vilixxr

[vilixxr]

🍲🧼

#john soap mactavish #oh!! #soap cod #cod #ok!! 🫠

[vilixxr]

#bg3 #baldur's gate #baddie #karlach #so pretty #we’re getting married tmrw. come to my wedding

[vilixxr]

#bg3 #baldur's gate #bg3 wyll #mans looks like he’s going through it #anyway smash

[vilixxr]

Reminder that you can donate to the Pious Project Feminine Hygiene Kits for Gaza With the Asad Sisters, they donate hygiene products for Palestinian women

#free gaza #palestine aid #free palestine #gaza #palestine

[vilixxr]

NEED HELP WRITING? (a masterlist)

I have likely not added many that I've reblogged to this list. Please feel free to roam my blog and/or ask/message me to add something you'd like to see on this list!

Synonym Lists

Look by @writers-potion

Descriptors

Voices by @saraswritingtipps

Show, Don't Tell by @lyralit

Tips & Tricks

5 Tips for Creating Intimidating Antagonists by @writingwithfolklore

How To (Realistically) Make a Habit of Writing by @byoldervine

Let's Talk About Misdirection by @deception-united

Tips to Improve Character Voice by @tanaor

Stephen King's Top 20 Rules for Writers posted by @toocoolformedschool

Fun Things to Add to a Fight Scene (Hand to Hand Edition) by @illarian-rambling

Questions I Ask My Beta Readers by @burntoutdaydreamer

Skip Google for Research by @s-n-arly

Breaking Writing Rules Right: Don't Write Direct Dialogue by @septemberercfawkes

Databases/Resources

International Clothing

Advice/Uplifting

Too Ashamed of Writing To Write by @writingquestionsanswered

"Said" is Beautiful by @blue-eyed-author

#writing tips #writing #ahh needed this

[vilixxr]

Some of my favorite words and phrases to describe a character in pain

coiling (up in a ball, in on themselves, against something, etc)

panting (there’s a slew of adjectives you can put after this, my favorites are shakily, weakly, etc)

keeling over (synonyms are words like collapsing, which is equally as good but overused in media)

trembling/shivering (additional adjectives could be violently, uncontrollably, etc)

sobbing (weeping is a synonym but i’ve never liked that word. also love using sob by itself, as a noun, like “he let out a quiet sob”)

whimpering (love hitting the wips with this word when a character is weak, especially when the pain is subsiding. also love using it for nightmares/attacks and things like that)

clinging (to someone or something, maybe even to themselves or their own clothes)

writhing/thrashing (maybe someone’s holding them down, or maybe they’re in bed alone)

crying (not actual tears. cry as in a shrill, sudden shout)

dazed (usually after the pain has subsided, or when adrenaline is still flowing)

wincing (probably overused but i love this word. synonym could be grimacing)

doubling-over (kinda close to keeling over but they don’t actually hit the ground, just kinda fold in on themselves)

heaving (i like to use it for describing the way someone’s breathing, ex. “heaving breaths” but can also be used for the nasty stuff like dry heaving or vomiting)

gasping/sucking/drawing in a breath (or any other words and phrases that mean a sharp intake of breath, that shite is gold)

murmuring/muttering/whispering (or other quiet forms of speaking after enduring intense pain)

hiccuping/spluttering/sniffling (words that generally imply crying without saying crying. the word crying is used so much it kinda loses its appeal, that’s why i like to mix other words like these in)

stuttering (or other general terms that show an impaired ability to speak — when someone’s in intense pain, it gets hard to talk)

staggering/stumbling (there is a difference between pain that makes you not want to stand, and pain that makes it impossible to stand. explore that!)

recoiling/shrinking away (from either the threat or someone trying to help)

pleading/begging (again, to the threat, someone trying to help, or just begging the pain to stop)

Feel free to add your favorites or most used in the comments/reblogs!

[vilixxr]

Genocide before our eyes, and we can do nothing but depend on leaders who are proven to be useless and heartless 💔

#it is not war #it is genocide #palestine #free gaza #gaza #free palestine

[vilixxr]

I remember so many people who head cannon (even in mlp, those wing boners) that any kind of avian character will flutter or flap their wings during sex.

That being said,

Having Gaz stretched out under you, his cock uselessly hanging down between his thighs as you trace his spine just to watch his wings unfurl in this steady stretch.

Watching those muscles tremble between his shoulders as tremors rock through his wings, those feathers practically shivering with every movement of your fingers buried so deep into him he swears your already rearranging his guts.

His back bent and ass up, giving room for his wings to spread out as you work him open. Those quiet moans getting louder as your free hand starts to gently thread through the feathers, this burning feeling consuming his gut.

When he's spilling over the sheets, those wings are splattered out in a way he can't remember doing. Listening to the quiet snickering behind him as you now lean down to whisper,

"So pretty all displayed out under me,"

It's almost funny how sensitive those down feathers of his are,

"Didnt even need to fuck you, your desperate enough for my fingers to do the trick."

[vilixxr]

Male!Reader: can you recommend me books that made you cry?

Gaz (sitting on the sofa and nodding with a sad expression): mathematics

[vilixxr]

Drilling the new recruits and Johnny watches with a dick so hard it hurts, wishing he was the one you were yelling at 😮‍💨

Warnings: afab! fem reader, masturbation, kinda voyeurism??

He quietly whimpers to himself when he watches you make a recruit drop to your feet to do pushups then place your boot on his shoulder to push him down further.

You’d scream at one for making a joke about how the drill sergeant is a woman and you’d stand right up in front of him to intimidate as you yell at him to ask him to step forward and he does so with a laugh thinking he’s got the upper hand.

“You don’t think you need this training rookie? Ok then. Show me. If you can pin me then you’re exempt.” You say, being dead serious because you know he’s not gonna win.

And being the cocky dumb shrimp of a man he is, he tries, and fails miserably.

He goes to swing a punch and in seconds you have him down, hands between his shoulder blades.

Johnny watches with his pupils taking up nearly all of his irises and has to cross his hands in front of him until he can “take care” of it later.

