beside him, disposed along with his cloak and armor.

You see nothing when you’re roused by the sensation of him tucking you against him, the world engulfed in darkness. Hypnos whispers across your senses as your eyelids flutter, trying to discern the shape of him as he presses in close behind you. Ghost tucks his legs under yours, his massive frame curling around you and his nose burrowing into the junction of your throat and jaw, where he draws in a heavy breath.

“Sleep, mortal.” He whispers there, one massive arm wrapping across your front.

True to his order, and engulfed in the warm sensation of his body pressed against yours, you find the gossamer veil of sleep draw over you once more.

He’s gone again come morning.

You awake alone, and find yourself missing the presence of him.

The banquet hall is refreshed with food of all kinds- delicacies from far lands you’ve never traveled to. You spend an exorbitant amount of time in the baths, dozing gently as steam billows around you. In the library you find a collection of war poems that you devour with eager eyes until the sun begins to slope towards the horizon, and oddly you do not find yourself entirely bored despite being alone in the massive pantheon to which he has left you.

Yet as darkness descends, you find yourself awake in his bed, waiting for him.

When he at last appears, as the moment where all light has drawn away from the horizon, the dark candles snuff out in a cold billow of wind. Plunged into darkness, the only sensation available to you is a hand caressing your cheek.

“Little bride.” He rumbles as the bed dips before you. “Were you so eager to see me you chose to forego sleep?”

Hesitantly, you raise a hand to press his own against your face, feeling the immense size of it dwarf your own.

“Yes.” You tell him in a scarce whisper, as if you’re revealing a tender secret. Your heartbeat thrums loud in your ears, fluttering inside the cage of your ribs as he draws closer. You try to remember the words you had meant to say- a thank you for saving you? Awe at the splendid riches allowed to you? A quiet plea to leave, one which you don’t truly mean?

You reach forward in the darkness, finding the shape of him broad and strong against your palm. There’s smooth skin of scars that litter his immortal flesh, across the wide breadth of his chest, down to his waist, traced across his arm and shoulders and the massive span of his back. He’s bare to you, and you can’t suppress a shiver at the mere thought that you are laying with a God.

“You’re frightened.” He notes at the shake in your hands, attempting to draw away from you.

“No.” You tell him, a hand gripping tighter to his to prevent his retreat. Words clog your throat, lips parted with breath as you feel his coal-dark eyes bore into you in the inkinesss of his chambers.

“Touch me.” You whisper instead.

When he bends to you, he swallows the sigh that pours past your lips.

Ghost defiles you in the way warriors do- pure strength tempered by careful restraint. You splay under him bare, his hands smoothing over your flesh like admiring a masterful weapon. He memorizes the curves and softness of you, humming notes low and deep into your skin as he drinks in your scent like ambrosia. He spends his time admiring the outline of you in the darkness, fingers dipping between your legs and spreading you over large, calloused fingers until you mewl and grip at the fine silk sheets.

“Sweet little thing.” He rumbles, pleased, as you offer him high, keening moans, head tossed back against the pillows. Wetness dribbles down your thighs, coats his hand just as he licks greedy and hot into your open mouth that chants his name. His towering frame bends over you, hauls you to his waiting hands with hardly any effort. Your hands scrape against his shortly shorn hair as he lays claiming bites across your throat and collarbone and Ghost moans against your skin like the pain and pleasure are twin beings.

“Ghost.” You chant in a hymn as his worshipers do when his clever tongue drinks down your arousal at your entrance, and the answering growl that he responds with sends pleasure fissuring down your spine like the earth split open. His hands hold you still as you buck and writhe with your climax, broken sounds filling the empty chamber so loud you think your shout can be heard at the far reaches of the palace.

He shushes you when at last he sheathes himself inside you, the girth of him splitting you wide enough you whimper into his chest. Yet he holds you to him, noses into your hair and whispers low, soothing words as your legs quiver.

“Good.” He purrs as you go pliant against him with a keening sigh, arms looped around his neck and nails digging into the flesh of his spine. “Perfect little bride. They were right to offer you to me.”

You think the nectar of the gods must taste like the glide of his tongue when he kisses you.

Ghost plays the symphony of your flesh like poets play the harp. His massive frame hunches over yours, the sheets tangled around you and his fingers entwined with your own. Each roll of his hips has you choking on a plea, has him huffing hot breaths and growling filthy praises in your ear.

“Made for me. Just me.” He groans, voice grinding deep in his chest as he ruts into you. Slow, measured, infuriatingly not enough. The drag of him inside you threatens to pull you under into madness as you mewl and squirm, desperately chasing the touch of him. “Made to take me, made to be in my bed, in my palace.”

