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#team skull are menaces that get menaced

pkmncenterguy · 15 hours

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> Hear a weird noise outside while I’m cleaning up for the night

> Its like a clanging. Confusion

> I go out and check it out

> Team skull grunts across the street gathered around a lamp post???

> One of them headbutts it really hard, making the clanging sound again. The rest cheer and start hyping them up

> What

#just another day in alola #pokemon irl #rotomblr #pkmn irl #I get theres actual team skull grunts who do menace people and actually do harmful actions #however they clearly arent in my area

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141wh0re · 1 month

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Just Imagine

So, you're the new recruit for 141, the only girl, right. Right.

The guys all give you shit for your size in comparison to them, have a little laugh if you struggle through some training but ultimately will always help you with extra practice, and they always give you good natured teasing with sexist jokes. It never bothers you, you know they respect you and they find you to be a valuable asset to the team, and they trust in your skills.

But if a cocksure little fuckhead thinks they can spout off the same jokes at you, and any of the 141 guys hear about it? Oh, all bets off. They're stringin the bastard halfway up the flagpole, Ghost glaring daggers into them, making damn sure he knows he fucked up. Price is immediately filing the paperwork in preparation for what will, ultimately, end with the bastard being buried 6ft deep - after Ghost makes him dig his own grave - or, he's pissed himself from the promise of his undoing from the stares your brothers in arms give him.

"Get back in the kitchen. You don't belong in the army, slag." the bastard sneers at you as you're coming out of the weaponry.

You don't even have a chance to fire back at him and stand your ground, because here comes Ghost, shovel in hand, promise of death glimmering in his eyes with Soap and Gaz in tow.

The men crowd behind you, Ghost looming at your back, burning holes into the bastard's face, Gaz and Soap flanking either side of you.

"You wanna run that by us again, mate?" Gaz challenges.

It's as if the bastard suddenly has the fear of God instilled in him as his eyes widen, his mouth fumbling over incoherent syllables, and his hands raise in a placating manner.

"Go on. Ye had the balls tae say it tae 'er. Say it tae us." Soap chimes in, taking a menacing step towards the poor bastard trembling in his boots.

Poor bastard turns into a blubbering mess, desperately trying to backtrack over his previous statement.

You stand there with a smug smirk plastered on your lips, arms crossed over the front of your tac vest.

As soon as the guys send him on his merry way, Ghost turns to you, skull mask obstructing everything but those beautiful brown eyes.

"No one gets to bully you, unless it's us." He says sternly.

#cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #gaz cod #ghost cod #kyle gaz garrick #cod mw x reader #simon riley cod #call of duty #captain price #cod modern warfare #tf 141 x reader #poly tf141 #tf 141

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gallifreyanhotfive · 4 months

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Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 2

While attending Jago and Litefoot's knighting ceremony, the Sixth Doctor had to go in disguise because of the grudge Queen Victoria had against him, which was started by the Tenth Doctor.

Once, the TARDIS jumped a time track, leaving the Tenth Doctor at Powell Estate for a week. During this time, he lived with Mickey.

A team called the "Plastic Surgeons," comprised of the Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, and a lone Auton, won a Mannequin Challenge competition.

The Shopkeeper from the SJAs may have been an incarnation of the Corsair according to RTD.

The War Chief once had an aborted regeneration, which left him deformed, his past and future selves joined together. He had a conjoined dual skull and an extraordinary set of limbs.

The Third Doctor took Jo back in time in an attempt to kill that same would-be-dictator baby but also failed to do so after seeing his Sixth try the same (some of you already know where I am going with this).

After being irradiated on Metebelis III, the Third Doctor was stuck in the time vortex for ten years, dying very slowly.

Ian and Barbara's son became a pop singer.

The Eleventh Doctor once traveled with a robotic copy of a Tyrannosaurus rex named Kevin. His tiny arms made him unable to help pilot the TARDIS.

Kamelion and the TARDIS had a child together.

Missy killed the incarnations that came both before her (Saxon Master) and also after her (the Lumiat).

The Venusian Lullaby sounds like God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen because Jago and Litefoot sang it on Venus to soothe the Shanghorn.

The First Doctor caused High Tutor Albrecht to regenerate by experimenting with a perigosto stick and a temporal feedback loop.

The First Doctor rigged a drinks machine to produce mercury during his time at the Academy to experiment with, nearly causing his professor to regenerate.

The First Doctor's dorm room had posters in it and became timelocked after an experiment gone wrong. No one ever figured out how to get rid of the timelock.

Basically, the Doctor was a menace even as a student, but everyone knew that.

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28

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evermoreal · 4 months

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it always leads to you ࿐

pairing: simon riley x reader

genre: dad’s best friend au, fluff, smut, a touch of angst

cw: smut - this is 18+ minors dni, age gap (ghost is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s), fem!reader, reader is implied to be shorter than ghost, unprotected sex (bad idea!!!!!), praise kink (excessive use of ‘good girl’), oral (m & f receiving), face-fucking (he’s gentle abt it), ummmm a man that is Not ghost makes unwanted sexual advances, small mention of blood (someone gets a cut on their forehead). please lmk if i missed anything !!!!!!

summary: coming home for the holidays is both a blessing and a curse — cheesy music, bittersweet nostalgia, and simon riley, your father’s best friend and the man you’ve had a stupidly big crush on for years.

author’s note: hiii!! um a Few things . firstly, i seldom write smut & when i do i never post it. i have put off posting this for so long bc i was so nervous — it was originally meant to be a christmas gift to u guys 😭😭 n e ways we Prevail. also i despite being Obsessed w him i’ve never written for ghost !!!! i want to do soo much more for him & the other cod men, so if u have any reqs/ideas, my asks are always open !!! love u guys soooooo much i hope i enjoy ! 💋💋

word count: 11k (sorry 😭)

credits: title is from tis the damn season by taylor swift, and the beauuuutifullll render/edit of ghost is by user dwisesz on twitter!

before you met him, you’d heard endless stories. for as long as you could remember, your father recounted tales of his friend ‘ghost’ from the army. every time he came back from deployment, there’d be something new — ghost’s snipe from 2,700 meters away, ghost making your dad laugh so hard beer came out of his nose, ghost making a new recruit cry simply by staring at them.

there were others, of course, too; gaz, who your father had quite the soft spot for; john, who quickly became your favourite when you met him a few years ago and he snuck you a sip of wine at dinner; soap, who was new to the team but had enough passion to carry an entire army on his back.

ghost, though — he was your dad’s favourite. though he claimed to be too honourable for favourites, the way your father spoke about him made it clear. a simultaneous respect and affection woven through every recounted story.

it was a shock you didn’t meet him until your freshman year of college. your father and ghost’s leave fell around the same time, and your father had invited him to stay with your family. your father never revealed much about ghost’s history, but you knew it was dark and splattered with blood. he was alone now, and though he claimed he preferred it that way, he’d accepted your father’s invitation.

from your bedroom, you’d heard the front door creak open, and without so much as a breath you were bounding down the stairs, bare feet smacking against the hardwood. your father was in the midst of putting down his bags when you threw your arms around him. “dad!”

he reciprocated immediately, pulling you tightly against him. “hi, honey. i missed you.”

as you pulled back, he patted your head, and you spotted a shadow along the floor. following it toward the still-open door, you found a broad, menacing figure, blocking most of the sunlight. he was nearly as wide as the doorway, and the top of his head just barely made it under the threshold. over his face was hidden by a black balaclava with the faint impression of a skull along the front, faded with age and use. despite the endless stories, you were immediately intimidated, and stepped closer to your father.

your dad squeezed your arm, chuckling. “lieutenant, this is my daughter.”

looking between the two of you, simon took a slow step forward, and extended his hand. his movements were careful, like you were a wild animal he didn’t want to spook.

hesitating briefly, you slipped your hand into his. the warmth of ghost’s hand bled through the gloves he wore as he squeezed yours once. “nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

“it’s nice to meet you, um, mr ghost.” you had to crane your neck to look him in the eye.

a low, raspy chuckle rumbled from his chest, and beneath the balaclava, his eyes creased into tiny half-moons. “just simon is fine, love.”

and, really, he didn’t even give you a chance. there was no warning, no preamble. in an instant, fear ignited into something far more dangerous — attraction.

with a warm stomach, you smiled, and tried your hardest to keep it from growing too wide. “right. um. simon. yes.” you bit your cheek. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

finally releasing your hand, he murmured, “terrible things, i assume.” his wink was quick and cheeky and certainly wasn’t meant to release a swarm of butterflies in your stomach, and yet . . .

“mostly,” you joked, and beside you, your father laughed. it was a rude awakening — ice water splashed over your silly little daydream. this man was only a few years younger than your father — in no universe would he give you a chance, and in no world should you want him to.

as quickly and as unassumingly as you could, you excused yourself, claiming you were in the middle of packing — which was mostly true. you were due on campus in less than two weeks, and if you didn’t start now, you’d leave it until the night before and end up forgetting something.

initially, you’d dreaded spending two weeks under the same roof as simon. it was a surefire plan to end up embarrassing yourself, because you’d never really been able to act normally around a crush, especially one in the shape of a 6-foot-whatever behemoth. yet, as the days went on, that dread steadily began to lift. despite your school girl crush, simon was easy to talk to. a lot of the time he was quiet, but his eyes never wavered from you, listening intently and humming where it mattered. he was fun, too — he recommended good movies, took you shopping while your father ran errands, taught you the best places to hit a man if one attacked you.

(a picture of simon, dramatically curled up in pain after you’d accidentally kicked him in the balls during a lesson now sits in your phone’s ‘favourites’ folder).

two weeks went by far too quickly, and before you knew it, your dad and simon were lugging your belongings up and into your dorm. not a single bag was left for you — you were tasked with the important duty of telling them what went where. when all was said and done, simon handed you a tiny piece of paper with a ten-digit number scrawled messily across it.

“in case you ever need me,” he explained, warm brown eyes peering at you beneath terribly long lashes. “i know your dad’s always there, but — just in case.”

then, he’d patted your head and squeezed your shoulder, murmuring a, “good luck, kid.”

and, though he was lovely to look at and talk with and exist around, you knew it would never be anything more. no matter how desperately a silly little part of you wished it. he spent time with you because he didn’t have anyone else. never had a daughter or a niece to spoil or playfight with. it was endearing, the way he interacted with you. wholesome and innocent and if that was all you’d ever get, you’d be happy.

— ∘♡༉∘ —

college was a lot. it was simultaneously the best and worst time of your life, passing by at both a snail’s and bullet’s pace. somehow, you ended up halfway through your final year. the holidays had rolled around, leaving you on a train, weaving over the tracks as you made your way back home.

in the years you’d been away, you’d kept in contact with simon. he joined your family for every holiday, and beyond that, you texted him often. sent him photos of your proudest grades, spirit days, or yummy meals. he’d even occasionally text you first, asking how your classes were going, if it was raining there like it was here, if you got home safe on the nights he knew you went out.

the landlord he’d rented his shitty apartment from ended up selling the place and simon had to relocate, finding a place only a few minutes from your dad’s. they loved to bug you, now — sending selfies and videos. to occupy themselves on their offtime, they’d opened a car repair shop together, and it only got worse.

you weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow, but you were feeling homesick and your bags were already packed. before long, you were stepping out of a taxi, bags in hand, and ambling up to the shop.

the reception area was tiny, sweetly decorated for the holidays and playing some generic christmas station. leaning against the desk was soap, slyly flirting with the blushing woman behind it.

his eyes lit up upon seeing you. “the fuck’re you doin’ ‘ere, lass?” he questioned far too loudly. immediately, you shushed him, and he caught on. “ooh, i love surprises. they’re back in the garage, workin’ away. y’want me t’film it?”

giggling, you shook your head, accepting the quick side hug he gave you. when you slipped through the garage door — opening it bit by bit, never too quickly lest it creak, soap returned to the customer.

the garage was stocked with cars in disrepair and various parts you couldn’t name if your life depended on it. the stench of motor oil, cigar smoke, and antifreeze stung your nose as you made your way over, where simon was wheeled beneath a car, thick thighs flexed inside oil-stained jeans. your father was turned away from you, bent over a shoddy metal table table and observing an array of papers. an ancient radio sat next to them, croaking out a rock song from your childhood.

“one of these days, i’m gonna teach you to use spotify,” you called, voice bouncing off the cement walls and ceiling.

a bang proceeded your words, and in the same instant, your father turned around, exclaiming your name and wrapping you in the world’s tightest bear-hug.

“we were supposed to pick you up tomorrow!” he said, voice muffled to your ears beneath the suffocating squeeze of his arms.

“figured i’d surprise you,” you supplied, stepping back from his grasp once it loosened. immediately after, you were enveloped by simon, who stunk of grease, cheap cologne, and tobacco. you inhaled; it was lovely.

“my favourite college student,” he murmured into the top of your head. “how y’been, trouble?”

when you pulled away, a dark splotch caught your eye. a small but growing patch of blood stained the top of his balaclava, turning the black fabric a murky shade of brown.

“shit! you’re bleeding!” you yelped, stepping away from him and searching your surroundings — there wasn’t much for medical supplies in a garage.

beside you, your dad was laughing; a deep, wheezy sound. “did y’hit your head?”

simon grunted, shooting you a playful glare. “if college doesn’t work out, kid, y’ve got an easy spot on the one-four-one. you’re quiet as a mouse. scared the shit outta me.”

despite yourself, you snorted. “i’ll keep that in mind. d’you guys have any bandaids?”

“there’s some in the office. bottom drawer of my desk,” your father replied, voice tinged with amusement.

“thank you, dad. simon, come. i took a first-aid course in high school.”

obediently, simon followed, keeping just a step behind as you moved through the garage. from his table, john called, “we’re going out for dinner tonight, don’t make plans!”

“sir yes sir!”

simon and your father’s office was a small room just off the garage. carpeted, with off-white walls and dusty blinds letting in yellowish rays of sunlight. dusty photos hung from the wall; a few of you and your father; the 141; a german shepherd simon adored.

moving to the desk, you bent over and dug through the mountain of junk in the bottom drawer. the box of bandaids was shoved into the corner, bent and creased. simon copied your movements, rounding the desk and sitting on the worn desk chair.

“d’you know if you have anything to clean it with? hydrogen peroxide, saline, any kind of antiseptic?” you questioned, opening the drawer above it, which contained only invoices and a chequebook.

humming, simon stood, moving to the cabinet and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. at the roll of your eyes, he chuckled. “it works, doesn’t it?”