That night he imagined him being the foolish recruit you were yelling at and came so hard he shot cum up onto his chest while whimpering out what he’d say to you.

“Mmph- yes ma’am, fuck, I- make me your toy.” He says while roughly fisting his cock and rocking his hips up into his hand with nothing but his tac pants on and open.

He cums with his eyes half lidded and unfocused with his cheeks a bright pretty pink and he’s never looked so fucking whorish oh my god.

If only he knew how thin the walls were in the barracks, and how deep your fingers were in your cunt listening to him…

#soap cod #cod mw #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #oh #🫠 #i didnt know i absolutely needed this

[vilixxr]

cw: gn!reader, blowjob, angst, one sided love, worshipping, unedited (🫠)

mdni.

I can’t get this thought written out in the way that I like, but I still imagine a Simon that could never love you.

Him, the lieutenant that runs between the lines that make someone a god, and you. You, the soldier who looks to him with almost desperate devotion.

You are nothing to him, really. You go out, ready to uselessly die for him. Be his shield, while he claims the victory that you had shot yourself. You do all that, and more, just for a sliver of praise. Maybe a “you did good” or even a silent, lazy nod in half acknowledgement.

Instead, you are nothing. A little soldier, a pawn for him to position and play on the field. He looks through you, and you’re cast aside for the next piece in the tray. No words exchanged. You look on to him, and he has already moved.

For months, that was how it simply was. You’d think you would move on, rid yourself of the terrifying loyalty that plagues your mind, yet you still silently beg for him to see you. Once.

And he does, at some point.

You notice it. Clear as day, like everything else you’ve noticed about him. He’s all pent up, so in need of something for release.

And, as his pawn, you remind him of your temporary use.

Days where he is especially desperate for release, you’re there to alleviate just a bit of pain. You set your hands along his muscular thighs, kiss them in a way that mimics worship.

You bow to him, head lowered to avoid catching his face, and wrap slow, careful fingers around his cock. You set a rhythm, made for someone you love, and he takes your hand in his, just to set it to his preference. A pace set for what you’re intended to do.

You suck him off, too. His cock, a dream that you can barely wrap your mouth around, draws in and out against your swollen lips. You circle your tongue around the tip of it, feeling the veins that bulge against his dick, and he lazily snaps at you for straying from his pace that he urges you to follow. Even still, you taste the cum that sits in the back of your throat, all hot and thick, and you swallow every drop. It’s his, what you could call the only gift that he’d give you. The world has blessed you, that day.

The immersion soon breaks, once he nudges your elbow. Another silent command, a nod toward the door. Once again, you aren’t his anymore, not matter what you tried to believe. He was a lieutenant, after all. Your lieutenant, your religion. And you were a soldier.

You lift yourself, avoiding the thighs that you’d kiss once more if you truly could, and move to slip through the small crack of his door.

wc: 482

#self rb #srry #i’m proud of this one <33

[vilixxr]

[vilixxr]

I love meet ugly scenarios so here is a list (some may or may not be based on personal experiences)- classic spilling a drink over someone, hitting someone in the eye with an umbrella, Simons on crutches for an injury and you accidentally knock them over/ kick one out from under him, hitting him while on a bike, smaking someone when gesturing too hard while talking

Enjoy the second hand embarrassment

I am taking that last one and RUNNING WITH IT OMG THANK YOU ANON FOR THE INSPO 😭😭😭

I might actually write another drabble using the crutches prompt because holy shit that sounds so fucking mortifying I love it—

Content warnings: barely there swearing, meet-ugly, second-hand embarrassment, no pronouns used for reader except for "you"

Tags: drabble, fluff, crack treated seriously, all around silly goofy, not beta-read

You've always been an enthusiastic talker. Your hands constantly are being used to convey the different emotions you feel as you rant about your day or tell a funny story to anyone willing to listen. Normally the hand and arm flailing isn't a problem since people see you first and promptly give you a wide berth to avoid getting smacked into next week. Normally.

It seems whatever higher being that watches over every life on Earth has gotten bored and wants to see some chaos unfold. Lucky you it has chosen your boisterous nature as a catalyst for future events.

The entertainment lounge has always been a place of casual chatter amongst you and your friends. The main TV mounted on the wall is tuned into the latest football game, with plenty fans watching attentively and cheering for their team. You turn your head in its direction every so often but aren't actively paying attention to it, moreso feeding your curiosity every time the small crowd in the room gets a little too loud.

No, your attention has been focused on getting your story out to your friend as coherently as possible, and that ultimately means your spacial awareness has lowered. So much so that you didn't notice a new body enter the area, and because of your seating being close to the main path that leads to the many couches facing the television, they needed to cross behind your seat and enter close proximity to your flailing limbs.

The back of your hand smacks painfully against hard muscle and you whip your head around to see what the hell just happened. The words on your tongue melted down into your throat as you craned your neck up to meet honeyed irises clouded in muted surprise. You might've caught some offense as well if your brain hadn't completely shut down.

You tried to utter an apology to the frankly intimidating wall of muscle in the shape of a man standing before you, but the words that seemed to flow from your mouth as you were sharing your story earlier has escaped you and become stagnant. He saves you from any more embarrassment by cutting off your pitiful attempts at salvation with a grumble:

"Bloody 'ell, watch the friendly fire, luv." And briskly strode past you over to the mini fridge near the gaming consoles to grab a lone beer before plopping down in an empty recliner. You observe how his broad chest deflates with an exhausted exhale as his muscles relax into the worn cushions, and his thighs naturally separate to fill his seat in a manspread. The bottle soon gets popped open with minimal effort and the man settles in to catch up on the game on screen.

All the while your hands stay frozen in the air, your palms sweaty and mouth open.

