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k0mmari · 5 months ago

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Endless Abyss(kinda)! SY AU

First things first, this is very much inspired by this post by @/rainbowsmagicandshit and @/allpiesforourown, HIGHLY recommend reading that fist just to get a glimpse of where I started off, but do note I have accidentally deviated from the original idea a bit, so uh, oops ig.

This was born out of a mix of different ideas (as usual), so think of this as ‘The AU where SY is a demon, and also the Endless Abyss, and also my excuse to have Binghe possibly make a harem consisting entirely of SY’s’, or, as I like to call it:

As per usual, Shen Yuan has died. It happens to the best of us, and of course, he died while reading the glittering piece of trash that is Proud Immortal Demon Way.But, as he is in the process of getting snatched away by the System, something goes wrong, and the System has to quickly redirect itself and it causes SY to get knocked out of course.

His soul scrambles to find a new host, and it manages to find someone suitable enough. When SY wakes up though, he isn’t greeted by the sight of a roof, or a forest, or anything remotely familiar; instead, the moment he regains consciousness, he’s senses are flooded with as much information as possible. It’s like a computer with too many tabs open, but in this case, you can see all the tabs at the same time and all of them are playing the most obnoxiously loud videos possible, in fact, everything feels so overwhelming even thinking becomes too much.

What SY doesn’t know is that he has transmigrated into the body of a Titan, an almost extinct godly demon race that only existed in the confines of Airplane’s first drafts, and it turns out shoving a human soul into the body of a deity doesn’t bode so well, since what the human mind is able to process doesn’t even come close to what a Titan is able to feel. So because SY can’t get a hold of his own mind, his control of his own body is also not great, and he is completely unaware as his newly acquired body goes on a rampage.

See, SY is currently in a very old version of the Demon Realm, so old in fact, Heavenly Demons still rule over the Realm. It really is quite a shame that SY wasn’t in his right mind at the time, and instead of being able to observe how ancient Heavenly Demons governed demonic society, he instead accidentally set on a path of destruction, with the casualties being anything that had the bad luck of standing in his way. In fact, the destruction got so bad a few of the Heavenly Demons rulers, who notoriously hated each other, settles on a temporary peace agreement and joined forces to stop the mad Titan.

SY, in his frenzied state, didn’t even notice as hundreds of years went by as the Heavenly Demons tried to stop him, and also barely noticed when they finally managed to chain him down and cast him away to be forever banished to the Endless Abyss. His body, once so tall it grazed the clouds, was torn apart, with each of its different parts sealed away in various locations as an attempt to diminish the Titan’s power. It worked, actually, and unbeknownst to the demons, SY slowly began to get his thoughts in order; the event that finally pushed him to coherency was when a few of those Heavenly Demon rulers got greedy, and while sealing away SY’s body parts, attempted to harness his power for themselves, and tried to create legendary weapons out of his flesh and bone.

Most of them failed, a Titan’s power to overwhelming for even a Heavenly Demon to handle, but one of them succeeded, and created a powerful sword made from the Titan’s own heart: Xin Mo. Unfortunately for the creator of Xin Mo, it didn’t take long for them to fall into madness and eventually succumb to Xin Mo’s power, casting themselves away to hold onto the sword forever in the same valley SY’s hands were sealed; but it is as they say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and while Xin MO’s creator perished, they managed to take enough power away from SY for him to finally be able to think.

It had been a thousand years at this point, and SY’s first coherent thought was that he desperately needed a break, and that in all these years, he hadn’t managed to get a single glimpse into the world of PIDW, and what a waste! Specially since he was now in the most interesting area Airplane had managed to create, he was itching to explore the world. Of course, in his current state he wasn’t exactly able to move (having his limbs cut off certainly didn’t help, but apparently it had been so long since he was imprisoned that his Main Body had started to fuse with the Abyss? Really, more of a slight inconvenience than anything), but he also had become tired of his Titan body with it’s Titan feelings, and so he decided to split his consciousness and create a small army of human sized avatars who were later dubbed his ‘Watchers’, who’s sole purpose was to explore the Endless Abyss and send their findings back to the Main Body (in bite sized, easy to understand thoughts).