“i suppose it does,” you replied, collecting the fast food napkins you’d spotted while searching for the bandaids. then, after he’d sat once more, you softy placed your fingers at the bottom of simon’s balaclava. “may i?”

whenever simon’s eyes met yours, your breath hitched. every single time. whether it was because of that stupid crush that never went away or because his gaze were simply so intense, like an entire world existed within small pools of deep brown. pulling you in, drowning you. it was impossible to look away.

again, he hummed, granting you permission. gently, you rolled the fabric up, revealing his face inch by inch. this wouldn’t be the first time you’d seen his face — he spent far too much time around you to hide it. he still wore it more often than not, though, and every time he bothered to tug it off, it was like seeing it for the first time. roman nose, full lips, the scar across his brow, the prickly dusting of facial hair along his jaw. it was a shame he hated photographs — you’d frame it if you had any less sanity.

in your distraction, the tension had grown thick, humming in the silence of the room. clearing your throat, you took the whiskey from him, turning it over in your hands. “this stuff is shit.”

his face twisted. “how the hell d’you know what whiskey tastes like?”

snorting, you uncapped the bottle, and began to soak the corner of a napkin. “y’know, riley, i’ve been legal for a while now.”

his lip twitched, forming a crooked smile. “i know. it’s hard not to. y’keep growing. every time i see you, you’re . . .”

he trailed off. placing a gentle hand on his forehead, you tilted his head backward, and began to gently wipe at the cut. “i’m what?”

imperceptibly, he shook his head, careful not to jostle you. “more of a woman.”

you barked a laugh at that, and his smile grew. “more of a woman? what does that mean? i had tits when i met you, simon.”

simon rolled his eyes. “that’s not — what i meant. you’re . . . not a kid. you’re meaner now, for one.”

resuming the cleaning of his wound, you pouted. “mean? you wound me. maybe i’m just not scared of you anymore.”

“no, you’re not mean. always been a sweetheart.” his eyes fluttered shut beneath your ministrations. “you were scared of me?”

you giggled, and placed the bloodied napkin in the trash. then, you dug out a bandaid. “no, not really. nervous, maybe. intimidated.”

“is my handsome face really so daunting?”

this time, your laugh was lacklustre — he’d hit the nail straight on the head. “you’re bigfoot in a skull mask. before you spoke, i was a bit nervous.”

“but you’re not? now?”

peeling the parchment from the back of the bandaid, you met his gaze. “no. why would i be?”

this time, it was simon that looked away. you delicately placed the band-aid over the cut, before he said, “thank you, angel.”

you smiled, and, like you were drunk of the proximity of him, placed a quick, daring kiss to the band-aid. “if i wasn’t such a generous nurse, i’d say you owe me. you’re lucky.”

simon breathed laugh, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think the tops of his cheeks were pink. clenching and unclenching his jaw, he murmured, “lucky indeed.”

— ∘♡༉∘ —

in hindsight, believing your high school friends were capable of growing up was one of your less intelligent ideas. call it boredom or stupidity, but when a few of your old friends invited you out to the bar, you were compelled to accept.

it, unsurprisingly, went dreadfully. the first half of the night was fine — the first round of shots was purchased by one of the sweeter ones. you caught up over murky-coloured cocktails, swapping stories about your new lives and reminiscing over your old ones. the alcohol warmed your skin and loosened your limbs. the night went on and the amount of patrons doubled; you recognized a lot of them from old classes or bus rides or kindergarten friendships.

a boy from high school, one that hadn’t said a single nice thing to you in the entire four years, approached you with something that was supposed to be a smirk. you were polite at first, nodding along to his slurred words, exhaling when he attempted a joke. he dragged a hand over your thigh, and when you shifted away he easily followed. you excused yourself, muttering something about using the restroom, and he took it as an invitation.

“y’like it public, huh? never took you as the type,” he garbled, sliding off the barstool and following your movements. “i like whatever you like, baby.”

“no, i — actually need to pee,” you stated, glancing around the bar for your lost friends. he stared at you for a long minute, eyes narrowing.

“mm, fine. i’ll — i’ll pull up my car, we can head back to my place.”

“no, i—” you began, eyeing his sleazy grin and glazed-over leer. “i don’t want to go home with you. i’m not interested. i’m sorry.”

it takes a few moments for him to wrap his head around your words; each one spelled out across his face as it’s processed. finally, his expression twisted into a sneer.

“should’ve fuckin’ known not to waste my time with you,” he barked, unfocused eyes glaring daggers at you. “once a whore always a whore, huh?”

the most embarrassing part of this was the tears. you didn’t let him see them — too prideful to let them fall before you muttered a “fuck you,” and escaped out the side door.

the night air was freezing, twinged with the sharp bite of early winter. without a jacket or alcohol — you’d sobered up as soon as his hand touched your leg — to warm you, you were left hugging yourself, digging your phone out of your purse.

you could have sobbed when a red battery symbol lights up the screen, before flickering back off, dead. you just might have had you not spotted a pay-phone a few meters away.

there were only a few coins in your purse. had it not been kept for just-in-case situations like these, there would be none at all. shoving a few into the coin slot, you dial the number you’d had memorized from childhood.

it rang several times, wind whistling in your other ear, before your father’s voice stated, “sorry, can’t reach the phone. leave a message.”

a choked sound left your throat. what the hell were you supposed to do? most of your friends had split off into tiny sub-groups, and you were too ashamed to ask any of them for a ride. there was the option of asking a bartender to call a cab, though the idea of that was, for no real reason, profusely embarrassing. then, you remembered the one other phone number you’d memorized.

you don’t really know why — there was no reason for you to remember it, especially over any other phone number. yet, when he’d handed you that crumbled sheet of paper, your eyes had traced over the shapes of the numbers, and for some reason committed them to memory with no further effort.

whatever the reason was, you didn’t feel like questioning it. you were merely thankful you did. with cold fingertips, you pressed the digits into the payphone.

he picked up on the fourth ring. “who’s this?” was the greeting.

“it’s me,” you replied, and you barely were able to finish saying your name before he was cutting you off.

”what’s wrong? are you alright?”

huffing a quiet laugh, you said, “‘m fine, simon. i just—” you sighed, clutching the phone tighter in your hand. “i went out with my friends, an’ i—i’m just not having a good time. i tried to call my dad, but it’s past ten, so he’s passed out. i’m sorry—”

“where are you?” he asked, and there was a rustling in the background.

there were only a few bars in town—he knew immediately where this one was. “i’m on my way, i’ll be there in ten. are you in a safe spot, sweetheart?”

“i’m in a telephone booth. my phone died.”

“of course it did. would you be willing to go in an’ ask the bartender to use the phone?”

“no.”

“alright. okay. just stay on the line with me then, okay? d’you have any extra change, in case y’run outta minutes?”

”yeah. i should be good. i’m—listen, si, i’m really sorry—”

“if i hear that word come outta y’r mouth again we’re gonna have issues,” he said, and you laughed despite yourself. “‘m glad you called. now i’ll get t’see your pretty face.”

a girlish giggle sounded from your chest, and if it weren’t so damn cold, you might’ve been embarrassed. “i hate bars.”

“y’go to the wrong ones,” he replied. “one day i’ll take you out to one of my favourites. show you a decent drink.”

“my drinks are decent,” you argued. there was a whooshing sound on the line, and you panicked. “you’re not driving your motorcycle, are you?”

“didn’t have anything else with me,” he said. “y’got a problem with my harley, trouble?”

“your harley is a death machine.”

simon chuckled. “i’ll drive slow with you.”

“you should be driving slow now.”

another laugh. “i’ll be there in three.”

“simon!” you admonished. “you said ten!”

“that was four minutes ago.”

shaking your head, you said, “your lack of self-preservation should be studied.”

in the few seconds he took to reply, your teeth clacked together, and simon swiftly asked, “are you chattering?”

your lack of response served as one on its own, and he continued, “doll, what’re you wearing in this telephone booth?”

“um,” you started, chewing your bottom lip. “a skirt.”

“and a jacket?”

“uh.”

“christ,” he swore. “your lack of self-preservation should be studied. it’s not even 5° out.”

“jackets are a lot of work to carry around in a bar,” you argued, though you knew it was fruitless. “and i wasn’t really planning on spending any time in a telephone booth.”

“y’should always prepare for the worst,” he stated. “what if i hadn’t picked up, hm?”

“you always pick up.”

for a short moment, the other line was quiet, with only the quiet whoosh of the wind brushing past the speakers. then, “yeah, i do.”

the way he said it — so tenderly, like an admission — had any response dying on your tongue. your heart felt oddly warm, and didn’t quite know what to do with yourself, curling and uncurling the phone cord around your fingers.

“‘m here, trouble,” simon said, saving you from further awkward silence. a headlight glared against the glass of the phone booth, hallowing fingerprints and rain stains. squeaking out an, “okay,” you hung up the phone with a click and stepped out.

he was off his motorcycle already, immediately tugging off his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders before pulling you against him.

“god, you’re a fuckin’ ice cube, sweetheart,” he said. he held you like that for a while, arms wrapped so tightly around your frame that you worried you’d morph into him. not that you minded — he was warm.

afterwards, simon cupped your cheeks, tilting your head upward as he examined you, as if you were ill or injured. furrowing his brow, he asked, “were you crying?”

you attempted to look away, ashamed, but in his grip it proved futile. “not much.”

“what happened?” he asked, and there was something in his voice, laced in the low rumble of it, that sounded threatening. it wasn’t meant for you, that was clear — he’d never direct anything hostile toward you. before he had even the barest idea of who or what made you cry, he was already furious at it.

“it’s nothing.”

“tell me,” he demanded. then, softer, “please. i just — need to know.”

moving your gaze from a far-off shape in the night towards his, you were unable to keep it from him. “i—this guy. i went to high school with him.”

a spark lit his gaze. “what’d he do?”

for a few breaths, you were quiet, trying to sort the words into something only mildly wrath-inducing. “he wanted, um, to take me home. i didn’t want to. he got upset.”

the spark caught, lighting his gaze into a furious blaze. even beneath the balaclava, you could see his jaw clench. he stepped away from you and set on a warpath toward the bar.

“simon—no,” you yelped, hurrying to catch up with him. it was a difficult task—your shoes weren’t comfortable and his long legs moved swiftly. finally, you caught his leather sleeve in your grasp. “don’t. please, don’t.”

at the sound of your voice, soft and warbled, he stopped, turning to face you once more, and whatever he saw on your face had his eyes softening.

“i don’t want to deal with him any more than i already have,” you said, staring up at him. “i just—i just want to leave. can we go to your house, please? i don’t want to be alone. i don’t want to think.”

the neon bar lights cast strange shadows across your frames, illuminating you in various bright colours as you stood, gazes caught in one another. simon seemed to fight with himself for a moment, fury and something far more tender battling for authority. the latter won out; he exhaled a long breath, hand cupping the back of your head and pulling you into him once more.

“let’s go, yeah?”

you nodded, following with your arm wrapped around his as he led you to the bike. attached to the back was an extra helmet, which he placed atop your head, adjusting it with a heady stare you couldn’t meet. the helmet smelled like pine and tobacco and vanilla and simon — it was everywhere, and you blissfully drowned in it.

when it was to his satisfaction, he tugged his gloves off and pulled them over your fingers. they were large and loose on you, and they were still warm from his skin. afterward, he pulled his own helmet back on, and held a hand out, helping you onto the back of the machine. large hands adjusted your hips, manhandling you into the right position, and it took everything in you not to make some sort of embarrassing squeak.

“okay,” he murmured, bent over your shoulder. “i’m gonna sit on the front here. you’ll have your arms wrapped around my torso, okay? and you’re not gonna let go, at all. yeah?”

you nodded. “mmhmm.”

“i need to hear your words, love.”

meeting his gaze for the briefest second, you repeated, “i won’t let go.”

“good. i won’t too fast with you, but if y’need me to pullover, just let me know, yeah?”

another nod, and this time he gave you a pointed look. “i’ll let you know,” you stated, lips just barely twitching.

with a gloved hand, simon pat your helmet and mounted the bike. after the briefest moment of hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his middle. even through the leather, he was warm; you couldn’t help but burrow a bit further into him. with merely a glance at simon, it was obvious he was built — far more than any other man you knew. to feel it beneath you, though, was an entirely separate thing. he was solid and unyielding but not harsh; a thin layer of fat kept him just soft enough.

“good girl,” he praised, patting the hands you’d entwined in front of his belly. you pressed your eager grin between his shoulders.

the motorcycle rumbled beneath you, and, slowly, he eased the gas, weaving through the tightly-crammed parking lot. just as he was about to exit the lot, he asked, above the exhaust, “you alright?”

“mmhmm,” you hummed, cheek pressed against leather. then, “yes.”

with that, he accelerated onto the road, joining the late-night traffic. the wind whistled in your ears and bit at your exposed legs; you pressed yourself further against him, and his back vibrated with the sound he made in acknowledgment. above, yellowish streetlights warmed the pavement and passing cars. gas stations and markets and various homes passed by in a colourful blur.

at a red light, while you sat still, simon’s hand came down, brushing over your knuckles in slow circles. the movement was featherlight and you wondered if it was unconscious — as soon as it flicked back to green, he moved the hand back to the handles without any acknowledgment.

the ride to his place was closer than it would have been to yours. simon lived in a small, red brick townhouse, far enough from downtown to be quiet, and close enough to access it without any hassle. he could afford better, though he opted for this because ‘it was all he needed.’ a stove to cook on, quiet neighbours, and a bed to sleep in — these were his only requirements.

steering the motorcycle beside the curb, he parked it there, and leaned backward into you. “how was that?” he asked. the world seemed strangely quiet without the hum of the engine.