Not my best work but I'm happy to be writing again! Thank you for the excellent prompts, anon 🖤🌺

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost cod #cod simon ghost riley #cod #meet uglies my beloved #this is so cute ahh

[vilixxr]

simon's fave past time is seeing you ride his abs and thighs ITS CANON

you can expand on it if you want

the concept of riding abs has me going fucking nutty, THANKS VERY MUCH 🫶🏼

when it comes to pleasure, to older bf!simon, it’s entirely about you. he lives to serve in every sense of the word.

serve his country, serve his task force- serve you.

to him, his very existence is an answer to you.

the question being, ‘what do you need?’

that is to say that there isn’t a part of him that we wouldn’t willingly give up to you, all you had to do was ask- really, you didn’t even have to say a word.

he was already offering himself up on a silver fucking platter.

so, for simon, there’s no place he’d rather be than under you. for him to lay back, look up at you and see you eclipsing his sun.

he likes the way the bedroom light illuminates behind you like a saint, staring down at him like he’s your worshipper (he is).

it’d been lazy, half pressed to his chest as your legs tangled with his- making out in your bed like you were back in school.

simon’s perfect day.

you’d felt it digging into your stomach, he’d been hard from the moment you’d touched lips. as was his standard, there wasn’t a lot you could do that wouldn’t get him rock solid.

tongue in his mouth, spit on your chin, your hand had been sandwiched between the two of you as you stroked it through his shorts.

maybe it was because he was about to blow a load in his undies.

maybe it was because he could feel you rutting into his thigh.

whatever it was, it had him dragging you up his body and situating you on his abs. pulling his hoodie out of the way, you could feel the firm lines of his stomach beneath you.

“g’head, use me sweet’art”

so that’s what you did.

bottoms discarded, shirt hiked up so simon could have one hand play with your chest while the other held your waist. hips desperately rolling against his abs.

every time he tensed them, stomach going rigid so you could rub yourself against him- your eyes rolled back in your head.

“look s’pretty up there, made f’me”

something about the way he felt under you, maybe even the way he was gazing up at you like you were made of stars. it had your mouth running off without your brain.

just straight from the heart.

“yours, si- all yours”

you felt his grip on you tighten, pulling you down harder onto him- practically dragging you against him to draw more of those heady moans out of you.

this was where he was meant to be.

under you, serving you, offering up every inch of himself to you. ask him? he was the happiest man alive.

didn’t matter that he’d already cum in his shorts.

didn’t matter that he was already chubbing right back up.

didn’t matter that he could go crazy feeling you rutting against his skin.

as long as you looked this happy? sounded this sweet? felt this fucking good?

“take whatever y’need”

[vilixxr]

Sick <3

Zombie!Ghost x Survivor You ☢️🖤

Part 9: The plot thickens - MNDI, filthy smut, he’s very dead, but so are you without him…

You’re not sure what bizarre version of reality you’re currently existing in, but honestly, it’s pretty good.

You’ve been living in the little house with the swing in the yard, for nearly three weeks. It’s isolated enough, that predators rarely come by. When they do, you either hide or Ghost deals with them. His ferocity is unmatched now he has a home to protect. Now he has you.

He still won’t take his mask off. But that’s okay. His jaw has broken a few more times since, as he struggled to get words out, including once when you were trying to eat your dinner.

You nearly bought it all back up at the sight of that, but Ghost just chuckled darkly and then stumbled off to fix it while his shoulders shook with hoarse laughter.

Most nights are spent drawing in your note pad, or attempting to help Ghost speak. He’s tried writing, but his big fist has accidentally snapped two precious pencils, so you gave up with that, happy for now that he can tell you ‘yeah’, ‘nah’ and ‘please’. You’ve grown quite good at lip reading, listening to the hiss of sounds trying to escape him.

Si is probably the most content he’s ever been. If it wasn’t for the constant interference of the virus and the fact he’s dead, it would be heaven here with you.

Because it lingers in his consciousness, even though he’s fighting against it. The core of him is still Simon, the fundamental nature of a man who’s faced so much adversity, and won’t submit to the infection. But the breeding kink he’s developed via his condition is worse than ever.

As much as you’ve tried to convince yourself it won’t happen again, most nights he ends up with his fingers and/or tongue lost in your dripping pussy.

Simon craves it and you do too.

He always asks your permission first. A simple ‘please’ leaving those thin pale lips. It’s become a code word for your unnatural little ritual. You enjoy it so much, it’s sickening. More often than not these days you’re aggressively aroused. He’s pretty much the only thing, other than your own hand, that helps.

There’s a connection there, that goes deeper than the forbidden nature of your carnal relationship. A link has been forged between you, that’s impossible to deny. Something base and primal has grown in your body, blossoming into feelings you never anticipated you would have for anyone, let alone a dead man who against all odds is slowly reclaiming his humanity.

Si doesn’t feel pain, there isn’t much need for that stimuli. But he does feel the agony of arousal without a release. His thighs prickle with it. He still hasn’t sprung a boner though, so that’s one way to cockblock himself. The intensity of it is maddening.

Endlessly as he lies awake at night, your sleeping form draped over his chest, Simon fantasises about feeling you from the inside, how the heat of your body would make his soul sing.

You’re both like a fucked up married couple, Ghost prowls the fence line, you make the house comfortable then you both go to bed together. Even the coldness of his flesh is reassuring. He now wears jeans, dug out of a dusty cupboard by you. Thoroughly domesticated.

One typical evening, you while away the hours drawing little pictures. Ghost is staring out of a window, heightened vision allowing him to see out into the blackness.

“Do you like being called Ghost? Or do you prefer Simon?” You ask him without looking up, as it strikes you that you’ve never checked that with him before.

Shuffling over to you and stroking your cheek softly, he says croakily;

“Si.”

“Sorry I’ve been calling you Ghost all this time!” You gaze at him, feeling bad, your mouth forming a small round ‘oh’ of uncertainty.

He shakes his head and grunts.

“Si-only-yours.” He mouths, stitches creaking ominously. There’s a little rasping noise as he speaks.

It’s a very honest statement. The part of Si growing stronger within him, is unconditionally yours. Ghost lives under your thumb too, different sides of the same coin.

The latter is a growling, savage, overpowering presence. Wanting you close to him at all times, huffing when you try and roll away from him in bed. Whereas Simon Riley is the reason words now stagger off his tongue, the one who thinks about your comfort first and foremost.

The virus plays into this, exploiting the way he feels. Continually using it to try and manipulate him into killing for you so it can feed, or itching to create more duplicates of itself. He doesn’t know if that’s even possible, but the infection subdued in his mind seems convinced of it.