It is the first years of his Watchers wandering about that SY finally understood what had happened to his body, and figured out that Xin Mo was a product of his flesh. He figured that since demons tried to use his body for malicious purposes before, with one even succeeding, he decided that one Xin Mo was enough, and came up with a plan: He was going to piece his Titan body back together as a means to prevent anything of the sort happening again, but he was immediately going to seal the Titan body away again, as to not have to deal with it’s overwhelming power.

As the Watchers were sent to locate his body parts again, one of their first findings were the hands, which also meant the resting place of Xin Mo itself. How lucky, he thought! He could just take the hands away and maybe leave one of the Watchers guarding Xin Mo so when Luo Binghe eventually comes to retrieve his sword, SY at least can catch a glimpse of his favorite protagonist! He wasted no time, and while his avatars tried to unseal his hands, one of them went to move Xin Mo, just so it was out of the way, and in doing so the sword retaliated and ended up disintegrating the poor Watcher. What a rude sword, going against its own body.

Fine! If Xin Mo was going to be difficult so be it, and SY formed a new plan: before reuniting his Titan body back together, SY send his Watchers to keep an eye on as much of the Endless Abyss as possible and the moment Luo Binghe fell in, he would turn to hugging the protagonist’s thigh and help him survive the harsh environment as long as Binghe took Xin Mo. Well, it should be no problem, right? Binghe was fated to get the sword one way or another, and SY is sure his involvement will be small insignificant enough that it won’t be much more of a side quest for the future Demon Emperor!

Now, if he were a half human, half Heavenly Demon teenager who just got pushed into hell by his teacher, where would he land….

So, as you can see, this is mostly more like SY’s origin story lol, but I’ll probably write Binghe’s first meetings with the Watchers sometime soon (hopefully).In the meantime though, enjoy some more of the bonus sketches I did while figuring out the AU, and of course, if anyone has any questions or thoughts about this, feel free to send them to me!

#now this is what I call a drabble #just me yapping away #why create multiple small AU’s when you can fuse them all together into one #svsss #shen yuan #luo binghe #bingqiu #bingyuan #binggeyuan???? maybe?????#binghe is like a half blackened lotus when this takes place #slightly charred lotus even #komm’s endless abyss travel guide #this couldnt be more self indulgent even if I tried #long post

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lvrsfilm · 7 months ago

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contrary to popular belief, Simon Riley does not do casual.

Nothing about him is casual. Nothing about his dedication to his work and his team, the bullets he would disperse and receive for them. Nothing about his routine, the way he shines his boots or folds his uniforms every week like clockwork. He is a cut and dry man, or at least he tries to be.

You, on the other hand, are the opposite of him in so many ways that at a glance people would assume you're the kind of person he hates. (He wishes that was the case, it'd make his life simpler). You bounce around base like a lit firecracker, your fuse sizzling quietly even during missions, never burning out. You never seem to tire, even after the particularly hard ones that leave him mute and holed up in his quarters for hours every day after.

You are casual. Coming to his room whenever you feel like it, knocking in a way that lets him know it's you and no one else. Bringing him tea, or bourbon, the occasional meal if you can convince him. He doesn't see how you can think it's casual. Slipping off your boots, leaving them half laced at his door.

Slipping into his bed. Laying next to him in silence, just so he isn't alone. Bandaging any cuts that aren't severe enough to warrant him going to medical. The soft skin of your hands making practiced movements over his scarred skin that only you've seen. He is not a casual man. And you don't seem to have figured that out yet.

No other man on base interested in you would even entertain the thought of pursuing you, for fear of Simon somehow hearing their thoughts and stringing them up by their necks to show the others what happens if they touch what's his. Everyone else can see the way he looks at you, the way he lets you in.