It’s possessive, almost wild with the force of his claiming you. You go to him willingly, tears watering your eyes as you choke on a sob of pleasure. Yet it’s not enough, as he draws your pleasure higher, higher, burning you alive like the inferno of the heavenly sun but refusing to push you over the precipice. You plead his name, dig your fingers into the dip of his spine, ask for divine mercy that he keeps just beyond your mortal reach.

“Say my name.” He tells you, the sound of your coupling echoing out into the chamber- wet and debauched along with your desperate gasps.

“Ghost.” You sob, clinging helplessly to him, laying kisses upon his bare face in the darkness as an offering to the altar of him. “Ghost.”

In return, Ghost bestows upon you your own name, snarling it wild and feral against your lips as you at last fall apart beneath him. You choke on a cry of his name as something great and tender snaps abruptly inside you, races outwards along your limbs with such sudden ferocity you wonder for a moment if you’re been burned alive. Yet the pleasure itself drowns you like the deep and bottomless ocean- a surrender where you try to claw your way to the surface and instead allow the depths to take you.

Ghost growls as he buries himself fully inside the wet clutch of your heat, emptying inside your heaving form with a long, low groan. You feel the spend on him leak from your joining, collapsing against him as you try to remember how to breathe. Ghost adjusts so you lay sprawled atop his broad chest, rising slow and purposefully beneath you as you tuck your head under his chin. A war-worn hand strokes lazy paths against your skin, and you hear him hum with a deep satisfaction at your consummation. You feel claimed in the best of ways, not as one of his beloved war trophies but as his.

When you finally grow restful against his chest, you prop your chin up and try to find the shape of him in the darkness. He’s absent of his mask, you know, and curiously you try to discern his features in absolute blindness. You wonder if he’s as handsome as you dare to dream.

“Why can I not see you?” You ask in a whisper, and Ghost’s hand stills where it traces along the ridge of your spine. He’s tense, and it startles you when he speaks with his voice pitched low, authoritative in a way he’s never spoken to you before.

“As long as you remain here, you will never see my face.” He tells you, his chest vibrating under your palms. “I will care for you, protect you, and you will be mine, but you never see me. Understood?”

You don’t, really, understand. Confusion wrinkles your brow at the enigmatic declaration, but Ghost eases under you as you nod anyways, and the comfort of his gentle touch resumes, and assuages you of your worries until you fall asleep.

In the morning he lingers in your marital chambers, the pale light of dawn glinting off the armor he has donned before you awoke. He sits at the edge of the bed, a bone white gauntlet stroking with surprising gentleness across your brow. You catch it with your palm, kiss across his ivory knuckles as he huffs a warm breath of affection.

“I will return.” He tells you softly, and steps towards the balcony, only to vanish in a billow of smoke.

You lounge in bed in his absence, feeling the pleasurable soreness of your lovemaking imbue itself in your muscles and limbs. Even after a full rest you find yourself exhausted, and it isn’t long before you curl back into the sheets until the chariot of the sun reaches its zenith. Even then, you wince to yourself as you creep from bed, roused by your empty stomach and the mess between your thighs. You don’t make it farther than the basin at the edge of the room before your legs threaten to fail you, and you resign yourself to a few sips of water and washing what you can before collapsing back into bed.

You’re still there when he returns, and Ghost pauses when he hears your empty stomach, hums with dissatisfaction when you tell him of your troubles. With no effort at all, he lifts you into his arms and walks in the way gods do- only several long strides before you find yourself at the baths. Candles cast shadows against the walls, dancing hypnotically as Ghost deposits you at the edge of the water, pausing to disrobe himself of all but his mask before once more lifting you and walking into the baths with you in his arms.

The moan that bubbles up your throat at the heat that ensconses your weary limbs prompts a laugh from the God above you, who releases you only enough to reach for oils at the tiled edge. Ghost is careful, deliberate as he washes you, and despite your protests he insists, as if the act itself is another means of proving his devotion. Yet he can’t resist grazing a rough thumb over your nipples until you squeak, dipping his fingers between your thighs in slow, lazy circles until your legs tighten around his wrist.

Ghost takes you like that, holding you flush to him as his fingers work deftly inside of you, plucking at something bright and powerful until your voice fills the chamber with gasping, wanton pleas. You grip at him as you gush over his palm with your climax, a whimpering sound caught in your chest as he lauds affections into your slick skin.

When you are at last clean and sated, Ghost wraps you in his own cloak before you find yourself in the banquet hall with grapes being lifted to your lips. You know the tale of the goddess taken to the netherworld and having eaten the fruit there, know it meant forever tying herself to a place of death. Yet as your lips close around his fingers as the morsels are fed to you, you can think of no other realm in which you’d rather be.

and silently, you wish you could see the face of the man who has taken you as his bride.