“fast,” you said lamely, honestly. “not as bad as i thought, but i still prefer cars. they have walls. and heat.”

simon laughed, shaking his head. the sound echoed through his shoulders, which you were still pressed against. “when i get you a jacket i’ll make sure it’s heated.”

the idea of simon purchasing you a leather jacket to ride with him more often — it made your face heat up and your cheeks ache with a restrained grin. you were barely able to get yourself under control before he was sliding off the bike and offering a hand to you. even with his help, maneuvering your way off with mostly-numb legs was a difficult task. you just barely were able to land steady-footed on the pavement. as if simon knew this, he kept a hand on the small of your back as you walked up the steps to his home.

inside, it smelled like simon. pine, english breakfast tea, and something unique to him. the only thing missing was the stench of a cigarette; you knew he refused to smoke inside.

the decorations were minimal yet cozy; it was surprisingly neat. besides the pair he’d just kicked off, the shoes were lined up along the wall. you’d been inside very few times, and never long enough to observe. in the living room, the lamp was still on, bathing the room in warmth. there was a cup of tea on the coffee table, only a few sips left. beside it was a novel you didn’t recognize, dog-eared halfway through.

every detail felt important, like a glimpse into him. had the bar not left you feeling sticky and unkempt, you could have stayed here observing for hours. yet, your shirt felt suffocating across your chest, and the nape of your neck felt sweaty despite the earlier chill.

“um,” you began ungracefully. “do you mind if i use your shower? i feel . . . icky.”

his lips twitched at your choice of words, and he nodded. “yeah. lemme show you the bathroom, sweets.”

following him up the stairs, he directed you to the bathroom, pulling two towels out of his linen-closet. then, he said, “shower’s fuckin’ complicated. too fancy. lemme get it started for you.”

you watched as he ducked in, fiddling with buttons and knobs until steam danced over the glass doors. afterward, he looked back at you, peering at your figure. “that’s not very comfortable.”

you followed his gaze, glancing over your outfit. “well, no.”

he huffed. “i’ll get y’something of mine,” he stated, and made his way toward the door. “i’ll leave it on my bed, yeah? just down the hall. if y’need anything, sweetheart, just shout. i’ll be downstairs.”

giving a soft smile, you nodded and said, “okay. thank you, simon. really.”

“no need. i’d let y’live here if it meant never going to that fuckin’ shitehole again.”

“it wasn’t that bad of a bar.”

he gave you a dead-pan stare. “shite. hole.”

amused, you rolled your eyes, and pushed the door shut. on the other side, you heard a chuckle — the smile that bloomed on your face at the sound was unbidden.

it’d be a lie to say it didn’t feel strange to strip in simon’s house. the fact that only a few walls stood between you sent a strange thrill through you. it was in your best interest to ignore it — your heart and body had incredibly inappropriate reactions to the man, and tonight they seemed to be at an all time high.

he was being kind, nothing else.

once your clothes were peeled off and discarded on the tiled floor, you stepped into the shower. immediately, the warmth enveloped you, melting the tension out of your muscles and washing it away.

simon didn’t have much of a selection when it came to soaps. you were thankful he had a decent face wash, though — at least there were no three-in-ones.

the body wash smelled lovely — that dizzying, woodsy scent native to simon danced alongside the steam in the bathroom as you lathered it across your skin. though it was tempting to stay for longer, you didn’t want to waste too much of his water. you stepped out, and wrapped a shockingly soft towel around your abdomen.

the house was quiet when you stepped out of the restroom, clothes collected in your hands as you padded toward simon’s bedroom. this was the one room you hadn’t yet seen, though you could have predicted quite a bit of it. neat, minimal decorations. a king-sized bed because anything smaller wouldn’t fit him. folded atop were joggers and a sweatshirt.

it wasn’t a surprise you had to roll up the pant legs until they were ridiculously cuffed at the bottom. the sight of yourself in the mirror made you snort; you were drowning in simon’s clothes. butterflies swarmed your tummy, too—you were in his clothes, like you belonged to him. the train of thought was dangerous, you quickly looked away.

exiting his bedroom, you heard a quiet, continuous popping sound. padding down the stairs, you followed it into the kitchen where simon stood, collecting a bit of butter and a salt shaker.

though your steps were quiet, simon’s eyes were on you before you even stepped inside the room. his gaze swept your figure, dwarfed in his clothes, lingering just long enough for you to catch it before he was shifting it away, jaw twitching beneath his balaclava.

after a moment too long, he said, “hey, trouble.” his voice was low. “making popcorn. there’s tea.” he gestured with his chin to the counter where two mugs sat, one of which you’d gifted to him nearly three years ago now. a black cat was painted on the front, a grumpy expression wrinkling it’s little face (“it reminds me of you,” you’d said). in a significantly less interesting mug was your tea, several shades lighter than his black.

“thank you,” you murmured against the lip of the glass, wincing slightly when a sip burned your tongue.

“do you—” he began, taking the popcorn out of the microwave and pouring it into a bowl. “how’s a movie sound?”

you grinned. “it sounds lovely.”

“there’re dvds in the cupboard out there,” he explained, sifting the butter and salt through the popcorn. “take your pick.”

a snort. “why am i not surprised you still use dvds?”

simon raised a brow. “i spend half my life in barracks. netflix is a scam, love.”

“sure,” you said, grinning impishly. “grandpa.”

despite your teasing, his movie collection was vast. a lot of them you hadn’t heard of, though you picked out a familiar one, presenting him with your choice when he joined you in the living room.

“diehard, hm?” he gave a crooked smile. “tis the season, i suppose. you have good taste, sweetheart.”

“i know,” you stated proudly. “but you should keep complimenting me.”

simon huffed a laugh, and placed the disc in the dvd player. “i already feed your ego too much.”

making yourself comfortable on his couch, you agreed, “you really do.” then, when he procured a blanket and draped it across your lap, you snorted. “this isn’t helping.”

placing the popcorn between you, simon shoved a few pieces in his mouth, and said, “sorry, sweets. can’t help it.” his smile was lopsided and boyish, charming. the tv flickered on, basking the room in a blueish glow, before simon clicked ‘play’ on the movie.

together, you watched the opening scenes of the movie. a few jokes were muttered back and forth, but, other than that and the sounds of the film, it was quiet. the popcorn was delicious, lathered in an unhealthy amount of butter and salt, you shovelled it into your mouth.

the tea, too, was lovely. warm and sweet, and, combined with the comfort of simon’s presence, you were sleepily lulling back into the plush couch. with low eyelids, you tried to make yourself comfortable, manoeuvring your body this way and that. huffing, you stared down at the couch, searching for a decent position, when you spotted simon’s lap.

all muscled and soft, he’d make the perfect pillow. would he mind? you sincerely doubted he would. it was innocent, after all. you simply wanted to relax. the only one it might be awkward for was you, and if you could get past your stupid crush for a single hour, it’d be perfect.

after one more moment of doubt, you stretched yourself out and hesitantly laid your head on simon’s lap. beneath you, he tensed for a moment, and you just about thought you’d fucked everything up before he relaxed back into the couch. a large hand made a home on your back, running soothingly up and down your spine.

laying against simon like this — it was so peaceful. your mind hushed to a low hum as you nestled further into him, eyes trained on the screen. his fingers trailed upward, tracing a pattern on the nape of your neck and returning south.

the movie was entertaining, though you felt yourself slipping into sleep. occasionally, simon’s fingers would slip over a ticklish slip of skin, and you’d shiver, causing him to exhale a chuckle.

slowly, as your mind quieted, so did the sound of the film, until it was an unintelligible mumble. the world started and ended with simon’s thighs beneath your cheek, and his hand against your shoulders.

against your eyelids, the screen was bright, lighting them up uncomfortably. huffing sleepily, you pressed your face into simon’s lap, burrowing further in an attempt to make yourself comfortable. beneath you, something firm prodded against your cheek, and at once you were very awake.

simon, suddenly, stiffened. the hand on your back halted, fingers hovering over your skin before dropping away completely. “oh, fuck—christ, sweetheart, i’m so sorry. i’ll drive you home, okay? or—i’ll call a cab, if you’d rather that—”

“simon.” the word was firm enough to catch his attention, quieting him if only for a moment. your mind swam—a mess of confusion, lust, excitement, and need. when it proved too difficult to sift through, too impossible to cohere, you voiced the one word you could manage:

“please.”

though concealed by his balaclava, the reaction simon had was the clearest you’d ever seen. his breath hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly. his gaze, so dilated it was almost entirely black, narrowed on your face. it darted between your features, like he was searching for some sort of hidden meaning in your words, like he didn’t quite believe you.

in retaliation, your hand, trembling only slightly, came up and grazed the too-large tent in his trousers. immediately simon’s hand gripped your wrist, squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling sharply.

“kid—” he said then, and the word was wrapped in molten heat. it was gravelly in a way you’d never heard before, a rumble in his chest. goosebumps broke out along your skin. “don’t start something you’ll regret.”

“i’m not,” you stated bravely, daringly. you adjusted your position, only to face him better, and he did not let go of your wrist. you hoped he couldn’t feel the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his thumb. “please, simon. i want this. i’ve wanted this.”

that snagged on something in his brain; caught his attention and held it. he stared at you, intense as ever. behind his gaze was a dilemma; a war you could only see traces of. after a few suffocatingly long moments spent beneath heavy tension, something won out, and the grip on your wrist loosened.

immediately, with years of want behind your touch, you grazed your hand over his clothed length once more. the breath in your chest stuttered when you grasped it, feeling just how big he was beneath your fingers.

a sound rumbled in simon’s chest; a groan of sorts. exploratorily, you tilted your head down, holding his burning gaze as you brushed your lips over his trousers.

“fuck,” simon cursed, hand grasping the back of your skull. he didn’t push or move you at all; he simply held it there, like he couldn’t bare to not be touching you himself.

the button of his trousers was difficult to undo with shaking hands, but you managed, pulling down his fly barely seconds after. with uneven breaths, you delved beneath the band of his briefs, pulling him up and out of the fabric.

the sight of simon’s cock was enough to get you off on it’s own; too thick for one of your hands to wrap around it, long enough that it bobbed against his shirt as you stared, too entranced for embarrassment. he was uncut, and there was a mound of curly, dirty-blond hair at the base, trimmed just enough to stay out of the way. you exhaled, breath ghosting along his length. the grip simon had on you tightened

again, you looked up at him. simon’s gaze was unwavering, as if looking away was some sin he was too pious to commit. it was then, as he gazed down at you with a burning gaze, that he seemed to read something in your expression. a pleading, a search for guidance. whatever it was, it had him speaking. “go ahead, sweet girl. get y’mouth on me.”

like his words triggered some sort of instinctual response in your body, your mouth was immediately moving. you licked a long, languid stripe from base to tip, revelling in the warm, salty taste. then, your lips wrapped around the head, suckling slightly before descending another inch.

“fuck,” he cursed again, hand moving in soothing circles against the back of your skull. “good fuckin’ girl. such a good listener, aren’t you?“

the words pulled a whimper from your throat. you released his dick for the briefest moment, a string of saliva connecting you, before wrapping your lips around him again, hollowed cheeks taking as much as you could manage. the fact that it was only half was disappointing.

“christ, angel. y’mouth is — heaven. fuck.” the choked sound of his voice only emphasized his point. when you made another noise, something between a whimper and a whine, he chuckled, and said, “like me talking to you like that? telling you how good you are? fuck, y’re so sweet. my sweet girl.”

moaning against him, you attempted to take more. betrayed by your gag reflex, you pulled back, choking, eyes glistening with tears.

simon cooed, hands cupping your jaw and thumb brushing over your cheek, wiping away a tear that’d escaped. “oh, angel, y’don’t need to take so much so fast. you’re doing so well. lemme show you. is that okay? can i help you?”

swallowing the excess drool in your mouth, you nodded, and his eyes crinkled with a smile. then, he was pulling his balaclava up, the seam stretched over his nose as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“words, love.” though his voice was soft, it was a command. “thought i taught you this already.”

“please,” you whispered. “show me how,” his face was close enough to see the thin wrinkles around his eyes, the soft dusting of a five o’clock shadow over his jaw. “wanna make you feel good.”

simon’s lips curved before they pressed against yours, all gentle and soft like you’d break if he were any rougher. it was inebriating to be treated so reverently, hands holding your jaw like you were something precious. simon made you feel like you were.

his lips moved languidly. he took control of it easily, guiding your lips with his own. he didn’t escalate it, didn’t shove his tongue into your mouth like so many other boys had. he kissed like he found pleasure in this alone.

arms tangling around his neck, you gently ran your nails over the nape of his neck, where fabric met skin. simon groaned, softly nipping at your bottom lip. you giggled.

as much as you adored this — you’d kiss simon for hours if he’d let you — you were getting impatient. you’d gotten a taste for him, and you were quickly becoming addicted.

when you pulled away, he let you, stare darting between your kiss-swollen lips and glazed-over eyes. he watched your gaze trail back down to his crotch, and chuckled quietly.

“eager thing, aren’t you?” he questioned, leaning in to press one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. “go ahead, trouble.”

you didn’t need to be told twice — keeping your head on his lap, you laid out on your belly, across the couch. his hand found your head again, and this time, he gently guided you forward, allowing your lips to find his cock once more.

“that’s it, love,” he murmured. he had you stay like that for a while, suckling contentedly on the head and lapping your tongue over his slit.

“if y’need to come up for air, tap my thigh, alright?” he instructed. you nodded, before correcting yourself, allowing him to slip from your mouth only to voice, “okay.”

simon exhaled, the sound shaking towards the end as your long laved the underside of the head. “good fuckin’ girl.”

though you’d blown guys before, this — simon — was different. something about him, his scent or the sound of his voice or simply his presence, created a haze that had your mind going cloudy. with your lips wrapped tightly around his cock, your world started and ended with simon riley.

little by little, he inched you down his cock. never too quick and never too much. in that moment, he seemed to know your body better than you. always stopping just before your gag reflex was triggered, just before your limit was reached.

“look at you, breathing outta your nose. you’re a natural.”

your breathy moan vibrated against simon’s cock; his thighs tensed, though he didn’t buck his hips or push you down. he continued his languid pace, inching you down only when you could handle it.

“so good,” he muttered. at this point you’d taken more than half of of him. breathing steadily out of your nose, you used a spare hand to grip the remaining length, pumping it in time with your mouth. “fuck. ah, angel, ‘m gonna cum if you keep tha’ up.”

spurred on, you hollowed your cheeks and took another inch, blinking away tears. his pelvis barely a few centimeters from your nose, now, and with one last deep breath, you swallowed back the rest of his cock.

“fucking christ—!” simon swore, pulling you off of him as gently as he could manage. you sputtered, coughing and sniffling as tears ran freely from your eyes.

“oh, none of that now, love,” he cooed, big hands cradling your jaw as he kissed away your tears.

“did i do something wrong?” you asked. your voice was raw.