Later in bed, you shiver as familiar cold fingers start to play with the waistband of your pyjamas.

Ghost huffs, sliding one hand towards your cunt. It’s always so wet for him. Your hips buck up towards him and he smiles lopsidedly with happiness.

“Oh fuck that feels good Si!”

He lets out a low groan at the sound of his name in your mouth. His thighs are burning with need, aching dully in a way that makes him feel almost warm. So to distract himself, he slides two chilled digits inside your hot core.

The virus starts to clamour, swept up in the inferno of your body. Your moans are watched with startling intensity, every tiny hitch of breath observed by him like it’s something he can’t tear his eyes away from.

A calloused thumb pad rubs your sensitive, puffy clit relentlessly. Frost coloured eyes gaze hungrily down at you, squirming under his touch, your slick leaking all over his palm. You’re getting hotter still while Si tingles all over with a feral desire to plant himself between your legs, immovable and forced so deep inside you, no one could tear you apart.

“God yes Si! Don’t stop!” You cry, writhing with pleasure, eyes tight shut.

But his hand is slowing, rhythm lost. Eventually it comes to a full halt.

Surprised, you look over at him through the darkness. Misty eyes stare back at you, shocked and unnerved, then he takes hold of one of your hands and places it into his crotch.

He’s outrageously hard, cock pulsing with misleading signs of life, rigid like it’s made of ice and just as cold.

There’s a split second, where neither of you move a muscle. Then he’s rolling you on top of him, while you fumble with the flies of his old threadbare jeans.

It’s clumsy, urgent. Wildly you’re both rutting on each other, his pale length springs free of the dark material of his boxers, hastily dragged down his legs. The prettiest pink blush is creeping over his thighs, tiny freckles dotted on the formerly lifeless skin.

He drags your hips up to his and impales you on him without hesitation. You yelp, as the cold tip knocks against your scorching walls. He’s thick, burning your cunt as he plunges inside you desperately, grunts sounding increasingly pitiful reverberating through the still house.

His prick is leaking and so are you. Combined, it creates a small puddle on the blonde hair of his abdomen. He gives you a moment to adjust and himself a pause to be saturated in your radiant heat.

Two big hands close vice like on your thighs, then they rock you. You both moan in unison, his gravelly, broken voice meeting your soft one.

You grind down on him, wrapping his stiff, cool flesh tightly in the hottest embrace. He’s sure sex never felt this good when he was alive. It can’t have done. Or he would have done it all the time.

Panting, you fuck him almost as hard as he fucks you. It’s like he has a new lease of life, virile to the point of madness. Using the strength of those frozen muscles to pound up so fiercely into you, that you see stars.

You knew he was inhumanly quick and strong, but this is a different level. Your body is calling to him, begging him to put his seed inside you so that it takes. He’s swelling in your tight canal, making a bump appear in your belly, but you’re both too lost in the moment to notice.

A voice of caution tries to tell you not to let him cum inside, but a louder more guttural one shouts that he has to fill you up. Make you his entirely. You cry out, as he hits a velvet spot in your fevered core. It feels unbelievable, frighteningly good. Your eyes close again, unable to see straight, lost in the feel of his heaving torso under yours.

Unnaturally quickly, you’re both orgasming, grasping each other, calling out into the night, bellowing like animals in heat. His thick, potent release soothes the raw energy of your body and for the first time since the bite, you feel truly satiated.

When you go to move off him, he growls and tugs you down onto his chest. He can’t pull out yet, you’re so warm it’s addictive, making him feel more emotion than he ever has before, in life or un-death.

“Shit.” You sigh, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the smell of the summer grass clinging to his. frozen skin from a day spent wandering around. “Do you think that was a good idea?”

Cool palms rub your back soothingly, Simon is back in control again.

Or was he ever out of control?

After all, it was his name on your lips that made his cock ravenous.

Masterlist right here

@ashy-kit @cutiecusp @deadmarygolds @redbleedingrose @dustycrusty09 @darkangel4121 @smexysarah @cmbghost @silly-norman @sigrid666 @pxssygxblin @spicyspicyliving @itsyaboinoah @misshugs @mashpotat88 @blush-haze @kolpvii @sobbingnshtting @murder-hobo @nexthyperfix @chinaza444 @lolly145 @contractedcriteria @soapsmohawk-16 @just-a-sewer-goblin

[vilixxr]

pretty bird

king!john x gn!reader. mdni.

tags: infantilization a little, one sided love, misinterpretation, savior complex, smut, implied painful sex, anal, worshipping, mans is genuinely insane sorry

notes: john saves you, a bird of clipped wings, and gives you a world for you to rule. a cage put on display, for the kingdom to worship, with you sat in the middle. is that not what you’ve dreamt of?

wc: 835

Imagine John as a king, and you a ruler placed by his side. Born from gravel, taken in to have you drowned in gold.

His pretty bird, his treasure, his beautiful bird. His beauty that he loved with all his heart. More than you could ever fathom.

He loves you, he saves your soul from the creatures dipped in sin, and you never had the capacity to love him the same way. Your mind could never wrap around it, he realized. You could never try and pretend to reciprocate his type of love, where he believes in "till death do us part", while you'll settle for a simple (unsatisfying) "I love you".

You may try, however. Pathetically, you reach a little further, set your hands upon his chest, kiss him with tenderness that makes him chuckle. You fold your wings in, but not enough, just to make up for the love you can’t form.

Oh, pretty bird. There’s no need for you to try. You have no need to do anything, as he'll hold enough love for the both of you.

In the deepest part of the castle, he twists every limb, makes you a doll that fits his desires. He beams at how lovely you look, and the smile he receives in return is something that he'd hang up on the wall. A masterpiece, lopsided. Much more realistic than your plastic smile. It's so utterly human, and you gave him the privilege to view it himself. Overjoyed, it almost looks like anguish. You have no need to know anguish any longer.