The days are spent as such. You become accustomed to the palace, teaching yourself its interior so you can navigate it blind. You spend hours in the baths, dozing with your head cradled by your arms on the tiled edge. You devour the poems in the library and write your own thoughts on parchment beside them which you find in boundless supply. In the afternoons before Ghost returns you walk on long strolls through his gardens which seem ever changing, blooming with iridescent blossoms and fragrant lilies bright like starlight. You find a harp which seems to offer no sour note despite your lack of familiarity, and wind beautiful music through the obsidian and onyx halls of his home. You find yourself wanting for nothing- not food or shelter or finery of any nature. In return, you offer your love to the God who has claimed you, and to you he returns the same.

Ghost returns to you at sunset, and most nights find your form tangled with his as he takes you whimpering and breathless against the sheets. He seems to know your body like a swordsman knows his blade, invents new ways to pluck at your desire until the only thing you can offer him is reedy, desperate sounds of his name, reminding him you are his. Afterwards he tends to you, and even then you kiss the other shell of his mask as steam billows around you in the baths as your bare bodies embrace.

You find yourself increasingly nocturnal if only to spend the long hours of darkness in his company, talking and touching in the absence of any illumination. You ask him of the poems in his library, of the trophies that adorn his palace, of the emptiness between these walls and how he bore the loneliness that came before you. You ask him of the offerings given to him by his worshippers, of immortality and all things of a god-like nature.

You never ask him to show his face.

Instead you map it with delicate touches in the darkness, trying to instill in yourself an image of his likeness behind the mask. His jaw is strong, and along it you think you feel the smooth skin of another scar that snakes up towards his ear. His hair is short, and you wonder if it is the same dark color as his ember stare. His lips are soft as they press to your skin, as if he himself is the acolyte to your divinity.

As the weeks turn into seasons, and the high winds of autumn reach the mountaintop, he tells you of how he became a God.

Gods are not born. They are chosen, he says. Those of great valor, of devotion and strength are lifted into the pantheon and blessed with immortality, with divinity beyond that of human comprehension. Outliving those who once knew them as human, their legends are inscribed in the songs and poems, spoken of in many tongues until their following becomes great and loyal.

When you ask him with quiet reverence how he became immortal, Ghost’s form goes rigid with something you think can only be fury.

“I was betrayed.” He tells you, voice filled with murderous intent.

He tells you how he was once a soldier- a warrior that some claimed was already a demi-god. Yet he was mortal when his commander betrayed him, abandoned him on a hill of battle upon which Ghost was buried beneath a pile of rotting corpses, slowly suffocating under the weight of dead men. He had clawed himself free with savage intent, feeling rage become the only emotion known to him. It had taken days for him to free himself of the putrid flesh and decay that surrounded him, and it was only once he stood upon the pile of death that he breathed in his first gasp of immortality. The wrath became him, and he became wrath, or so the legends are said.

When you ask him how long ago this was, Ghost does not answer you.

You try not to think of what will happen when he witnesses your final, mortal breath.

and you try not to wish to see his face before you die.

“Are you hideous?” You ask him teasingly, drawing circles on his bare chest as his fingers idly soak themselves in the spend between your legs.

“Far from it.” He replies dryly, and you place a giggling smile upon his grinning lips.

You try not to dwell on it. There is so much you have to be grateful for, after all. A warm bed, a blazing hearth, clothes, a home, food, endless entertainment, and most importantly a husband who swears his devotion to you every sunset.

Yet in the daylight you find yourself missing him, and in the hollow place of his absence you try not to let temptation take root in the emptiness.

It’s on a cold morning when you find a snake in the garden.

You’re bent over a swath of coal-dark dahlias when you hear it slither behind you. When you turn, you’re greeted with mahogany dark eyes and shimmering green scales. Yet even as you flinch away the serpent doesn’t deign to chase you, regarding you curiously as it speaks in sibilant, seductive words.

“I see the God of Wrath has found himself a muse.” A feminine voice purrs, amused. “Which mortal realm did he steal you away from?”

“I wasn’t stolen.” You retort, shying away as the snake curls closer around your bare feet. “I was an offering.”

Sinister, the snake laughs at you. “And has he refused to let you leave? Are you too afraid to try? He may kill you, hermosa.”

“He wouldn’t.” You manage, tucking yourself up on a pedestal where your dress drapes over the edge. “He loves me.”

“Oh?” The snake asks, curling around the base of the stone, where the light reflects upon its shimmering body. “Are you sure, little muse?”