“no, no. of course not, love. you could never do anything wrong,” he stated, pressing a lingering kiss to your hairline. then, he chuckled, warm breath ghosting along your skin. “‘m not as young as i used to be, pretty girl. ‘n if i’m finishing tonight, i want it to be in this sweet cunt.” to make his point, he cupped you over your panties, which had become embarrassingly wet over the last bit. sensitive, you whimpered, curling further into him and grinding down. “how’s that sound, hm? y’gonna let me fill y’up?”

vehemently, you nod, gripping the wrist that’d snuck up your skirt for support. “please. yeah, yeah. i want that, si.”

with shaking hands, you gripped the bottom of your top in an attempt to yank it off. swiftly, simon stopped you, one hand large enough to catch the both of yours. “mm-mm. if ‘m gonna fuck you, ‘m gonna do it proper. y’deserve better than a shitty couch, dove.”

in the next breath, you were swept up into simon’s arms, legs wrapped tightly around his torso. a high-pitched squeak escaped you and tapered into a laugh as he carried you up the stairs, towards his bedroom.

“such a gentleman,” you joked, toying with the collar of his shirt.

“i try’,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your palm when it cupped his jaw.

after closing the door behind him, simon gently dropped you on the bed. you giggled as you bounced, bracing yourself on your elbows and looking up at him. for a moment, simon stood, gaze locked on your frame, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“fucking hell,” he cursed, finally. “you’re a dream.”

“a dream?” you echoed, grin simpering into a smirk. “y’been dreamin’ about me, riley?”

in a single, fluid motion, simon tugged his shirt off. he was a mass of muscle, age just barely softening his edges. tattoos ran up his arms and across most of his chest, where hair the same shade as his happy trail grew.

“‘course i have,” he answered, like it was obvious. then, he kicked off his slippers and fit himself between your legs, arms bracing himself just inches above you. “making me act like a fucking teenager again, wakin’ up to wet boxers.”

the thought of simon having wet dreams about you made your head spin. dumbly, you blinked up at him, and found yourself unimpressed with the balaclava still covering the upper-half of his face.

“can i?” you asked, voice quiet enough you wondered if he’d even be able to hear it. his small smile, though, gave him away. he nodded.

little by little, you rolled the offending material upward, revealing every mesmerizing inch of his face. tossing it to the side, you took a long moment to admire him: the long blond lashes, the sloping scars, the light spattering of freckles, his crooked nose.

“y’so pretty,” you stated, honestly. rose blossomed across his cheeks and nose, leaving you with a wide grin. simon pressed a kiss behind your ear, though you had a sneaking suspicion it was to hide his face.

“think that’s supposed t’be my line, love,” simon replied, gently nipping your throat. as you giggled, he continued downward, kisses growing sloppier as they reached your collarbones. then, he pulled back, fingers slipping over the hem of your shirt. he met your gaze for a brief second, searching for the permission you’d always give him, and tugged it off.

left in only the lacy scrap the lingerie shop deemed a bra, simon stated openly at you. this time, it was your turn to squirm, hands instinctively reaching to hide your face. easily, he caught your wrists.

“no. no. i wanna see you,” he said, squeezing your arms once. “cover your face and i stop, alright?”

huffing, you kept your hands at your side, and he twitched his lips. afterward, he smoothed large hands across your skin, over your stomach and ribs, cupping your chest. “so gorgeous.” he squeezed. “fuckin’ hate the idea of you going out in somethin’ like this when i’m not with you. no more. if y’wearin’ this, it’s for me, yeah? no one else.”

biting your lip, you nodded, not trusting your voice enough to speak. simon disagreed with your decision, seeing as he pinched your side. “no one else,” you affirmed.

“good girl.” he drew out the words, eyes trained on your chest, before he was reaching behind and unclamping your bra with his fingers. sliding it off, he tossed it haphazardly into the growing pile of clothes on his floor.

simon wasted no time in resuming his assault on your skin, leaving a kiss here and a bite there. he swirled his tongue over your tits, paying special attention to your nipples, playing with one while he had his mouth on the other. little marks littered your saliva-soaked skin when he reached the top of your skirt.

one more glance at you and he was tugging it down, along with the flimsy nylons you’d worn. swiftly, he pressed an open-mouthed kissed to your cloth-covered cunt, easily keeping your hips down when they tried to buck.

the air was cold against your soaked cunt when he peeled back the fabric, pulling it over your ankles and discarding it on the floor. as had become his habit, simon took a moment to admire you. eyes blazing and turning the skin beneath it warm. your hands fisted the blankets as you resisted the urge to cover up.

“so pretty,” he said, moving backward down the bed and climbing off it. then, he tugged you with him, earning a tiny yelp, before kneeling at the end of it. “wanted t’taste you for fucking ever. y’gonna let me, sweetheart? hm? you gonna let me taste your sweet cunt?”

nodding, you squeezed your eyes shut and breathed, “please, simon.”

his fingers, warm and steady, trailed up your thighs, pulling a shiver from you. “spread your legs a little wider for me, baby. there y’go. good.” then, slowly, they inched towards your centre, spreading you open. you didn’t have to look to know he was staring.

all at once, his tongue was on you, licking a long stripe up your folds and over your clit. you moaned embarrassingly loudly, trailing off into a long whine when he didn’t let up. your fingers knitted themselves in his blond waves, tugging as gently as you could manage. he groaned in approval, the sound vibrating through your cunt and sending your back arching.

“fuck! simon,” you yelped. his hands held your legs apart when they attempted to close, overwhelmed by pleasure.

he slipped away from your heat only to say, “keep sayin’ my name.”

whining, you pushed his head back into you, and he chuckled, resuming his ministrations on your cunt. simon was talented with his tongue — something jealous burned you at the thought of how he got so good. the thought was quickly scrubbed from your brain, though, when he flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit, circling it once, twice, before descending again.

“please,” you whined, though you didn’t know what you were asking for. his pace had slowed, now, sloppily making out with your cunt like it was something he could worship. “simon . . . ”

the pleasure was inescapable; your body was torn between grinding down on his mouth and trying to wriggle away from it. it didn’t help that he was doing it so leisurely; tongue moving languidly through your folds and over your clit like it was for his pleasure instead of yours. that thought got you off all the more.

your legs trembled, winding around simon’s head and damn near suffocating him — not that he cared. when you glanced down, he was watching you, nose shiny as it brushed against your clit. simon smirked — you could feel the movement against you.

had you been in any other state, the sound you made as you tumbled over the edge might have embarrassed you. as it was, though, you didn’t have the mind for anything other than pleasure as your back bowed off the bed and your legs tightened around simon’s skull.

he was saying something — you only understood bits of it, but it sounded like a mindless litany of praise. “there you are, there we go. so good, so fucking good.”

he paired each praise with a kiss to your cunt until you were trembling from overstimulation, just pushing past the edge of too much. simon climbed up the bed and pressed wet kisses across your face; when he licked into your mouth and you tasted yourself, you moaned.

“you’re a fuckin’ vision, sweetheart. never knew you’d cum so pretty. y’gonna let me see it again? hm? y’gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

you were nodding before the words were even out of his mouth, snaking your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. without breaking it for longer than a few seconds, simon moved the two of you further up the bed until your head rested against his surprisingly soft pillows.

simon groaned appreciatively when your nails scraped against his skull. you grinned, and breathed, “you like pain just as much as me.”

simon chuckled, biting your chin. “maybe. when it’s you.”

“what was that you said earlier? something ‘bout feeding my ego?”

another laugh, and he joked, “i’m too far gone, now, i think. i’m just here to serve.”

“prove it.” your lips curved into a lust-drunk smile. “fuck me.”

with one last peck against your lips, simon smirked, and said, “yes ma’am.”

he leaned over you, then, tugging open the creaky drawer to his bedside table and fishing around. “shit.”

“hm?” you hummed, following his gaze to the foil packet between his fingers.

“‘s fuckin’ expired.” simon’s brow furrowed, and he brought the packet closer, squinting. you grabbed it from him, tossing it on the floor.

“i don’t care,” you said, probably stupidly, but the thought of not fucking simon right now had something foul twisting in your belly. “want you.”

running broad hands over your legs, simon gazed down at you, like your expression would say otherwise. you rolled your eyes. “i’m clean. i’m assuming you’re clean, if your condoms are expired.” simon pinched your side, and you giggled. ”please? want you to fuck me, simon.”

simon exhaled, and shook his head, smirking. “yeah?” he asked, fingers trailing over your belly. “y’want me to fuck you? cum in this little cunt?”

“yeah, yeah. please. want that.”

his lips press against yours again, hands continuing their journey downward until he was exploring your sensitive folds. you whimpered, quietly, but simon caught the sound and tutted. “i know, sweets. but i’ve gotta stretch you. don’t wanna hurt you, right? not tonight.”

lubing his fingers up with your slick, he started with his middle, circling your hole before slowly pushing inward. your earlier orgasm had relaxed you already, and he was able to add a second in no time. he explored for a moment, pumping his fingers in and out, curling them upward until he found that spongy spot that had your head rolling back in pleasure.

“there it is,” he said, and though your eyes were squeezed shut, you felt his smirk against your skin; heard it in his voice. “that feel good, pretty?”

the answering nod you gave was shaky and sudden, hands gripping onto his forearm for dear life. “fuck me, si. please—want your cock.”

“i know, i know. one more finger, how about that? then we can give you what you need.”

with a groan, you nodded, and sent him a short glare. he snorted, and muttered, “so impatient.”

“been waiting for fucking years,” you argued, though your point might’ve been lost in the quiver of your voice. “‘m allowed to be a little impatient.”

“years, hm?” his third finger prodded at your entrance. “guess i should hurry, then. poor thing.”

the way you dug your nails into his skin was both in pleasure and retaliation. three thick fingers pumped slowly in and out of you, curling in a way that had your thighs shaking.

finally, he slipped the fingers from you, the whine you gave turning into a moan when he plunged them into his mouth instead, savouring every bit of you. “so fuckin’ sweet.”

when simon’s fat tip ran through your folds, you tensed, and questioned if three fingers would really be enough. “simon . . . ”

though his voice was strained, he stopped, glancing up at you. “yeah, sweetheart?”

“i don’t—” his tip ran over your clit ”—fuck, i don’t know if you’ll fit.”

simon tsked, the hand not controlling his cock coming up to brush the hair out of your face. “don’t gimme that, sweets. you can take it, i know you can.” he kissed your jaw. “i’ll make it fit, yeah? how’s that?”

shakily, you exhaled, meeting his gaze. truly, you didn’t know if it’d wavered from your face all night. his eyes were so sure — you could do nothing but believe him. it’d fit. you nodded.

“yeah, yeah. there’s my girl.” again, his lips were on yours, tongue licking into your mouth. minty toothpaste, tea, and cigarettes overwhelmed your senses as his thick tip pushed inside, swallowing every moan you gave.

when he’d made it a few inches, simon pulled back. “how’s that?” he questioned. “y’okay, lovey? want me to keep going?”

you couldn’t nod fast enough. there was a bit of pain, but the pleasure of the stretch won out easily. tangling your hands in his hair, you yanked simon back down for a long, messy kiss. really, it was more so a clash of teeth and tongue and heavy breathing than a kiss, but you digress.

by the time simon was fully sheathed inside you, it felt like he was in your fucking lungs. he gave you as much time as you needed to adjust, though the way his fists clenched and unclenched beside your head proved how greatly he wanted to move. digging one of the legs wrapped around him further into his skin, you urged him to.

“fucking christ,” he groaned. simon dropped his head for a moment, hot breath fanning over your neck as he slowly rocked in and out. “y’so fucking tight.”

“m’not tight, you’re just huge,” you argued, a furrow in your brow. simon bit the juncture between your throat and shoulder—you giggled, the sound delirious.

propping himself up on his forearms once more, simon slowly pulled out, leaving only his tip inside of you, before swiftly thrusting back in, setting a harsh, steady pace.

little high-pitched sounds came from your chest with every thrust, cock abusing that spongy spot inside you that lit fireworks behind your eyelids. with the way you were clawing at his back, you’d be surprised if simon didn’t look like he was mauled by a wildcat tomorrow.

“so good. gripping me like a fuckin’ vice. swear it was like you were made for me,” he breathed, teeth grazing over your ear.

sense had long since left you — you only nodded, murmuring back, “for you, f’you.”

maybe the way his cock kissed your cervix would have you cursing tomorrow, maybe the way your back bowed with pleasured tension would have you hunching over in the morning — you didn’t care. right now, your world consisted of simon’s searing brown eyes and the toe-curling pleasure he supplied.

“feels so good.” your words were breathy, punctuated with a tug to his hair.

“yeah?” he questioned, smiling lopsidedly. “good. gonna fucking ruin you. you’ll never be able to take another cock without thinking of me—thinking of how good i made you feel.”

shaking your head, you whines, “no. no one else. only you.”

simon growled, thrusting especially hard as he licked and sucked at your throat. “yeah. you’re mine, aren’t you? my girl.”

“yours,” you nodded. “‘m yours, f’rever.”

simon groaned out a slew of curses, cock twitching inside of you. one hand reached down toy with your clit, making quick, slippery circles. “want you to cum again, baby. ‘m not gonna last much longer and — fuck — i need t’see it again.”

you’d already been dancing along the edge — his thick fingers and raspy words were a harsh push, leaving you dangling by one hand.

your eyes rolled back into your head, and his other hand was swiftly gripping your chin, gently shaking you. “on me, love, keep y’r eyes on me.”

with great effort, you kept your hazy gaze on his face, which was twisted in the effort to stave off his orgasm. you whimpered, and murmured, “say it again. say i’m yours. please.”

“oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck for a moment before finding your eyes again. “you’re mine, ain’t ya? my sweet girl. yeah. an’ i’m yours — always will be.”

the second the words left his mouth, you tumbled over the edge. your entire body shook, curving inward and wrapping itself around simon like it was trying to burrow inside him. in the haze of it, you heard simon shout, before warmth was spilling inside your cunt, filling you up to the fucking brim. if simon wasn’t simon, you were sure the grip you had on him would’ve broken something by now.

when you came back to, the world was quiet — soft breathing echoed through your ears, his and yours indistinguishable from each other. simon’s head was buried in your neck, the weight of him just bridging the edge of uncomfortable. it was bliss.

eventually, he rolled over, cock pulling out with an equally disgusting and enticing squelch. his spend leaked out of you, dirtying his sheets. neither of you minded, it seemed — he easily pulled you across his chest, pressing his lips to your warm forehead.