For he keeps you safe, encased in the walls of his palace. Safe from what lurked on the outside. Diseased, riddled with infection, that he could not bear to let drip against your warm skin molded by gods above. Those creatures were of no use to have around, and who has he to leave you tortured by the venom they spit?

“My treasure, my sweet,” he coos, atop the throne he worships you in. His hands cup your face in silent revelation, his fingers gliding against the lobes of your ears. The way you try to look at him, catch his eye with that look that screams of beauty, he knows that you feel so much safer with him. Your home, stocked with the world at your disposal.

Oh, he was ecstatic over your happiness. The genuine grin you had shown, whilst covered in lavish robes that mimic the gold that others would only imagine.

It weighs heavy against your body, though he doesn’t mind. All the more reason for you to stay. Weighed down by gifts that he spoils you with, while you whine as if you were drowning. The golden thorns you adorn shimmers against the sunlight streaming through the windows, and he beams as tears, crusted in silver, pool along your eyelids. So happy, you are brought to tears. So, so pretty.

“John,” you sob, while he licks at your skin that glows. He picks at his doll, plucks every stone placed so delicately on your face, and you shiver what he thinks is pleasure. He’ll puncture the skin of your neck, bite and claim, almost as if he were some animal, poised and powerful. He spans a calloused hand down your back, as he yearns to meld with your body, treat you as if you were one.

In the midst of the night, his goals do not stray. The love he makes holds you still, arms tied by his hands, while he treats you as gently as he can. Folds you over as he sinks in, jointed limbs shivering in what he would call pleasure. Beauty, in its rawest form, where he is the only viewer of desire. He kisses you slowly, lips pressed delicately against yours. He wants to swallow you whole.

Love, he gives you. You may whine, and whimper, but it is still love that he gives you. Wraps you both in the prettiest bow that you could not see, while you tug at the hands pulling on your hips.

It's not fucking, the way he his cock forms an outline against your walls, fit just for him, but love in its truest form. He would insist, while he perches you atop him, drown in your whimpers and whines that create such a harmony with the way skin slaps against skin.

And when he finally cleanses you of the leftover sin you carry, you look absolutely gorgeous then, eyes blurry with tears and stomach painted in white. He moves to bring you the comfort you are due, though there's nothing he can do but smile. You let out a cry, another soft complaint of pain, and he smiles in return.

Sweet bird. Don't cry. He vows to fill your enclosure with satin clothes and burnished pearls. Anything for you, so long as you keep your wings folding underneath you. He knows, you wish to fly, yet the sacrifice of love is much more worth it, no?

praying i did king price justice 😭

#john price #price x reader #cod price #captain price #gn reader #tell me king!price wouldn’t have a savior complex #. . . fics

[vilixxr]

Simple Math / Part Thirteen

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Nurse!reader. Domestic slice of life. Feelings of fear, self loathing, anxiety, dread. Complicated emotions. Verbal depiction of domestic violence. Non sexual intimacy. Scars from cigarette burns. Very brief daddy kink. Sick character (not reader). Comfort. Confessions.

The park is quiet.

You hoped it would be- middle of the day, in the middle of a work week, in the middle of the city. There are a few people around, walking, running, lingering. Enjoying themselves, the warmth of the sun on their face, a bright spot amid a typically grey winter.

It makes it easier. To look.

To watch.

To wait.

And you do. You wait, and you wait. You sit steady on the park bench, pretending to be remotely interested in the rough paperback cradled in your lap, spine already cracked flimsy by Simon’s grip. It’s Stephen King. Carrie, if you’re precise. A story of stolen girlhood and rage.

You swallow the shards of glass and acid the pages bring forth.

Deep breath. 

The breeze gusts, and your shoulders nearly shake. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve sat out in the open like this.

Easy prey.

You may have always been easy prey. Easy and young and stupid, easy, and naïve and manipulated. You fell for every trick in the book. You didn’t see the signs until it was too late.

Still, you watch. You wait.

You considered, for a while, that if Philip was around, if he was in the city, looking for you- he’d arrive here. Like magic. Like a classic villain, materializing in a plume of smoke.

And while it’s not exactly comfort you feel as each minute ticks by and he fails to appear, there’s relief in your soul for certain.

It’s a risk, to sit here. A question. With an answer, for now.

Will he? Won’t he? 

Today, the answer is he won’t.

Your phone vibrates, and you don’t need to look at it to know, guilt worming its way into the depths of your heart, anxiety piquing as you imagine both Simon and Johnny at their house, their home, worried.

Don’t fool yourself. Don’t give yourself too much credit. Don’t get carried away. 

Someone clears their throat over the back of the bench, and you whirl.

“Hey, sorry.” Your pulse slows from a gallop to something slower, and you shake your head.

“You can’t sneak up on me like that.” The man shrugs his second apology, legs spreading into the spot next to you. You’re practiced at this, familiar. Knowledgeable enough to keep your hands from shaking, even though the tremor builds through your bones.

“Been waitin’ for you to call.”

“I’ve been busy.” You eye the black bag in his hands, a small black fabric pouch, gold zipper glinting in the sun. “That everything?” He nods.

“Can I ask-“

“No.”

“Just seems strange, is all. Pretty, polished thing like you, needin’ all this. Most of my clients are more… rough around the edges.” Your teeth dig into your tongue. Already, this guy is less discreet and more obnoxious than your last purveyor. You wish you had hidden your face.

Like Simon. 

“We’re solid, then?” You unzip the pouch, cursory eye roaming over the collection inside, checking off a mental list. Usually, you would feel relief at this point, but today, it sours and rots. Liberation burns into a roaring wave of uncertainty, and your fingers tighten over the zipper.

“We’re good.” He stands, giving you one last long look, and then his mouth shifts into a half smile. “Good luck.” Your polite nod is strained and forced. A nonverbal fuck off.

He takes the cue, and slinks away, disappearing around a corner and out of sight.

The bag weighs heavily in your hands. A terrible reminder of the truth.

You’ll never have a life. You’ll never have a family. You’ll always be alone. 

You’ll never be pretty or polished or perfect. 

You’ll always be this. 

Scarred. Sectioned off. Scared. 

Desperation wells, and you close your eyes. You see Johnny, and Simon. Their faces. Sunlight in bleak darkness.