Everyone except you, apparently.

You don't ask why he lets you in, and he doesn't ask why you keep coming back.

He doesn’t know how to tell you that you’re the first person to make him feel human in a long time. That every soft knock on his door chips away at the walls he’s built, cement crumbling under your touch, a feeling akin to warm liquid gold seeping through the cracks, running over his scar tissue. Like he's a victim of Midas. Exposing him to something he thought he’d buried years ago. You remind him what it’s like to be vulnerable, to crave something more than routine and mission reports.

And it terrifies him.

Because Simon Riley does not do messy, either.

But you? You’re a storm. Chaotic and unpredictable, rushing into his life like you’ve always belonged there. He doesn’t know what to do with you, how to keep you at arm’s length without losing the warmth you bring into his otherwise cold existence. So he lets you in, over and over, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Tonight is no different.

The knock comes—a rhythm so familiar now that it’s practically a lullaby. He already knows it’s you before he opens the door. You’re standing there, as casual as ever in civvies, with that cheeky grin that makes his chest tighten in ways he refuses to name.

“Thought you could use some company,” you say, holding up a thermos of tea like a peace offering.

He steps aside, wordlessly, because what else is he supposed to do? Tell you to leave? Pretend he doesn’t want you here? He’s not that good a liar, not around you.

You slip past him, kicking off your boots, leaving them next to the doorway as always, and make yourself at home like you belong here. Like you belong with him. And maybe you do.

He watches as you set the thermos on his desk and plop onto his bed, laying on your back and stretching like a cat, looking at him expectantly. It’s a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes. An invitation. A promise.

He lays down, careful to leave just enough space between you to keep the illusion of distance. But then you lean into him, shoulder brushing his arm, and the illusion shatters. His resolve crumbles.

“You came straight here when we got back,” you say softly, tilting your head to look at him. “skipped dinner, I saved a plate for you from the mess.”

It’s such a simple statement, but it cuts through him like a blade.

He turns his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours. He looks at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Like he needs to figure put your angle, figure out why you're treating him so softly. For a second, the air between you feels impossibly fragile, as if even breathing too hard might shatter it.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice low, almost gruff, like the admission costs him something.

You tilt your head at him, your lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. “Do what?”

He exhales sharply, as though frustrated, though it’s unclear if it’s with you or himself. “This… whatever it is you’re doing. Looking out for me. Bringing me tea. Sitting here. I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know,” you reply simply, your tone disarming in its honesty. “I do it because I want to.”

The words hang in the air between you, unassuming yet weighty, like they’re daring him to refute them. He doesn’t, because he can’t. You've made up your mind. There’s a stubbornness in your voice that he knows too well—one that he’s realized he has no defense against.

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters after a moment, turning his gaze toward the ceiling. “It’s a waste.”

Your smile falters, just slightly, but it doesn’t vanish. “You’re not a waste.”

He flinches at that, so subtly you might have missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him. His fingers twitch on the mattress, his eyebrows furrowing beneath the mask. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t argue, but his silence says enough. You press your lips together, chewing the bottom corner slightly as you debate whether to push further. You decide to anyway, because that’s what you do.

You grin, a mischievous glint in your eyes, and he knows you’re about to say something cheeky. But instead, you surprise him again by reaching over to touch his hand—just a fleeting brush of your fingers, so brief he almost convinces himself it didn’t happen.

He closes his eyes, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t pull away. That’s something, you think.

You turn onto your side, facing him fully now, your fingers brushing against the back of his hand. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch this time, so you let your touch linger—gentle, steady, unassuming.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you add quietly, almost as if it’s a promise.

When he finally opens his eyes again, there’s something raw and unguarded in his gaze, something that makes your chest ache. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t thank you, doesn’t argue—but the way his fingers curl ever so slightly against yours feels like an answer.