“y’with me, lovie?” his voice was barely more than a murmur.

you hummed, hand moving upward to trace over his sweat-soaked chest. “i think so.”

a quiet laugh vibrated in his chest, breath dancing across your face. you smiled in turn, crooking your neck to gaze at him. keeping in theme with the rest of the night, simon was already staring at you — his eyes seemed to shine when they found yours, and his lips curled up in a rare smile. you were met with the embarrassing urge to take a picture.

“you’re a mess,” he stated, chuckling quietly as his eyes darted across your face and body.

narrowing your eyes, you pinched his pec, and his chuckle became a laugh. “a beautiful mess, sweetheart. ‘s the prettiest you’ve ever looked, i promise.”

you rolled your eyes, and argued, “‘s your fault.” then, attempted to sit up — though his strong grip on your shoulder kept you down. simon frowned. “where d’you think you’re going?”

“i need to pee,” you stated, and he let you up with a huff. “then i need to fucking shower, again.”

simon made a sound. “how ‘bout i run you a bath, hm? lemme do the work.”

smiling softly, you glanced back at him. he took your hand that lingered on his chest and brought it to his mouth, pressing kisses over your knuckles. “that’d be lovely.”

simon stood, and when you looked over him, you smiled. hair mussed, lips swollen, skin glazed in sweat — he was just as much of a mess as you. in a single movement, simon swept you into his arms. with a yelp, you clung to him, and he carried you, bridal-style, into the bathroom.

placing you on the lip of the bathtub, simon left for only a moment to dig through his linen closet, and returned with a wash cloth. after running it under warm water in the sink, he helped you up once more and gently ran it between your legs.

afterward, while you used the restroom, simon ran the bath, using that intoxicating body-wash as bubble bath. spotting his back, which was covered in bright-red scratches, you giggled, feeling only a little bad.

“i’d say sorry for y’back, but really i look no better,” you stated. hickies and bite-marks littered your skin, decorating your neck, chest, and thighs.

snorting, simon moved to look in the mirror, eyes tracing the pinkish abrasions trailing from shoulders to spine. “i’ll wear ‘em with pride.”

once the tub had filled, steam dancing around the mound of bubbles, simon, again, helped you up. his skin was warm, and if the bath wasn’t so enticing, you’d be tempted to stay here, pressed against him.

easily, he lifted you up and into the bath, following you not long afterward. it was a shock he could fit all of his limbs in the tub, even moreso when you could fit between his legs. it was a bit squishy, but you couldn’t have traded it for anything — laying against his chest while his hands ran up and down your body. thighs, stomach, chest, arms — he touched you softly, reverently, lips pressing behind your ear.

“did you mean it?” you asked. the quiet hum of your voice seemed loud in the silence of the room.

“mean what, love?”

swallowing, you played with his fingers, and supplied, “that ‘m yours. that you’re mine.”

simon exhaled, and you could feel the small curve of his lips against the back of your neck. “i meant it.”

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autisticlancemcclain · 6 months

Text

“You’re not going.”

Keith picks his head up from the table. “Huh?”

“To the Blades,” Lance clarifies, chopping up something that looks like a bright pink potato and throwing it in a rapidly boiling pot in what Keith would call an aggressive manner. “You’re not going.”

“…I didn’t say I was.”

He didn’t. He didn’t mention anything about the Blades to any living soul. Like, yeah, he had made the decision and was going to, but.

There’s no reason Lance should know that.

“Good, then, because I took your uniform — which looks like a slutty catsuit, by the way, just so you’re aware — to the incinerator last night. It’s ash now.”

Keith stares at his best friend, jaw dropped, hands resting limply on the edge of the dining table, because — huh? pardon? what happened?

“Whatever identity crisis you’re having can happen here,” Lance adds, shaking some spices into the boiling pot and stirring it a couple times. He dips in a spoon, brings it up to his lips, then makes a face. “Here, try this.”

He marches over to where Keith has been moping as he makes dinner and shoves a spoon into his gaping mouth. Keith chokes, hot stew making its merry way down his trachea, eyes watering and chest heaving.

“A little too salty,” he rasps.

Lance scowls. “Fuck. I knew it. Gotta add more barbie potatoes.” He turns down the heat, grabbing more potatoes from the sack and busying himself with peeling them. Slowly, as he recovers from the fear of his actual lungs collapsing in on themselves, Keith stands, hesitantly approaching Lance and reaching for a knife to chop what he peels.

“So,” he starts.

Lance ignores him.

But Keith is used to this dynamic. It’s either this or flipped. Friends or not, if there’s one thing they can’t do it’s use their big boy words. So he carries on.

“I take it you…don’t want me to go, then.”

Lance grunts. “Oh, look, the caveman has room in his skull for a brain after all.”

“Uncalled for,” Keith says, scowling. “I am not the one who’s refusing to communicate right now.”

The corner of Lance’s mouth twitches upwards.

Score. Point to Keith.

“Obviously I don’t want you to leave, you stupid dumbass,” Lance admits finally. He wrestles the chopped roots out of Keith’s hands and practically dunks them in the pot, turning the heat back up. Keith smears his starch covered hands on his shirt in revenge (and then wisely takes three quick and giant steps back, well out of backhanding range).

“But there are too many paladins,” Keith points out. “You said it yourself.”

Lance grabs a dishtowel, twisting it menacingly in his hands. Keith tries not to think about the scar he knows Hunk has from when Lance snapped a towel at him when they were kids, wrestling in the McClains’ kitchen. He fails.

“Do you actually have any braincells left in your head at all?”

“Yes, jackass. That’s why I did the math. I leave and the numbers add back up. Problem solved.”

“You leave and Voltron falls apart,” Lance snaps. “So maybe crunch those numbers again.”

Keith stills. Lance steps towards him, still glaring, still menacing, but he doesn’t move — he holds Lance’s gaze, searching his dark eyes, looking for the words he isn’t saying. Because Keith…Keith isn’t the one holding Voltron together. There was a reason his heart caught in his throat when Lance came to him downtrodden and talked about being a seventh wheel. There’s a reason his duffel is packed, a reason he’s talked to Kolivan. He knows who needs to step aside.

“You just don’t get it,” Lance says, frustrated. He takes another step.

“You talk to us about teamwork all the time.”

Another step.

“You’re favourite thing to whine about is the bonding moment.”

Another step, this time as he pitches his voice high and mocking, flapping his hands.

“You never shut up about training as a group.”

One final step and he’s toe to toe, shoes to boots, nose to nose. Keith realises, startlingly, that they’re the exact same height, now.

“We are a crew, imbécil. Team, group, boyband. Whatever you wanna call it. All for one and one for all. The whole nine yards, all that cheesy bullshit.” He pokes Keith hard in the chest. “You don’t get to ditch.”

“But it makes more sense,” Keith argues, weakly and half-desperately. “We only have so many resources. If I can be useful at the Blades —”

“Fuck the fucking Blades.”

Keith deflates. His hand comes up to stop Lance’s jabbing finger, curling around his knuckles. Lance softens, slightly.

“I just want to be as useful as I can be.”

“And if you’re enough as you are?” Lance asks quietly.

Keith opens his mouth, but stops, automatic I’m not dying in his throat. For the first time in his life, it doesn’t seem like the truth, with the determined set to Lance’s jaw and the sliding of their fingers together, gripping tightly.

“Then I guess I’m staying,” Keith breathes.

Lance nods. “Good.”

Keith notices his hands are kind of clammy. His forehead, too, is a little sweaty. The air between them feels hot. Keith swallows.

“Your stew is on fire,” he croaks, voice rough.

Lance drops his hand, cursing.

“Oh — por amor de dios, hablas en fucking serio —”

———

At dinner, Keith eats his burnt stew without a word of complaint. When Lance drags him to the sink to help clean up, after, even though it’s not his turn, he goes, and he lingers too close and too long, and he’s grateful that the duffel he packed to leave home for good is laid emptied on his bed when he turns in for the night.

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soapybutt17 · 7 months

Text

Scary Dog Privilege

Summary: Known as not only the little sister of Colonel Alejandro Vargas and the wife of Sergeant Major Rudy Parra, you were more famous for the fact that you were more feared for your bite than your bark unlike the two boys. Characters: Rudy Parra x Wife!Reader. Alejandro Vargas Word Count: 2,441 Chapter Warnings: Profanities. Big Scary Dog Privilege. Mentions of Violence.

for @glitterypirateduck's Fall4Rudy Challenge Prompt: "Behave"

Masterlist | Request are Open

“Behave you two.”

It was one thing to help Alex and Farah with an upcoming mission, and it was another to realize that the bastard that caused such a mess in Las Almas’ base to be alive and well who also just so happens to still be alive after everyone thought him to be dead. You had accepted that both your brother and your husband would be annoyed by the fact, but their blood was boiling further when they had realized that one Philipp Graves would also be in attendance, returning to the base that he had once tried to overthrow.

“He does anything stupid, I’ll be the first one to blow his head off.” Your husband muttered under his breath but you had heard just as much as your brother.

“Get in line, I got first dibs on the bastard.” Alejandro quipped right back, never once did he try to hide the displeasure of the news of the man’s apparent arrival in a few minutes.

“Behave.” You raised your voice, earning a silence from the two, and the more than evident appreciation from everyone in the team that had been walking on eggshells since the new of Grave’s living state. Alejandro was beside himself and your husband was not much of a help as much as you wanted him to be in placating Alejandro’s temper.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Both had muttered but your attention was glued right back to the helicopter that had just landed and had housed the very man responsible for the two’s foul mood.

“I don’t want to hear anything from either of you from now on. We already have mess with need to deal with, I don’t want this to turn into a bloody massacre if it doesn’t need to be.”

Eventually, the helicopter door had opened and the sight of Commander Farah Karim and Lieutenant Alex Keller had brought a smile on your face. It was only natural to give them a welcoming entrance to Las Almas as you couldn’t depend on the two scary menace of men behind you to do to it.

“I hope your flight here was well.” You began, shaking the pair’s hand before your eyes turned behind them and narrowed at the sight of an all too familiar man that brought all the bad memories back into the surface. “Commander Grave, it’s nice to see you again.”

“No need for the fake pleasantries, Lieutenant.” The man brushed off, a sick smirk playing on his lips. “After all, the last time I was here wasn’t much of a good experience for any of you.”

Just like that, Alejandro was at it again. Spewing curse upon curse at the man in Spanish with Rudy holding him back. You had to rub your temple in annoyance, you had given both Farah and Alex an apologetic look to which both had sympathized over. They both understood the history the man had in Las Almas, but they had no other choice and Graves was the only person fit for the job—as much as you all hated it.

“Behave!” You screamed and two had finally halted and apologized to you and to your two guest.

“Keep your dogs in line, and we will not have much of a problem, Lieutenant.”

Something ticked at the statement and you found yourself pulling your gun out and pointing it towards Graves. You ignored the protest from everyone as you approached the bastard and digging the gun right through his chest, unafraid to pull the trigger if he says anything else.

“Keep that fucking mouth of your shut, Graves.” You spat. “You don’t need to worry about my husband or my brother, cause the moment I find out you’re fucking with us all over again, I’ll be the one to put a bullet through your skull.”

Put the fear of God in the man’s eyes you slowly backed away, immediately, being pushed behind your husband that now becoming calmer and ready to continue on with the discussion that was bound to happen between all six of you.

“Behave, Amor.” Rudy whispered turning behind to look at you with irony.

It seems the Vargas temper was still running strong through your veins. With a deep breath, you finally put your gun back to the holster and waited for the man to say anything else that would give you the privilege to shoot him point blank.

You said nothing now, allowing your brother to pull his head up on his ass and initiate in taking the three visitors into the heart of the base. He had also made sure to make Graves well aware of the fixes they had all done after the damage he had made to the base during the takeover.

You were left with your husband who now had his arm around your shoulder.

“So much for making the two of us behave.” He teased.

“No one calls my boys dogs.” You muttered, after everything you had all been through to make Las Almas safe again from the Cartel, you would kill anyone that would think of anyone as mere dogs. “I’ll kill anyone that hurts you or my brother without hesitation.”

“Cálmate, mi amor.” He chuckled, now pulling you into his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist as you took his scent in. “You mean the world to us and we will do anything and everything to keep you safe, not the other way around.”

“You and Alejandro will hesitate, but I fucking won’t. If that gringo had tried to say anything else I would shoot and ask questions later.” You muttered, chin resting on his sternum, you looked into his eyes, even in the seriousness of your tone, the smile was all too plastered on his handsome face. “I will not hesitate you know. I could still do that right now.”

As you made a plan to step away from his hold, he held you tighter.

“No need for bloodshed just yet. When this mission is over and things get out of hand again because of him, I’ll let you skip the line and shot him first.”

You grinned satisfied with your husband’s compromise.

“This is why I love you.”

“This is why I’m sometimes scared of you.” He muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Mi Amor. Let’s get back inside and see what Alejandro is up to.”

“Small but terrible that sister of yours.” Grave believed that he still had the right for small talk as all four of them had walked the corridors.

“I’d be more worried about her than any of us, Gringo. She’s like a rabid dog to people like you.”

“What was that, Colonel?”

Graves had watched the Colonel tense at the sound of your voice. Even he was worried as he turned to have a look at you, the all too demented grin on your lips, waiting for him to fuck up. But even more dangerous was the unfazed smile on Rudy’s face as he had his arm around your shoulder—a metaphorical leash to keep you at bay.

Why the fuck was he back here in Las Almas of all places again?

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mykneeshurt · 1 year

Text

Breath work

Am I a ghost simp? Damn right baby, since I played that menace back in 2009. All the edits on tik tok have gotten me feral and frothing at the mouth. He could break my neck and I’d thank him, so have a quick one from me (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞

I have other ideas I’m working on, but I work full time so please bare with ✨

Feedback always welcome, I DO NOT own the mask line we all know and love, it was too good not to put in here. I DO NOT own any of the characters mentioned. I do not own the gif, credited on the tag line.

Warnings - breath play, vaginal sex, rough, unprotected sex, quick sex, no minors! Get outta here.

I tried to keep him the silent type, and everything he says I said to myself in his accent first lmfao to see if it sounded good 😂

The first time you met Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was when you were introduced to Task Force 141, as a new Special Forces Sargent. The rest of the team welcomed you with open arms, keen to get to know you. John ‘Soap’ McTavish and you soon become good friends. But Ghost? Nothing. He barely even acknowledged you. You were all currently at base in Herefordshire, training whilst waiting for your next mission instructions.