Love and family and strength.

The ache in your chest widens. You want to be home, with them. Curled up, with them. Sitting at the table and eating dinner, with them. All these things, these domestic, familiar things that once seemed so unattainable, now within arm’s reach.

But still so far away. 

Your shoulders relax a fraction, dipping lower, the strain on your injury zinging through your muscles as you roll them, and you shove the little bag into the backpack, above the clothes you pulled from your apartment.

Deep breath. 

Johnny’s the first you see after locking the front door. He’s in the kitchen, half leaning on his crutch, fishing something out of a pot, a noodle of some kind, and he freezes, eyes heavy with relief, when you come around the corner.

“Bunny.” His good arm reaches, fingers brushing together, cold against warm. He coos. “Ye’re freezin’.”

“It’s cold.” You agree, unzipping the front of your jacket. He slides cautious and slow touch around your waist beneath it, and you go with him, face burrowing into his chest, just below his collarbone. Your nose is nearly smashed, but you can still breath him in, feel him, be in this moment with him.

His hold tightens. “What is it?”

“Sorry it took me so long.”

“That’s alright, was jus’ worried is all. Text us back next time.” You nod, but stay silent, still taking gulps of air, nosing against the collar of his shirt to find his skin. “Pretty girl,” his hand strokes over the back of your head, warm breath on your cheek. “Ye alright?” You breathe through the threat of tears, though they sting and threaten to sink you.

“Ye-yeah.” You choke, and he tries to pull back, grip steady on your upper arm, but you follow him, still trying to crawl inside and hide, wrap yourself up in him and disappear.

“Hey now,” he clucks his tongue, trying to re-focus you, trying to get your attention, nimble fingers cradling your jaw, “what is it?”

There are no words to explain it, these feelings. The fear. The dread. The bile rioting in your stomach, the anxiety churning like a turbulent sea. It’s like no matter what you do, it all comes back, no matter how deep you bury it or how much you try to change the tide.

It’s easier to lie.

“I’m tired.” You whisper, and he rubs your back.

“Did ye eat?” No.

“Yes. I got something at the hospital.”

“Paperwork all in order so ye can hang out wit’ us until ye’re better?” His smile is infectious, a mirror blooming across your own face, and he dots your nose with his lips. “There’s our girl.” Your toes curl. He tugs the backpack into his grip, and you let him, let him push you up into the counter, drop your bag to the floor, slip his tongue between his teeth. You let it all go to your head, let yourself get lost in him, twist your fingers in his hair, nipples pebbling stiff as his mouth finds the sensitive skin of your neck.

He takes it all away. Every time. 

“Johnny.”

“I’ve got ye.” He finds an opening, a soft spot between your jeans and your shirt, hands roaming upward and over, everywhere. He’s everywhere, effortlessly, and you’re along for the ride, clinging so tight like you’re afraid you’ll fall.

And then-

It stops.

He’s holding your face, blue gaze unwavering, focused. “Bun, talk to me.” Your throat throbs, words sticking like taffy, clawing their way up in a jumbled mess until the only thing intelligible is what spills out.  

“Is this real?” You’re a child. Small and scared, desperate for some sort of reassurance, some semblance of security.

“Is what real?” His fingers close over yours, lifting them to his lips. “This? Us?”

“Everything. All of it… I- I-“

“It’s real. It’s been real since ye held my hand the first time. Or at least, it’s been real for me… since then. Thought ye were an angel. An answer to a prayer.” He cracks a smile, thumb rubbing across the slope of your cheek. “An’ I’m not the praying type.”

“There’s… you don’t know me, Johnny. There’s so much… you don’t know.” Your chest heaves, anxiety stuttering inside your lungs, air turning thin in your mouth.

“I know, shhh. I know.” You press your face back into his chest, words slowing to a stop, a trickle. “Ye remind me of him, ye know. A lot prettier though.”

“Who?”

“Si.” He kisses your temple, your forehead, peeling away to peer at your face. “Guarded… but scared under it all. Ye dinnae even know how life can be, too busy runnin’ away.”

“Johnny-“

“Ye’ve got secrets, I know. But it’s the same thing I used to tell him. Eventually you’ve got to let go, let me in. Let us in, Bun. We’re not goin’ anywhere. We’re not afraid. Let us prove it.” Your lower lip trembles, eyes burning with the brunt of tears. “Shhh, dinnae cry. Ye’re alright, everything’s going to be okay. I swear it.” You do nothing, nothing except stand there, half folded into him, breath and touch agonizingly slow, steady in his hold.

The two of you stay there, in the silence, until the agonized sear of distress starts to fade, and you begin to balance, ship righting itself after a long night in rocky seas.

Penny’s bedroom door is open.

The soft glow of a nightlight floats into the hall, and you peer past, finding Simon with his arms full, reclined in the rocking chair, a nearly asleep Penny gap mouthed in his arms. You wave.

“Hi,” he whispers, “get everything you needed?”

“Yeah, all set.” You nod to the baby. “She’s knocked.”

“Bath time was rough.” He traces her cheek, twirling a finger in her hair. A soft, faultless picture, his features delicately framed by shadow, thick arms the perfect place for a baby, an easy cradle.

It’s an intimate moment, and inside it, you feel out of place.

“I’ll see you downstairs?” You shift away, motioning, and he hums.

“In a few.”

Everything is slow with them in the evenings, you’ve realized.

They move leisurely, dancing around one another, Simon constantly watching and waiting, for both you and Johnny, anticipating. It’s a natural role, one that seems more permanent over necessary considering the circumstances, Johnny falling into an unhurried pace, languishing on the couch after dinner and dishes are done, fingers mindlessly stroking into the soft spot beneath your ear. Simon leans over, kissing Johnny and then settling at your side, an arm stretching around your back. “Should we watch something?” Johnny brightens.

“A movie?”

“If you’d like. Bun, any suggestions?” You blink. It’s a surprise, one that’s never occurred to you, the ability to simply choose a movie.

“Umm… no?”

“What’s yer favorite?”

“I don’t know. Whatever is fine. What do you guys like?”