“Of course.” You reply quickly, even though a shadow casts longer upon your heart with every word spoken by the serpent.

The snake hums thoughtfully, winding itself around the stone slowly, until at last it raises its smooth head to the level of your gaze.

“Then why hasn’t he shown you his face?”

You falter at that, hugging your knees defensively and brow furrowing with dismay. The serpent plucks at the secret doubt inside you that you quietly tuck away at every sunset, that you feel thrum under your fingers as you trace the planes of his face in darkness. You try to conceal it, hardly ever speak of it, but you can’t help but wonder why Ghost refuses to show himself to you.

“Maybe he’s a monster.” The snake goes on. “Grotesque and rotten. The only way he can have your love is if you never see him.”

That can’t be true. Your husband is beautiful and strong, and you know even if he was hideous you would still love him for his fierce protectiveness and tender care. Even if his visage was obscured by scars of battle past, you would still love him.

“He doesn’t trust you, little muse.” The snake hisses quietly, and it sounds strangely pitying, a sadness which you feel plays upon the harp strings of your ribs. “Can you truly be wed to a man who does not believe in you?”

“Ghost loves me.” You repeat in a whisper, mostly to yourself.

“If that were true, he would love you even if you saw his face.” The snake offers, tongue flickering in your ear.

Something dark and viscous simmers in your stomach like tar, and you further hunch in on yourself, uncertain.

“Away with you.” You say at last, refusing to look at the serpent, who laughs wickedly as she winds herself into the bed of dahlias, and vanishes.

That night, when Ghost lays with you, the whisper of his affections feels sour against your skin.

You lay awake even as he sleeps behind you, his massive form curled around you and bracketing you in his warmth. The darkness looms long inside your thoughts, where the words of the serpent echo into the void where light fails to illuminate the face of your husband.

He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

Yet you know of Ghost’s warning, his oath that you will no longer be his if you see his face. To risk the love he has given you for such a temptation seems sacreligious, a sin for which there is no return.

He doesn’t trust you, the snake whispers.

In the morning, you feign sleep while you hear him depart to realms unknown.

He’ll return after dark. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

You do not find the snake in the garden.

He doesn’t trust you.

“You’re mine.” He huffs, dark and deep against your lips in your bed that night, and you shield your cry of desperation behind a moan. You give everything to him, your entire being, lay it bare before him as the offering you are, knowing he will keep you safe and love you with fierce devotion the way warriors love their oaths.

He loves you.

He leaves at dawn.

but he doesn’t trust you.

The wick burns against your fingertips as you light it.

You approach the bed with silent steps, your bare feet skimming across the stone as they did in the temple at the altar as you’d sacrificed yourself to him.

He loves you.

He’d taken you, spared you, made you his bride. He gave you his palace and all the treasures within, and with it came his love.

You see the broad, scarred plane of his back as you draw closer.

He hides behind a mask, refuses to let you see the one thing that nobody else has ever seen. Not even you, his offering, his bride, his muse, his beloved.

The candlelight illuminates his face.

and you feel your breath catch tightly in your chest.

He’s breathtaking.

The word ‘divine’ does not compare to his likeness, with his eyes closed and his lips parted in sleep. His alabaster skin shielded from the sun is written with scars, but the stories told by them seem like the songs of great poets, wild and magnificent in the way of feral things. Long, blonde lashes swoop gently over his cheeks, still rosy with the exertion of your lovemaking, face slack and open in his slumber.

He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.

Even when his dark eyes open, look upon you with despair, he’s still beautiful.

“No.” Ghost speaks in a tone you’ve never heard, full of grief, and it stabs through you like a blade. “How could you?”

“Ghost-” You try, reaching for him as he raises himself from bed, drawing to his full height and towering above you. Yet your fingers are just short as he draws away, towards the balcony.

“Leave.” He tells you, his voice hardening with fury as a cold wind begins to billow around his form, cast in starlight.

“No-” You try, panic bubbling up your throat as you try to move forward to him, pleas for forgiveness upon your lips. “Ghost-!”

“LEAVE.” Ghost bellows as smoke churns wildly about his immortal form, the cold wind slicing against your skin and preventing you from drawing near.

“I love you!” You cry in desperation as tears form, and the mantle of his cloak descends upon his shoulders, bone white replacing his face.

Ghost doesn’t respond, not as he becomes wrath, not as his eyes look upon you with betrayal and despair. You try to move forward, to touch him once more, but when you reach out your hand, skim your fingers against the outline of him-

He’s gone.

As the cold wind retreats, and with it your husband, you collapse to the floor and wail with your despair.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon x reader #simon riley x you #my fic #my writing #call of duty x reader #cod x reader

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