Your down time was spent at the firing rage letting off some steam. It was early November so there was a chill in the air. As you led on your stomach lining up your target you took in a deep breath to steady your aim. Squeezing the trigger the shot fired and the butt of the gun kicked back into your firm shoulder. Bullseye. Smiling to your self you sat up on your knees taking in the clean morning air. ‘Not bad’ a gruff voice rang out behind you making you jump. Spinning around you saw Ghost stood before you, his intimidating frame casting a shadow with the morning sun.

‘Not bad?’ You asked completely offended, who does he think he is? He barely speaks two words to you and now he’s critiquing your marksmanship? You got to your feet in a huff and barged past him, placing your rifle on the table. He stood arms crossed against his wide chest, his biceps bulging underneath his khaki jumper. You stood drinking him in, all of him. He stood at roughly 6’2, towering above you and you 5’5 medium build. Thick strong thighs sat under his tight cargo trousers begging to be touched.

He let out a small sigh ‘yeah not bad, could do with brushing up on your breath work though.’ Was he actually doing this? You were a special forces Sargent who specialised in weapons? Sure he was good, you’d seen his record but was he as good as you? Surely not?

Scowling at him you crossed your own arms closing off your body, ‘fine, you can show me. Seeing as I’m clearly not up to your standard.’ Grabbing your rifle you walked back over to him slamming it into his chest. Fuck, you thought to yourself, his chest was rock hard. You felt heat rush to your cheeks as you let go of the gun, catching his gaze.

If you’d have known any better you’d say you saw a slight movement in his eyes indicative of a smirk. Ghost led prone on the floor, his right knee bent parallel to his hips. His ass looked phenomenal in that position, it was only when you heard 3 rounds go off did you avert your gaze back to the target. Damn, fucker was fast. Seeing him do that in the flesh was … something else. He peered over his shoulder at you, the white skull detail was stark contrast the black paint he kept on around his eyes. ‘Try again, I’ll help you’ he gestured.

Rolling your eyes you led next to him on the floor, you’d never been this close before. Your left arm brushed against his as you took hold of your rifle, your hip in line with his as you brought you knee up to position. You took aim as Ghost took hold of your shoulders slightly altering your position. His grip was firm, his large hands encasing your shoulders with ease. He trailed his hands to your ribs ‘breathe in’ he commanded. Taking a breath in to steady yourself was torture, you felt like you were going to explode. ‘Hold it here’ he said as he gripped your chest, your heart was pounding at his touch. As you held your breath at his desired depth you squeezed the trigger, one, two, three times. Hitting the bullseye again but this time it felt cleaner.

‘Better.’ He said finally letting go of your ribs. You let out a shaky breath, ‘thanks, sir.’ You mumbled, feeling him slightly tense next to you. If there was one thing you had noticed about Ghost, it was his eyes. Dusky blue peering out of his black skull balaclava which he never took off. They always seemed so empty, glazed over and yet always full of emotion. He never outwardly showed much emotion during missions, he and Soap were close and he trusted his team. Soap always told you about his great sense of humour, but he was yet to share that with you. You were nearly always paired with Gaz or Captain Price in the field.

Ghost got to his feet before helping you up, his firm grip on your hand and the ease he pulled you up with further made your heart pound in your chest. He’s your lieutenant, your superior, you shouldn’t be having these feelings … these thoughts. Your mind wandered to what his hands would feel like around your thro … ‘alright love?’ Ghost asked interrupting your train of thought. Flustered you let go of his hand and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry, not with it today.’ Your hair was normally slicked back into a tight bun, as per regulations. But no one bothered you out here this early, so you’d wear your hair in a loose plait instead.

‘That was a good shot, hold your breath just like I showed you. You’ll be making cleaner shots in no time.’ You smiled up at him through your thick lashes. ‘How did you know I was down here?’ He visibly tensed, staring with his arms crossed across his chest, staring right at you. ‘I always know where you are.’ He replied bluntly.

He took a step forward closing the space between you, his gaze never faltered from yours. Your breath hitched in your throat and you instinctively took a step backwards. ‘W … what?’ You stammered, surprised but not afraid.

He reached forward and grabbed your belt pulling you into him, you slammed into his firm chest. He snaked his hand to the back of your neck, his gaze becoming suddenly more intense. You placed your hands on his abdomen, your nails firmly gripping his jumper. You could feel his breath beneath his mask brushing over your flushed skin. Short shallow breaths escaped your lips, as you searched his eyes for any clue of what he was thinking.

Nothing.

‘Simon?’ You stuttered beneath your breath ‘what are you doing?’ His hand cradled the base of your skull and neck, his thumb and forefinger adding slight pressure. His eyes darted from your eyes to your lips and back again, pupils dilated. Yet he still seemed un phased by what he was doing. You licked your dry plump lips, all moisture seeming to have escaped your mouth. His eyes flicked down again, if you hadn’t have been concentrating you would have missed it. His gloved hand still gripping onto your belt as he pulled you closer still. He brought his head to your ear ‘I 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 want to know where you are’ he growled.

You clenched your thighs together, his deep voice ricocheting through your body. The tension between you two was building, something had to give. It was a matter of time of who would break first. His clean but musky smell invaded your nostrils further heightening how aroused you were. You looked up at him with doe like eyes, lips slightly parted.

‘Take it off’ you asked looking at his mask.

‘Negative.’

‘Why? Are you ugly?’ You smirked.

‘Quite the opposite’ he replied, sounding amused. Slowly you creeped your hand up his chiselled body, searching his eyes for any objection. As you got to the base of his mask you slipped a finger under the fabric, the pressure of the back of your neck increased. His eyes never straying from yours, fuck this guy is intense.

You slowly brought your other hand to the bottom of his mask and began to roll it up. His defined stubbled chin and full lips came into view. Slowly you traced your thumb around his lips, before slowly dragging your thumb on his bottom lip. Managing to get a glimpse of his white straight teeth. His grip on your belt tightened, so much so you could hear the crunch of the leather. His breath smelt like mint as it caressed your face. You traced your thumb again, this time placing your other hand on the side of his neck. His pulse felt steady, almost relaxed, because of course it did. His skin was warm and soft to the touch, as you grazed your nails along the back of his neck. You broke eye contact first, glancing at his lips, silently begging him to make to make the first move.

Without warning he dropped his hand from your neck to your ass and lifted you with ease. Coaxing you to wrap your legs around his waist, which you did without hesitation. He took a few steps before your back met with the brick wall of the shelter with a dull thud. The thud caused an involuntary moan to slip past your lips whilst you tried to catch your breath. As your lips parted Ghost met them with his own, his kiss tasted of pure desperation. Desperation to taste you, to feel you, to claim you. His other hand still cradled the back of your head, where he placed it to stop it from hitting the brick.

He led the kiss, opening your mouth with his, his tongue meeting yours as he tightened his grip in your hair. Breathless he pulled away ‘fuckin’ hell’ he muttered. Another moan escaped you as you caught your breath, tightening your legs around his waist. Begging for some friction to release the tension. ‘Dirty fuckin’ bitch’ he growled before reclaiming your mouth. He lightly tapped your thigh for you to get down, he lowered you to the floor not breaking the kiss.

As he kissed you, you heard a belt buckle rattle before he pulled your plait, forcing you to look at him. ‘I wanna see how good your breath work really is.’ He slowly wrapped his belt around your neck before pulling it tight, ‘that’s it’ he whispered in your ear in a low tone. He pulled the belt tighter until you had just enough room to inhale. You gripped his forearm, feeling his muscles tighten and he gripped the belt. Each fibre rippling under your fingertips. ‘Don’t touch the belt sweetheart, or I’ll stop.’

Nodding, he turned you around and pushed your torso into the red brick. He pulled your elbows behind your back holding them in his firm grip. His free hand slid under your top, his gloved hand grazed your skin. You just about managed to squeeze your vocal cords together ‘the glove … off’, you panted. Ghost placed the tip of his gloved finger on your lips, as you bit the tip of the glove he slid his hand out. Placing his hand once again on your stomach, this time the sensation of skin on skin burned through you.

He undid your belt and popped open your trousers, slowly working his hand inside. His fingertips brushed over your black lace panties, eliciting a gasp from your lips. He yanked your trousers down just below the crease of your ass. A sharp blow hit the right cheek before he pulled your panties down also. He pulled your hips back into him forcing you to stand at an angle, your cheek pressed into the wall. You could feel his gaze burning into you, ‘fuck … me’ you groaned through gritted teeth and a constricted throat. He caressed your thigh ‘patience love.’

An eager but exasperated moan left you as you looked over your shoulder at him. Silently pleading. He’d pulled his mask back down over his lips, once again becoming Ghost, looking back at you through hooded black eyes. Without warning he cupped your pussy, your eyes rolled back from the much needed touch. He let out a grunt of approval before sinking a finger into you. You arched your back into him, this wasn’t want you wanted, what you needed. What you needed was for him to fuck you.

Sensing this, he lined up his cock and thrust into you. Forcing you to take him in one go, it was the most pleasurable burn. Breathy moans filled the morning air between you. He steadied your hips with his hand as he quickly established a firm pace. Letting go of your elbows you placed them on the wall in-front of you for extra support. The shape of your body in this position drove him crazy. The defined muscles of your back peeking out from the bottom of your top, tensing with every thrust. He grabbed your wrist, guiding it down to your clit, instantly understanding you began rubbing firm circles.

He unexpectedly let out a small whimper from underneath his mask, he was close. ‘Good girl’ he praised, ‘just like that … fuck.’ You were close too, the pressure began building, your muscles becoming tighter. Hoarse moans left your throat, the belt feeling tighter and tighter. You came just before he did, clenching around his generous sized cock. He slid his hand under your top grasping at the untouched skin of your chest. ‘Please don’t stop’ you gasped, desperate for air. The pleading tone in your voice sent him over the edge. He came in your still pulsating pussy, filling you with his cum. You looked over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, meeting his eyes with a filthy smile on your lips as he filled you up.

His rhythm slowed until he eventually stopped, making sure every last drop was inside you. As he pulled out he watched as yours and his cum dripped out of your pussy slowly. Not being one for waste he trailed his finger up your thigh to push it back in, the feel of his finger sliding back in was bliss. He undid his belt from around your neck as you pulled up your trousers, a satisfied grin plastered on your face.

Your face still flushed you looked up at him ‘not bad Riley, but maybe I can help you with your technique.’

#fan fic smut #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #call of duty #ghost x you #simon riley x reader #smut

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sprout-fics · 2 months

Text

Fix loses her memory. All of it.

It’s a miracle she survived what she did, but as a result the brain injury she suffered at the hands of Makarov means she wakes up in the hospital, looks at the faces of her team, and quietly asks who they are.

They’re devastated, of course. Simon most of all. The wedding band she’d exchanged with him now sits cold on his finger, and he summons the strength to explain to her why she owns a matching one. She doesn’t remember, she says. Not the mission, not the gun levied at her skull, not falling in love with him, none of it. The day she wakes up is the first day of her existence.

It’s not a question of who will care for her. The whole team ensures Fix is well taken care of during her recovery, but in private they grieve the loss of a friend, of their medic, of their sister. They spend time with her in her hospital room, earning her friendship and trust as if for the first time. Yet when they joke about memories Fix doesn’t have, she goes quiet, sad, eyes glassy as she tries to remember- and fails.

Eventually Fix is discharged. Simon takes her home, helps her learn to live a civilian life as best he can, knowing he himself was never a fit for it. She doesn’t return to the military. She can’t. She still has episodes from her brain injury, terrible headaches that leave her prone for days, the occasional seizure that has Simon so afraid he locks himself away in the bathroom and shakes. Yet they do the best they can, and eventually Fix is stable enough to mostly manage on her own, with the exception of a nurse that visits a few times a week.

It’s only then that Simon returns to the taskforce in order to hunt down the bastard who took his wife away from him. He doesn’t want to leave her, but channeling that anger, that fury about what was done to her into action is the only way he knows how to move forward. Simon becomes an absolute menace on the field, gets dragged into Price’s office more than once for the way he rips men apart with his bare hands. Yet it doesn’t stop him. He’s angry, scared, and the pure force of it has him succumbing to instincts he can’t find himself to be ashamed of.

He comes home to Fix, to his wife, and refuses to tell her the things he’s done. Once upon a time she would have understood, but that’s not the person she is anymore. She’s gentler now, somewhat fragile, will sometimes get a strange, distant look in her eyes if he makes the mistake of telling her anything about his work. He holds her to him in his bed and tries to tell himself he still deserves her.

Fix is lonely while he’s deployed, but tries to make the most of it. She joins community organizing, helps with fundraisers, goes to her doctors appointments and make friends. Her greatest distraction while Simon is gone is to sit in her usual seat at a cafe and read her own collection of books she doesn’t remember. The owners know her well, even if they do whisper about the strange scar on the side of her face while they think she doesn’t hear them.

Then, one day, a man sits across from her.

He has dark eyes, short hair, and his smile doesn’t seem entirely genuine as he asks her in a Russian accent: “Is this seat taken?”

“No.” She blinks, and smiles politely as the fellow sits. “But before you say anything else, I’m married.”

The man looks surprised at that, and oddly delighted. It’s an unexpected expression, and Fix tilts her head a little nervously at him.

“Do I know you?” She asks.

“Maybe in another life.” Makarov chuckles, and nods at her book. “Faulkner?”

“Yes.” She brightens. “Are you a bibliophile?”

“Of a sort.” He responds, eyeing her, looking for something she doesn’t understand before extending his hand. “Vladimir.” He offers, and Fix hesitantly accepts.

“Joan.” She tells him. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh trust me.” Says Makarov, eyes glimmering. “The pleasure is mine.”

#fic: snowblind #this isn't canon to the storyline it's just a fun idea #simon ghost riley x oc

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thewritingofamadwoman · 12 days

Text

A little snippet that came to mind, since all I’ve been thinking about for the past week and a half is this menace. Should I continue? Let me know what you think x

“Hey, there he is! Say hi to Translucent everybody!” Homelander said cheerfully, as he wrapped his arm around Translucent’s shoulders, effectively pulling him away from you. The invisible man smiled and waved out to the crowd.

“Hey Homelander,” he responded, smiling as the fans cheered and roared at seeing two of the most famous heroes of The Seven acting like the best friends they all assumed they were.