“We know what we like. We want to know what you like.” What do you like? Comedies, you suppose. Something light and funny, something to distract the never-ending stream of thoughts cycling through your head.

“Uh, have you guys ever seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall?” Johnny chuckles.

“It’s been a while.” He flicks through the icons on the screen, thumbing over to where he starts to type it in. What if they don’t like it? What if they’re humoring you? What if you picked wrong? “Or, if you don’t like that, we can do something else. Anything. I’m not picky. It doesn’t have to be-“

“Hey,” Simon murmurs, warm palm resting on your knee, “that’s perfect. We both like that one.”

“Dracula musical.” Johnny smiles, finding it easily and clicking play. Your breath catches at the ease of it all, of picking a movie and that being that, no anxiety about a reaction or something triggering popping up on screen.

You can just… enjoy it.

The light in their bathroom is a little too bright.

Your toes stretch across the tile, nerves thrashing in the pit of your stomach as you stare in the mirror.

You don’t know who it is looking back at you.

You don’t recognize the girl getting ready for bed, brushing her teeth, wearing a pair of pajama pants and Simon’s shirt.

There’s a disconnect, some semblance of wires crossing, some phantom of someone else, living in your skin.

Because it can’t be you, getting ready to crawl into bed between them. It can’t be you, who fell asleep with her head on Simon’s stomach during the movie, can’t be you who stole a kiss from Johnny as Simon propped his leg up on the stack of pillows.

You’re playing house. Playing a game. 

It won’t last. 

It can’t.

You wrap a finger up in the hem of Simon’s shirt, frayed and torn edges pulling apart below the seam. It’s an old one, something he tugged out of a drawer and tossed on the bed, faded graphic turned from white to grey against a rusted black backdrop. It’s soft, and worn, and comfortable, an article of clothing well loved, and you wonder if Johnny’s worn it too. If it’s been passed around, washed, and dried a hundred times.

“Everything alright?” Simon leans into the bathroom, Johnny in view just past his shoulder. He’s not wearing a shirt, just soft, flannel pants, and you stare at the scars dotting his torso before dragging your gaze away.

“Yeah, sorry… I got distracted.” You turn the tap, rinsing your toothbrush before placing it by itself on the edge of the sink, out of place next to the cup holding theirs, and Penny’s.

You blink slow, allowing your eyes to close for a fraction of second.

“Ready for bed?” Johnny beams at you, lush and sleepy, hand outstretched, reaching.

You take a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Simon’s bedside lamp is still on, barely illuminating the dark. It’s quiet, and warm, and you bask in the space between their bodies, fingers playing idly with the hem of your shirt.

When Johnny’s fingers graze the skin under the fabric, your chest tightens. He strokes back and forth, over your navel, blazing heat from his palm tingling into your skin. You’re being torn in two, swallowed by the ocean, tugged in different directions.

You struggle to regulate your breathing, small draws coming in quicker, and Simon covers Johnny’s hand with his own, stopping the movement.

“Will you show us?” He murmurs.

“Sh-show you?”

“The scars.” Oh.

Will you? 

Even though Simon’s already seen them, this feels different. This feels like a choice. Like you’re peeling something back, baring yourself.

You close your eyes and pull the bottom of your shirt to the top of your ribcage, cool air ghosting over your exposed skin. Johnny makes a sound, a twisted whisper of something pained, and you shiver.

A thumb slides over the raised skin on the left side of your belly. “These are from cigarettes?”

“Yes.” You almost want to look, want to see, but can’t bring yourself to do it, to witness their disgust, their shock. You’re hollow. Drifting. Falling away from them. Someone shifts, the bed moves, jostles slightly, but you block it out. Every muscle in your body is taut, jaw locked, and fists clenched.

This morning was intimate but this… this is something else. Something more. 

“Can ye feel them, still? Do they hurt?” Two hands roam, rubbing gently, skimming.

“No but… they’re hideous.”

“No.” Simon croaks, voice thick. “There isn’t a single part of you that isn’t perfect.” Your heart cracks, and the light touch of fingertips disappears, replaced with a swath of breath and then-

Lips. 

He’s kissing them. 

It stops your heart, dries your mouth. Robs you of your breath, your head spinning into an enormous vortex of disbelief. Simon’s mouth travels, dotting your skin between each ugly, raised bump, carefully pressing a kiss to each one, gradually. He takes his time, and with your eyes closed, you can feel his body hovering above you, holding steady just over your frame. Johnny’s forehead rests against yours, and he cups your cheek, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek, sweet and slow.

“Will ye tell us… about how you got them? Who gave them to ye?” Simon cradles your hips, firm pressure folding into your skin, the curve there, and he squeezes, prompting you, expecting. You don’t know how he does it, how he’s so easily able to guide you, and Johnny. It’s seamless.

“I…” You don’t know what to say, if you were to say anything at all. How to answer. How to begin to explain. How to confirm what you know they already suspect, how to start this story. This nightmare.

Are you really doing this? Could you really do this? 

There’s a sliver of sun, begging. Pleading. It rails against the cracks in your heart, desperate.

So, you spit out the only thing you know for sure.

“He liked to hurt me.”

“Who?” Simon’s question is immediate, and your ribs expand with a long breath.

“My… ex.” Stop talking. Stop this, stop it, stop- “He’s a monster.”

“The healed breaks on your x-rays…” He trails off, and you reach blindly, searching for an anchor. Johnny gives it to you, clutching your hand in his, thumb soothing over your knuckles.

“Yes.”

“And more.” Simon whispers, and Johnny draws a sharp breath. You nod.

“And more.”

“Your neck, and shoulder?” There’s a long silence, as you sit atop the wall. As you wait and try to decide if you want to jump off or continue to sit here… trapped at the top, teetering on the edge while they wait below.

You’re in their life now. You said you’d try. They should know. 

You trust them. 

Don’t you? 