#simon x reader #call of duty x reader #tf141 #task force 141 #simon riley imagine #cod fic #cod ghost #cod drabble #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #this got away from me #did i slay your honor #i can fix him #ghost x reader #love me a sad man #call of duty ghost

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sttoru · 2 years ago

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dad toji x reader grocery shopping with baby megumi

ෆ tags. dad!toji x female reader. fluff. you’re gumi’s mother.

“look at your mama, kid.” toji grins as he lazily pushes your shopping cart forwards. you were walking a few steps ahead to grab some necessities, leaving the father-son duo behind, “she’s so damn beautiful, ain’t she?”

megumi was seated in the baby-seat, babbling and cooing just by hearing the familiar word ‘mama’ spill from toji’s lips. the simple mention of you gets your little son feeling all giddy on the inside, even if his limited vocabulary doesn’t allow him to fully grasp what his dad was saying.

at one point, you seem to have wandered a bit too far ahead. toji and megumi were three aisles behind you, which you didn’t even notice because you were too busy going through your grocery list.

“oh, no, what’re we gonna do?” toji playfully puts on a worried expression as he pokes his son’s chubby cheek, “we lost mama.” and as if on cue, megumi’s smile turns upside down. he couldn’t understand what his father was saying, though seeing that (fake) worried expression on his parent’s face was enough to make him burst out crying.

“hey, hey,” toji immediately tries to calm megumi down by ruffling his hair gently, “i was just jokin’, but eh— guess you don’t even know what that means, do ya?”

you immediately rush back to see what occured once you heard the familiar cries of your child and see your husband trying to soothe megumi. toji was now holding onto the baby, one hand on the back of megumi’s tiny head while the other was slowly patting his lower back in a soothing manner.

“what happened, love?” you ask worriedly as you walk over to the two. megumi seemed to have calmed down in his father’s embrace after a few moments. in fact, your son had completely forgotten his sadness the second you were visible to him again.

toji shrugs and scratches his cheek, “i was just jokin’ with the kiddo, but i guess he doesn’t like his daddy’s humor.”

you sigh and hold yourself back from giving toji an earful in the midst of the store once you realised what probably happened.

if the man’s not teasing you, he’s teasing his child. you don’t know how many times you’ve scolded your husband for making megumi cry on accident due to his jokes. it’s quite literally impossible to get him to understand that megumi is too young to pick up on social cues. it’s either that or toji simply acts like he doesn’t understand.

it was most likely the latter since you know that toji always loves getting reactions out of the people he teases;

“toji—” “yeah, yeah, i know. i won’t do it again, babe.”

oh, he most definitely will.

#ෆ : parenting 101.#jjk x reader #toji x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fluff #if anybody wants i can make like a series called parenting 101 ft. toji fushiguro #and its just a collection of drabbles like these

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spurbleu · 11 months ago

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“i want to kiss you. not on your mouth, but on your most secret scars, your ashy black & journeyed knees, your ring finger, the trigger finger, those hands the world fears so much.”

- danez smith, ‘king the color of space/tower of molasses and marrow’

‧︎✳︎༚︎‧︎⁎︎°︎

you kiss him, and simon struggles to understand.

you dedicate yourself to it, a particular worship that a younger you might’ve called dirty. it’s as if you consider it self indulgence, the way you foil into the divots his war, his regret- even, especially, his violence. the parts of him that made him anxious to be as far as he could from you, while never leaving your side.

you trace the catastrophes that draw out in thin and thick across his back. hold the grimy, coarse part of his jaw, the bend of his nose. perfection cradling imperfections without so much of a flinch. you kiss, kiss, his hands. you touch the release of a trigger and the monster that festers beneath bruising nail with the mouth you pray with- and he…he…

blurs.

can’t seem to find a thread of himself when you hold him. unravels into blisters, bruises, scars and bullets- until your kissing all of it. cradling him in vestal palms, holding him together as he spills from your joints.

his filth has made your lips swollen, but the mercy in your eyes burns the guilt and gives him respite. you gave him a hummingbird heart when he had bear hands, and yet you hold both.