Homelander kept a smile on his face as he used his other hand to slap Translucent’s chest in what seemed to be a friendly gesture. But you knew otherwise. Homelander’s chuckle faded as leaned in.

“Hey, yeah, if I ever see you fucking look in her direction again I’ll burn a hole into your fucking skull. Indestructible skin, give me a fucking break,” Homelander’s smile widened as Translucent paled, a fake smile still plastered on his lips.

“What? Homelander I-“

“Uh-uh. Nope, you don’t get to fucking speak,” Homelander jostled the invisible man closer to him, still smiling. “This guy, huh?” He called out onto the crowd, his canines glistening as they caught the sunlight. The fans ate the interaction up, cheering louder.

“I won’t repeat myself, you fucking pervert. Look at her like that again and I’ll kill you,” he promised. With one last laugh and shake, Homelander let the invisible man go and waved out to the crowd as everyone roared even louder than before. Translucent turned back to his line of fans waiting to take a picture while Homelander made his way over to you, his smile never faltering. You were bent over, leaning down to take a picture with a little girl who showed up to the event dressed as you. Homelander smiled politely at the girls parents and “humbly” refused their praise as they thanked him for keeping the city safe.

“No, please. You guys are the real heroes. We just wear the suits.” He nodded graciously and you smirk up at him as they leave.

“For someone who just threatened to kill one of our team members, you’re awfully cheerful,” you teased. Homelander playfully rolled his eyes at you, his hands poised behind his back in his signature pose.

“That ungrateful little fuck needs to learn to keep his eyes off of things that aren’t his,” he shrugged, giving a tight smile to another on looker who called out his name and waved.

“Oh is that so? And what exactly was he looking at ‘that wasn’t his’?” You joked sincerely as you smiled out into the crowd again and they chanted your name. Homelander looked down at you again, this time his voice almost as sincere as yours.

“You,” he replied and you laughed, not catching onto his change in tone.

“And pray tell, to whom do I belong to then?” You sassed, and turned to look him in the eye ruefully. Homelander’s gaze was focused solely onto your eyes and your smile faltered slightly at his semi-serious expression.

“Me. Duh.”

#homelander x reader #homelander x fem!reader #homelander x oc #homelander fic #this is probably trash and I’ll never write him again but I had to get it out of my system #when I tell you I fleshed out an entire OC for this only for it to stay in the drafts cuz lol what is self confidence

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nervousd · 1 year

Text

Chapter One — Reminiscence

→ Infatuation | m.list

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

#SYNOPSIS— Recom! Miles remembers his infatuation for you

#WARNING(S)— This is a dark fic, possessive behavior, unhealthy obsession, abuse of power, dark quaritch, yandere, implications of noncon/dubcon, stalking, creepy behavior

#CHARACTER(S)— Colonel miles quaritch, Reom! Miles Quaritch

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

After conducting a briefing with his new team and outlining the goals and the pressing necessity of hunting and killing Jake Sully. Miles was summoned by General Ardmore, she informed him of the imperative need to colonize Pandora and ‘ pacify ‘ the na’vi; since earth was now deemed to be virtually uninhabitable. She than showed him clips from recent attacks to previous years of footage before he was woken up. They were well planned out attacks against the RDA led by Jake Sully ❝ Now Colonel I understand you were given a second task. Quaritch— had pulled rank to get what he wanted. Even in death, his commands are being followed— that’s hell of motivation if you ask me. I’m hoping you give that same energy to Sully ❞

❝ I assure you General nothing will distract me from my priorities ❞ When the words rolled of his tongue he felt them dripping in the untruth. Jake sully wasn’t his priority— no even if he wanted to he couldn’t. There was an itch under his skin only you could calm. If he didn’t believe his own words than he wouldn’t put it past himself if the General didn’t believed him either. She scoffed, dismissing him until further notice of any new briefings.

Miles was left to his own dwellings, he spent most of his time reminiscing about the past— if he could call it his past. That wasn’t him— no he’s just a clone. A shell of the man before him. But even still he couldn’t help but desire to claim those memories as his. Memories that he spent with you— he wanted to experience it all with you. He wanted to see you for the first time, look at your eyes while you gaze at him with adoration, he wants to get to know you— he wants to call you his. These memories he has of you aren’t his, and it pains him to accept it. His heart ached, longing for you. At one point he regarded you as a thief, you have stolen everything from him. The heart in his chest, the air from his lungs and all his thoughts within his head— you have stolen everything he had to offer.

His eyes closed in sweet bliss of remembrance upon his predecessor first meeting with you. It was a memory he couldn’t help but often think about.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

❝ You’re not in Kansas anymore, you’re on Pandora ladies and gentlemen. Respect that fact, every second of every day ❞ His boots made a menacing clicking sound as they hit the ground. His gestures and precise movements made him intimidating— the scar that ran through his skull only amplified to his demeanor ❝ If there is a hell you might wanna go there for some r&r after a tour on Pandora. Out there, beyond that fence, every living thing that crawls, flies, or squats in the mud wants to kill you and eat your eyes for juejuebees. ❞

❝ We have an indigenous population of humanoids called the ‘ Na’vi ‘ There fond of arrows dipped in a neurotoxin that’ll stop your heart in one minute— they have bones reinforced with naturally occurring carbon fiber. They are very hard to kill ❞ He turned around slowly facing all the new recruits, walking down the aisle; he continued on with his speech ❝As head of security, it is my job to keep you alive. I will not succeed, not with all of you. If you wish to survive, you need to cultivate a strong mental attitude. You’ve got to obey the rules, Pandora rules ❞

His steps halted, his eyes locked with yours. You peered up at him batting your eyelashes ❝ You’ve got all of that sweetheart? ❞ His eyes trailed down your throat seeing the harsh swallow, a sly grin curved up the corner of his lips. A shiver coursed through his spine as he gazed down at you expectingly. You kept your mouth shut, nodding instead. He arched a wrinkled eyebrow, ❝ I want words sweetheart ❞

❝ Yes— sir ❞ Quaritch nearly folded, your voice sounded sensual and smooth— a velvety whisper. His blue eyes gleamed, ❝ atta girl ❞ He turned back around, ❝ Rule number One— ❞

→ Tag List

#dark miles #navi quaritch x reader #recom miles #yandere #dark #dark colonel miles quaritch #recom colonel miles quaritch #yandere quaritch #miles Quaritch #colonel miles #colonel quaritch #x reader #dark miles quaritch #avatar #avatar the way of water #yandere avatar the way of water

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d34dg1rl5 · 2 months

Note

Yellow! I’ma back! 🤣

You mentioned getting into Cod and liking Konig and Ghost! I’m starting to love ghost but I adore Konig.

Do you think you could do something for both (specifically Konig though) of these giants (and anyone else you wanna link up in here)? 😆

I don’t care how but I was thinking something like:

Through work the boys have always had their eyes on (you/us/the person 😂) making sure that (I think it’d be funny if the person was a girl but I think it’d be funnier if they were a guy now that I think about it) they are fine, they’re just so tiny compared to them it’s honestly kind of funny.

But here’s the kicker for my stupid mind: This tiny little person they’ve been keeping an eye on is a literal baddie! They’re funny to watch because off work they’re seen as a sweet little thing you wouldn’t expect could hurt a fly but then they hit the grounds of their mission and they re absolutely feral, a menace that completely destroys the image that everyone had of them.

I think it’s an absolutely hilarious thought but if you don’t want to do it I understand, and make sure to take care of yourself and have a good day!

Oh boy this is interesting 😏😎

💀 As soon as you enter Taskforce 141 he has an eye on you. Because. You're so tiny?? He doesn't think you'll be able to handle yourself on the battle field!

💀 He always sticks around and near you whenever you're on a mission. He doesn't want a team member to die! He also instructs you a lot on stuff you already know how to do?

💀 "So all you need to do is to keep quiet and catch the enemy when they least expect it. A nice cut to the throat-" "Yeah, I know?" He gives you a stare but stops.

💀 One particular mission went bad. Ghost wasn't careful enough and is sitting against a wall with a wound on his stomach.

💀 Suddenly you turn around the corner and kneel in front of him looking at his wound. "Ghost, can you walk?" "Yeah. I endured worse."

💀 Just as you try to help him up Ghost yells. "Watch out!!" An enemy turned up behind you - and he was twice as tall as you.

💀 With a swift motion you take out your knife and stab it into the guys neck, sending two kicks to his stomach. The guy falls to the ground gurgling. You take the knife out of his neck and plunge it into his skull, the enemy being dead immediately.

💀 You turn around and look at Ghost. You don't see it but a proud grin is plastered on his face. "Good job."

👑 He feels the need to protect you. You're a small and fragile princess in his eyes. You're not supposed to be in the military..!

👑 He hates to see you go on dangerous missions, you shouldn't let your life be like... This. You should be somewhere more peaceful, live a happy life with a lot of friends!

👑 One day you got assigned to go on a mission with him. You had to find out about the an enemy, who was seen to have smuggled a suspicious package.

👑 König decided to go first. "You stay here, verstanden?"

👑 Of course you wouldn't stay here. Duh?? You follow him and suddenly he got ambushed by a guy with a gun. He holds the gun to Königs head but this guy didn't see you!

👑 You push the guy to the ground grabbing his arm and breaking it. He screams in pain and the blood splatters in your face. His bone is standing up and the man whimpers in pain.

👑 König looks at you and hands you his gun. You take it and put a bullet through the guys head. Then you turn to face König. "Are you alright?"

👑 König nods. "Yeah... Danke... You saved my life." You smile slightly. "I am your team mate, I won't let you die. Not on my watch. C'mon, let's finish this mission!"

#headcanons #imagine #x reader #konig call of duty #call of duty #könig call of duty #call of dooty #cod ghost x reader #cod mw2 #könig cod #cod #konig cod #ghost cod #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #modern warfare

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stinkylittleanon · 1 year

Note

Can I request Guzman with a stoic s/o? (Preferably male) Guzman already looks menacing and behind him is his tall Boyfriend who looks even scarier. S/o also loves bug type pokemon :)

Its doesn't have to be a full story just silly little head canons or scenarios.

YES!!! YES I CAN DO THIS!!! Kicking my feetsies bc this is (from what I remember) my first male reader request >:))))

Guzma w/ Stoic Male S/O!

First of all, no one has ANY clue how you two got together, it was like- A miracle!

At first, Guzma didn't like you very much. Something about your stoic behavior pissed him off and just made him assume you were like all those other people who thought they were better than everyone else

But actually, something ended up changing that. Something that's only between the two of you.

One day, Guzma stumbled upon you on one of the more hidden beaches. You were on a rock, sitting casually with... Wimpod??

Why were they not running from you? And how did you have so many around you?

"What is he doing..."

Guzma muttered to himself, squinting at you. You seemed to have a wimpod on your lap, and somethin' was goin' on...

So he made his way over, hands stuffed in his pockets. His presence, of course, scared off the small pokemon that surrounded you. Yet you still didn't look up.

"What're ya doin', jackass?"

Erm... He doesn't have the most family-friendly language, but anyways!

The wimpod on your lap started to freak out now that someone else was here, but you were quick to hold onto it.

Guzma couldn't help the way his heart stopped (in a positive way) as you quietly shushed the Wimpod and comforted it...

"Shhh..." It was a simple noise that calmed the creature down as you stroked its back, holding it close to you.

"It's injured." Was all you said once the Wimpod was calmed.

Since that day, he didn't really see you the same. And slowly but surely, he started letting you hang around his town, y'know?

When Guzma was teased about it by some Grunts, he was just

"Psh! As if I would warm up to that guy!"

And then suddenly you guys just?? Kissed?? In front of everyone

Well more like you casually walked up to Guzma, gave him a big ol' smooch, and acted like nothing happened

That's basically how everyone found out you two got together

And when you join Team Skull?!?!

Guzma can't see enough of his boyfriend in the uniform- He's fuckin' awooga mode when he sees you try it on for the first time

Immediately you're an admin, and he knows he can trust you

You're around him more than Plumeria is, and that's sayin' somethin'

You guys are literally like- Scary dog privileges for each other

If someone isn't intimidated by one of you, then they're intimidated by the other

You tend to walk behind Guzma, and I imagine Guzma to be a good 5'9-6'0, so you're... You're very tall

Tall boyfriend x Medium boyfriend

ALSO BUG TYPE BOYFRIENDS BUG TYPE BOYFRIENDS

Rest your elbow on Guzma's head

It'll get him pissed, yeah, but he's still flustered

Something about seeing someone taller than him,,,, :flushed:

You always manage to get Guzma worked up, whether he's flustered or angered (in a lighthearted way), and then just stare at him with that damn expression

He knows you're doing it on purpose!! STop that!! Actually don't

Sometimes he'll catch you off guard though

A good ol' smack on the ass (only if you're comfortable with it) is somethin' he'll do sometimes (again, only consensual)

Or when he's frustrated enough, he'll grab your shirt and force you down to his height

The first time he did this... You almost fell over, but it got the both of you flustered because your faces got really close

Behind closed doors, though, he's like a puppy looking for affection

And seeing your expression soften when you two are alone... <3333

He's fuckin' in love with you, and he's always reminded when he's alone with you

PDA isn't something Guzma is too big on, he'll wrap an arm around your waist but only if you're comfy

Your stoic nature still frustrates him sometimes, but that's him getting over some o' that good ol' trauma

Also sometimes, when Guzma will tell you (not ask, tell you-) to kiss him

You'll go "No." without any fuckin' emotion

But at the same time you're leaning down and givin' him a kiss

Bonus:

Things Guzma will say about you/to you

"That's my man!"

"He needs to get that stick out o' his ass!" (And then he goes on about how hot you are)

"Goddamn- Fuckin- Hot bastard son o' a bitch- Fuck you!"

#pokemon #pokemon usum #pokemon sm #pokemon guzma #guzma x reader #guzma x male reader #guzma x male s/o #I tried

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redesigningxmen · 20 days

Text

REDESIGNING MAGIK

Welcome to Limbo! Our group chose Illyana Rasputina, the marvelous Magik for this round! Introduced as the younger sister of Colossus, Magik joined the 80s New Mutants team as a young teen and has since flourished into an A-Lister in her own right. She's been a member of the Phoenix Five, Cyclops' renegade X-Men squad, the Krakoan New Mutants, and the 2022 X-Men team.