“He found me.” You confess, cracked and bleeding and hung out to dry. Three words barely scratching the surface of the truth, saying almost nothing at all and still so much. You stumble, and panic, fear bubbling up to the surface. “I’m sorry, I told you before- I said-“

“And we told ye; nothing is going to get ye while ye’re with us. Ye’re safe, bunny.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about!” you blurt, a near snap, and Johnny freezes. “It’s you guys, and Penny, and your friends, you- you don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t understand. He’s chased me across the world, he always finds me, no matter what, no matter what I do, o-or where I go-” You’re rambling, nearly hyperventilating, and slipping away, succumbing to the rolling black clouds overtaking your mouth and mind, stuttering and falling, drowning in an endless darkness.

They don’t know. They don’t understand. They can’t. 

You’re weak. You’re stupid. You’re nothing. 

You’re a child again. A lost girl. Alone and scared. Trapped in the dark.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.” You shake your head, and Simon catches it between his palms, holding you still. You can fight and flail and run, but he’s still there. Strong and safe and beautiful in every way, a foundation of love, of trust. “It’s just us, we’re here. With you. Look.” Johnny tightens his hold, and your bones rattle inside your skin, aching and splintering, shredding you from the inside out.

“I can’t.” You hiss, trying to curl away. You can’t face them, or this. The reality. The truth.

It’s easier to run. Who were you kidding? You can’t do this. You should have already been gone. 

But they won’t let you go. Not now. Not when they have you so close to the light. So close to the sun. 

And maybe it’s time to accept it.

“Look at me, pretty girl.” Johnny murmurs. “Ye can do it.” The pull of his voice drags you closer, comforts you, and you long for him, long to see his blue eyes, overgrown mohawk and gorgeous smile. You long to relax into him, to hear the thump of his heart, steady and strong. He’s a lighthouse in the pitch-black night, a guiding light. It’s enough to lessen pressure building in the back of your skull, and you slowly blink, both of their concerned faces coming into view.

The three of you linger silence, holding each other, decompressing from your confession, your fear that feels too much sometimes. It all fades, night turning long, and eventually you yawn, blinking away the sleepy stars in your eyes.

“There’s our bunny.” Simon kisses your cheek. “My good girl.” My good girl. Turning it over in your mind makes you squirm, allowing it ricochet back and forth with his accent, and you wish you could latch onto it, memorize it, hear it every day. Johnny gives you a bemused smile.

“Ye liked that?” He raises an eyebrow at Simon, and then presses his lips to your ear, whispering. “Ye want to be a good girl for daddy, little bunny?” Daddy. You choke. You anticipate disgust, revulsion, but none of it comes.

Only… intrigue. Warmth.

“I think that’s enough for tonight.” Simon interrupts gently. “Thank you, sweetheart. For trusting us. I know it’s hard.” You turn into Johnny, and Simon rolls to flick out the light, pulling up tight behind you, sliding an arm under the pillows. You burrow deeper into the blankets, snuggling between them to find the warmest spots, and sigh.

“You both… make it easier. You make it easy.”

The world from yesterday is forgotten the next day when Penny wakes up with a fever.

The house is thrown into confined, regulated chaos, but chaos all the same. She wails almost the entirety of the morning, miserable, and you ache for both her, and her dads, who are unmoored and anxious. You don’t even balk when Simon asks you to hold her, explaining he has to call her pediatrician.

“Hey, you’re okay.” You coo, rubbing her back. She’s warm to the touch, but not scorching, and it gives you some comfort, even with what little you know about peds. You rock her, pacing, as Johnny watches uneasily from the couch, typing unending questions into a web search about babies and fevers. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I know you don’t feel good.”

“It’s 38.1… that’s fine, right? As long as it’s under 39?”

“I think so.” You try to reassure him. “I’m not a little human nurse though, so I can’t be sure. But it hasn’t been that long, Johnny. We don’t need to worry until at least twenty-four hours.” He nods, lips quirking into a small smile. “What?”

“Ye said we.”

“Well… yeah…” you trail off, and he shakes his head.

“Jus’ like the sound of it, is all. Like how ye look, holdin’ our baby.” You give him a look, half exasperated, half doe eyed, as always, because you can’t help but feel a little lovestruck or dazed whenever you glance his way, always taken by him, no matter the moment.

Simon steps back inside from the patio, swooping to rub his nose in Johnny’s hair and squeeze his shoulder affectionately. “The pediatrician says if she gets worse, or doesn’t improve by tomorrow, to bring her in.”

“Good.” You bounce her, propping her up on your shoulder. “That’s good.” She gurgles, croaking through her miserable fever. “Poor baby girl, I’m sorry.” You pat her again, trying to help settle her-

She coughs, and something warm runs down your back.

“Shite.” Johnny curses, Simon immediately trying to pull her from your arms, but you shake your head.

“There’s no sense in her throwing up on you too.” You explain.

“I’ll go grab a towel, and some clothes. Do you want to change your shirt?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” You keep your hand steady on her back. You’ll both need a thorough wipe down now, maybe even a shower.

“Sorry, bun.” Johnny frowns, but you reassure him, still rocking Penny in your arms. 

“It’s fine, really. I’ve been through way worse with bodily fluids, trust me.” The bottom stair creaks, in the way that it only does for Simon, his mass too much for one of the wooden slats.

When you look up, you realize he’s not moving, only standing shock still, clothes and towel and a baby blanket in one hand,

and the contents of the little black bag in the other.

You left it on the dresser. You left it out in the open, unzipped, on the dresser. 

Your blood freezes. Johnny frowns, looking between his partner and you, trying to desperately draw a conclusion that doesn’t come.

Simon holds the little navy-blue book up, the one with your picture in it, but with a name they won’t recognize. A person they wouldn’t know.

A person you don’t even know, yet. A new life. A new identity.

“What’s that?” Johnny’s quizzical, intrigued.

“Bunny.” Simon breathes, and you shake your head. It’s all you can do, just shake your head back and forth until your brain is rattling around in your skull.

You can’t stop it.

They’ll never love you. They won’t accept you. They won’t understand. 

“It’s- it’s j-just in case,” you stammer, panicked and tongue tied. “you… you don’t understand, I have to have it… just in case.”

“What is it?” Johnny demands, and Simon flips the front of the booklet around-

revealing the cover of a brand-new American passport.