(you didn’t tame him, but that’s what it is, isn’t it? letting a wild dog be- and somehow it made him more domesticated than if you pulled out the leash. isn’t sure what to call that yet, but you give him time.)

he’s convinced he’ll never find out what you are, because no human he’s known gives like you can.

“si? you’re drifting off again.”

“…yer jus too fuckin warm.”

#can you tell this got away from me #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod angst #ghost angst #spurbleu✴︎‧︎⁎︎drabbles

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zephyrchama · 3 months ago

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Leviathan took a deep breath. He had always wanted to try this. It was silly, and a stupid idea, and if anybody outside of his close circle found out about it he'd probably perish on the spot from embarrassment. But it looked so fun. What otaku wouldn't want to try this at least once in their life?

He had been ready and in position for an hour. In fact, Leviathan didn't sleep at all last night. He pulled an all-nighter watching season five of Welcome to Human School! and decided to recreate this classic cliche in a rare act of spontaneity after seeing it play out on TV for the ten thousandth time.

The lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him, exacerbated by nerves and an early morning chill that caused his shoulders to shake, but he would not give up. He had to know what it was like. Leviathan leaned his head against the House of Lamentation's stone exterior. He refreshed his Devilgram feed for the tenth time and fiddled with the lowest button on his shirt while standing in wait. It was important that his appearance looked slovenly, like this was spontaneous and he had to rush to get dressed. The details had to be perfect.

Noise began to stir around the corner. Leviathan rushed to shove his phone into a pocket and stuffed his mouth with slightly stale buttered bread. It was go time.

Several dozen feet away, you emerged from the house. You paused in the doorway, checking to ensure last night's homework was in your bag and not still on the desk in your room. You had to be at school quite early and wouldn't have time before class to come back if you forgot something. Luckily, all was fine. The heavy door swung shut behind you. As you began to walk down the cobbled steps, something caught your eye. Something big and fast in a RAD uniform, speeding at you and screaming.

Leviathan was not actually screaming. He was just shouting, "I'm late! I'm late!" over and over through a wad of carbs. You didn't have much time to process that fact before he slammed into you like an amateur sumo wrestler.

You shrieked. Leviathan shrieked. The two of you tumbled down the stone steps in a mass of confusion until you landed on top of the nerdy demon like another cliche anime trope. However, Leviathan had no time to celebrate this weeby double whammy. He grabbed your head in a panic and coughed out a gross mouthful of bread to ask, "A-are you okay!?"

Your sturdy uniform and the purple haired demon had luckily protected you from the worst. Leviathan released your face and hovered his hands by your sides as you felt around for bruises, trying to get your bearings. He let out a pained groan when you accidentally elbowed him in the stomach while trying to stand up.

The surroundings were calm. No sign of danger. You scrambled to pick up your bag and exclaimed, "What was that!?"

"I... I'm late for school." That was Leviathan's explanation. He couldn't confess any further. This was not the romantic comedy scenario he envisioned. His mouth was dry. Class didn't even start for another two hours. He realized now what a dumb plan this truly was. As he lay on the hard ground, he sort of wished it would open up and swallow him whole, but your outstretched hand of kindness was a nice consolation.

#levi forgets how easily a human can be knocked over if someone barrels into them at full speed #he also wants to be called “senpai” but that secret is staying locked up in his twisted mind a while longer #obey me #obey me!#omswd #obey me shall we date #obey me scenarios #obey me swd #obey me x mc #obey me fanfic #obey me x reader #obey me leviathan x mc #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me leviathan #obey me drabble #obey me writing

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bigassmoonchild · 2 years ago

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Simons Rut

Simon bullied his cock back into you, knot starting to inflate. He groaned, having stuffed you full of three other loads, grunts and groans becoming all you could hear.

His head fell on your shoulder, chest pressing into your back and whines coming from your mouth with the overstimulation. He nipped at your neck, sucking your scent into his throat to coat his tongue. A moan ripped from his neck, eyes rolling back into his head.