She has several inspiration points for artists and redesigners to pull from. She's most well-known for her all-black 2012 look but has also sported demonic and fantasy influences as someone connected to the hellish Limbo and her malevolent alter ego, the Darkchylde.

See what our enthusiastic and talented team of artists did this round, and make sure to follow them on social media for more fantastic art!

(The handles presented after artists names are their Twitter handles, but many use the same name on other platforms!)

Léa Dupic | @/kimodraw

"I went full speed ahead into medieval land and dressed Illyana in a full metal shiny armour, putting emphasis on her sword bearing arm with a biiiig spiky shoulder pad. Gave her a punk lesbian haircut while keeping her iconic bangs, because I think she should be allowed to be more of a punk lesbian. And I couldn't resist adding a touch of demon form with the horns. She's gloomy she's menacing she's spiky and shiny she's the girl of my dreams."

Giovanni Saroldi | @/RaulGiova

"Just like matter, let’s give ‘Yana three states! Solid, liquid, gas? Kinda, not quite! From angelic to demonic, with her main form being the in-between totality of herself, where she can draw whichever power she needs.

It’s geometric, it’s chic, it’s retro-futuristic Terry Moore with the Horns of Galaxy The Prettiest Star meets Ludmilla from Bartok mid-transformation."

John Caden | @/johncaden64

"I've always felt the Bachalo design was great, but could get very male-gazey. I tried to make it more comfortable, while also keeping the same goth feel. I do feel she needs to just go all-in goth, so let's shave her head, get some thick black mascara and commit to the bit! "

John Marsh | @/pastelrake

"What if Illyana had been a Russian figure skater?"

Joe Pryde | @/joeprydecosplay

"My inspiration for this design came from the idea of ��what if Magik was an elder emo” complete with Kristen Stewart fem mullet, high waist buckled tights, and sleeveless crop top hoodie. I also wanted to pay homage to previous designs."

Haydn | @/ThatsSoHaydn

"I had but one simple thought: What if the Soul Sword was a rapier? And thus fencing Magik was born. I wanted the geometric shapes of the dark bodysuit to contrast with the curves of the golden armor, whilst still adding a little magic and mystery with her cloak and mask. "

Dale Yaddow | @/DaleYaddow

Version 1 "The Savage Magik". Having been stripped of her magical knowledge, Illyana Rasputin hunts down various enchanted artifacts to replace what she's lost. Becoming desperate she seems to be willing to steal and sometimes kill to get these talismans. Among these are the Soul Dagger of Pixie, the medallion of Daimon Hellstrom, Holy bands from "Heven" and a cursed skull from an alternate version of Lockheed.

Version 2 "Mistress Magik" This is an older more seductive Magik that's been corrupted by the influence of Selene and embraced her sensuality, opening up a whole new avenue of mystical arts that she hadn't dared explore before. She now uses her SoulSword to capture the essences of her foes and much like Selene feeds on them keeping her young and vital.

Version 3 "Magik, Queen of Hell" Many questioned the logic of Magik giving Limbo to Madelyne Prior but the end game has been revealed. Illyana allowed Madelyne to tether her magic to Limbo, knowing eventually "Maddie" would get greedy and begin bringing more power to that dimension. With a carefully hidden clause in the Limbo transference spell Magik takes back Limbo and all the power within it and successfully overthrows all the Hell Lords, unifying the many dreaded dimensions under one fearsome rule, hers.

Anthony Ruiz | @/thwwipstickers

"Almost as soon as Magik was decided on for this design challenges I had two ideas strike me simultaneously ... The first of those ideas was the image of Illyana as a 90's Riot(ish) on the cover of a Magazine. I wanted to give her an edgy grungy vibe but still pay homage to her Demonic nature.

Shortly after Finishing my first Design I just knew I had to make my second idea come to life.

What if Illyana was an Anime Mech Pilot and Wore a Plugsuit... thats it... thats the idea. I really wanted to strike the Balance between Anime Plugsuit but still being noticeably Magik and X-men.

I kept the Bright yellow Color scheme with hints of black and red and chose to interpret her Armored arm into a Mechanized oversize cybernetic arm that helps fuel her Plasma Powered Soul sword that springs forth from her Gauntlet."

Isaiah Cox | @/isaiahbeenlost

"When designing my Magik look, I wanted to expand on ideas I had when drawing her a couple years ago by keeping her look sleek, yet scary stylish! So, I referenced a lot of Castlevania and Yoshiaki Kawajiri designs to get that cool anime look for her down! I plucked some fashion inspirations for the costume from places like: Mugler, Alexander McQueen, LaQuan Smith, JRPG rogues and medieval accessories! And for her new soul sword, I decided to give her an Odachi because since she already lived her Cloud Strife fantasy starting from the Bendis-era, I thought it was time for her to live her Sephiroth moment with this giant Japanese sword!"

David J Hughes | @/0ddeity

"I think with Magik I started out pretty traditional for her. Then I got to thinking our Russian Queen deserves a Mugler-esque fit. I wanted to go down the knight or warrior route, but then I thought ‘What If’ this was an AU Illyana raised by Patch and she got all of Logan’s training rather than Kitty and Jubilee, or, alongside them. So, bham, Oni-demon menpo mask and samurai elements on top of the Mugler flair."

Fleshmonk | @/fleshmonk

"Went through a bunch of design iterations, but settled on this cool plasticky vinyl plugsuit like version of Magik. I gave her a bob to mature her a bit and to move her towards a new silhouette."

Joshua Bruckner | @/joshingtonbear

"I took a bit from Magik's more armored designs, which I've always liked the most, and her goth jock aesthetic, and blended them. I rejected the Bachalo booty shorts in favor of a skirt, which gives her a bit of a 'cheerleader from hell' look."

Seye Sanyaolu | @/seye_art

"My intention for this redesign was Magik in a very dystopian future and so I imagined a 3/4 darkchylde Illyana that is in control of her self and powers (although almost lost it). In this future, most of the X-Men are gone and Illyana keeps a worn and frayed X-jacket on for the nostalgia :’)"

#Magik #Illyana Rasputina #Darkchylde #X-Men #X-Men Redesign #X-Men Redesign Project #Marvel #Fanart #X-Men Fanart #Illustration #Character Design #Character Redesign #Superhero Redesign #Krakoa

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rascalxoxo · 1 year

Text

Unspoken Love | Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Summary: So many things are left unsaid between you and the Lieutenant, but one way or another they’ll come out.

Warnings: Angst, cursing, SMUT, fluff, smoking, injuries, violence, ghost being hostile at times

Word Count: 1.3K (Its a long one, i’m sorry 😭)

A/N: This was a request by anonymous that is attached on the original post on my main blog @rascal-xo :) Thank you for requesting!

For a soldier, love is war.

For Simon Riley, love is you. It’s the way you look at him in the plane when he’s giving orders, the way you accidentally kick his boot under the table during a meeting, without even realizing it.

For Simon, love is the way sunlight filters through the windows and casts a warm glow on your face. But Simon Riley is the man underneath the skull balaclava, the man you don’t know.

You know Ghost. Ghost whose name falls from your mouth like a prayer when his hands are tightly grasping onto your hips, hard enough to leave bruises as you ride him, chasing after the coil that begins to form in your stomach, as you cry out for him while his cock slams into your, causing you to deathly grip the duvet.

Ghost is who you glance at only when you have to during briefings. But Simon Riley, the man behind the mask, the man who watches you from across the room, with a yearning in his eyes that you don’t see, are eyes you look into when Ghost tells you “We can’t go farther than this.” And you agree, pushing down your feelings you almost had, knowing it probably wouldn’t work out anyway.

That’s what you tell yourself when you lay in his arms with a leg over his stomach, as his fingers run gently through your hair. All the while so many words go unspoken from underneath the skull mask.

In the moment it only seems like a task, maybe even a ploy you think, to keep you coming back to each other for more release. But again, that’s what you tell yourself, because it probably wouldn’t work out anyway.

As the weeks go by, the tension between you and Ghost is practically yelling for no strings attached. It’s what you repeat in your head as you find yourself at his bedroom door during the ungodly hours of night, after the others have long gone elsewhere.

But when a new member is recruited to 141, the rules begin to change. You meet Konïg. The soldier in the sniper hood and the reaper build that are no match for the kind and soft voice soul underneath. You end up working together on multiple missions, learning each others crafts.

You find yourself no longer aching to find your release, but unbeknownst to you Ghost has found a reason to push you away, when all Simon underneath is wants you to himself, to feel the way you feel tucked in his arms. He finds himself doing the worst. Telling Price you’re not in the right state of mind to be fighting leads you to find yourself at his door again, but this time making yourself known.

“You took me off of the fucking mission!?” You yell, not wanting to but feeling the need to. Knowing whatever it is has nothing to do with your performance in the field.

“You’re a liability, Sergeant.“ he says, his voice low and menacing. "You let your emotions get in the way of your judgment, and thats get you or your teammates killed.” You bristle at his words, feeling the anger and hurt rising within you.

“You had no right to bring my job into your hands.” you shoot back. Ghost walks closer up, towering over you with his intimidating. “It’s not up for debate. That’s a direct order.” he says, and for the first time you can see his eyes blazing with intensity. You can see Simon.

After a few more weeks, the late night visits become a distant memory. As you come in the pub with the team after a victorious mission, Konïg finds his seat next to you. “Look what I found, Schön.” (Beauty) He calls you, capturing your attention. It’s one of the many endearments you hear from him as you two get closer, and Ghost drifts away farther.

He listens to the conversation, only sitting a few seats away next to Soap. He doesn’t want to but he does, only hurting himself more. His knuckles turn white around the class of liquor, seeing the way Konïg makes you smile.

Did Konïg see you the way he did? Simon thinks to himself under the mask. Did Konïg fuck you like he did?

His blood boils at the sight of his hand resting on your arm, playfully. Ghost finishes his drink, but Simon is the one who leaves the pub without saying a word, beginning to resent himself for not telling you what you are to him when he had the chance.

A week later, you’re back in the field with Ghost and the rest of the team, determined to prove to him that you belong. The mission is a covert operation to take out a high-value target, and everything is going smoothly at first.

But then, as you’re moving through the enemy stronghold, a hostile sneaks up on you from behind. You don’t see him coming, but Ghost does. Without hesitation, he pushes you to the ground and in a flash the bullet hits him in the one spot his vest doesn’t cover. “GHOST NO!”

In a haste attempt you cover against the remaining hostiles in your zone quickly getting on the radio,

“This is Delta 6-2, Ghost is shot, I repeat we need Evac NOW.” telling your team over the comms confirms your worst fear; Losing him. You’re rushing towards the extraction point, heart pounding not sure what to think, how to think. It all becomes a blur.

Blood stains your clothes as you realize you have been badly cut. Medics take you away as soon as you step foot on base, not even getting a chance to see him. The thought of him dead almost eats you alive.

You spent the a day waiting anxiously for news about his condition. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you received word from Captain Price that he had made it through surgery and was stable back at base.

You were discharged from the med bay the next day, and as soon as you were able to, you made your way to a place you knew too well. Without even bothering to knock, you pushed open the door and walked in. And there he was, sitting at the edge of his bed with his back facing you.

He instantly turns around, causing you to stop dead in your tracks. “Simon…” For a moment, you were frozen in place. The stone cold man you had been so intimate with, the man you had shared so many nights with only to avoid in the mornings, is now right in front of you, exposed and vulnerable. He puts out the cigarette between his fingers, on the ashtray next to him.

His eyes are full of emotion you can so clearly see looking right back at you. “I thought you died.” Your voice breaks, as you try to compose yourself, but it’s no use, the tears now falling from your face.

“How could you put yourself in that position? You could’ve died!” You started, moving closer. You can resent me all you want Lieutenant but-“

“I love you.” The world ceases to move. You’re stunned, unsure of how to respond. All the words you’d been too afraid to say, all the feelings you’d been too afraid to reveal, are suddenly laid out in front of you. And now, standing before you, is the the man who had been there all along.

You had finally come face to face with the man underneath the mask. “I’ve loved you since the day we met, Y/N. I’ve loved you through every mission, every bullet we’ve dodged.” You forget how to simply breathe. “Everytime you have walked through that door, I have loved you. And I cant stop.”

Without another thought, he takes takes your face in his hands, his bruised knuckles gently on your skin, as you meet his lips. His lips are soft and tender, yet urgent and passionate. It’s a kiss that conveys all the unsaid words and phrases.

As you pull away, he look into your eyes, searching for any hint of doubt or hesitation, but instead he sees the very same love looking right back.

For a soldier, love is war.

For Simon Riley, love is you.

A/N: This is a repost from my main blog @rascal-xo

If you have any suggestions and or requests, send them to this blog for the time being :))

#call of duty #modern warfare two #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #konig call of duty #simon riley x oc #cod mw ghost #mw2 2022 #modern warfare x you #konig x reader #mw2 fanfic #ghost modern warfare #task 141 #141 x reader #ghost riley

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onebizarrekai · 8 days

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oh! that's a good one. general curiosity, do you make playlists for projects? on the topic of songs and ibvs, are there any specific artists and/or genres you associate with ibvs? do you have any song associations for specific characters?

this ask is from 2021… looks like we're doing this now… whoops…

so what usually ends up happening is that I make a playlist afterwards rather than before. I don't think I've made a project or fandom playlist since 2021-22ish, but back when I did, I would just kinda throw em together, not necessarily for inspiration, but just for fun. I don't have a full playlist I'd consider updated and complete anymore, here are a handful of songs I associate with ibvs a while ago: high dive by shaed is the honorary intro music young and menace by fall out boy sugar honey ice & tea by bring me the horizon don't go outside by poppy the judge by twenty one pilots everything is fine by all time low just pretend by bad omens suffer by get scared giants by imagine dragons

most of the time I end up associating whatever I listen to the most with whatever I'm currently creating. so, only some of these songs are ones I listen to all the time, so whatever works works.

meanwhile, more accurately, I tend to associate ibvs with video game music. it kinda takes the edginess factor out of it, which I prefer honestly. offline I make a lot of jokes about ibvs being a kingdom hearts style game, so all the boss music in those games make me think of ibvs now. nintendo music, sonic music, orchestra mixes, any music that sounds like it'd play in the bg of whatever felix is scheming (read: team skull theme from pokemon mystery dungeon), metal gear rising music, silvagunner mixes, that's where my brain goes a lot. for me, ibvs is a fake game at heart.

#ibvsasks

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