You could feel his cock sliding against your g-spot, sending spasms of pleasure through your gut. Biting your gland and remarking you, his knot started catching on you as he slid in and out.

Whines were coming from his throat, his mind lost in the thoughts of breed, mate, fuck a pup into Omega, and you couldn't move from under him, mouth open and drool slipping down your chin.

Your cunt spasmed around him, his knot finally catching you and he pumped his hips shortly. Hips pressing back into him and grinding on him, your own eyes rolling back with the pleasure as you kept spasming around Simons cock.

"Good little Omega, milking me, going to fuck pups into you, need you to be full of me," he growled into your ear, his mouth dropping open as his orgasm finally spread through him, dropping to his elbows and further caging you onto the bed.

Simon stayed like that for a moment, his nose rubbing along your neck as he filled his head with your scent, almost growing drunk on it. When he finally came to, he pushed his weight off of you and slowly moved the two of you over, letting you sit on his lap.

He ran his hands down your sides, your head falling on his shoulder and nudging at his own scent gland, licking at it to fill his scent in your own mouth.

Massaging at your thighs, you felt yourself relaxing around him, eyes falling shut from the exhaustion of cumming so many times around him.

Some time later, Simon was pulling you off of him and allowing you to come back to the present while carrying you into the bathroom, starting the tub after setting you on the counter.

You'd tugged Simon in the tub with you as he'd tried to set you in there and leave. Him joining you caused some water to splash around the sides, but you got to work washing his hair as he held you in his lap.

During his ruts, he was rougher than normal but became the sweetest Alpha, happy when his Omega was more than satisfied before his next wave came through him and had him bending you over the sink to watch yourself get fucked.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #smut #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #no use of y/n #simon riley #call of duty #task force 141 #drabble #rut #cod mw2 #call of duty x reader #ghost mw2 #modern warfare ii #To hold y'all over until the next parts of Maple Syrup you can have this little drabble of Simon in rut #I can expand further if y'all want

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bitterrfruit · 1 year ago

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I am begging on my knees for a part two to cowboy price😭🙏

here she is!!! cowboy price part 2!! I really really hope you enjoy it ♥︎♥︎

18+ mdni - cw: spanking - ~2.8k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You like to trespass. He teaches you a lesson.

Here's part 1! (and there will probably be a part 3 lol i'm having way too much fun)

Staring face down into the bale of prickling hay, sipping the turgid air like warm milk, you scoured your mind for your next apology. There was a long list of transgressions Mr Price could demand an apology for. Would he punish you for every single one?

Did you want him to?

His spread hand hovered over the skin of your rear, a threat – it ghosted over the fine fuzz and triggered ripples of gooseflesh to radiate out from the faint touch.

“I’m sorry for–” you uttered, barely a croak, “for making you chase me.”

The second you spoke it, your entire body tensed itself on instinct – girding itself for the discipline that would inevitably follow. Swift, and purposeful; he raised his arm, reeling it back like the string of a bow.

And he released it just as suddenly, hurling his palm downward rapidly enough to emit a whistle through the air; it collided with your ass in a sharp smack, over the same burning handprint he had already left there.

The force of it thrusted you forward, knocked a helpless squeal from your throat. You whimpered at the grit and dust grinding under your knees as it rocked you, your hands flat on the haybale turned to fists as you desperately squeezed handfuls of straw.

“Mhm,” he grumbled, grave and deep, “and?”

You swallowed air through your open mouth, your heart thundered in your ears – out of breath, but too wary to inhale deeply enough to sate it.

“For…” you hesitated, “for talking bad on your father.”

Keeping your hips still with his restraining forearm, he raised his free arm once again; you held your breath, squeezed shut your eyes in preparation for the blow. Swing. Smack.

Each collision of his vicious hand over the same spot burned worse than the last, as though his palm was adorned with barbs that pierced your fevered skin on impact. Yet a quiet moan slithered from your chest, slipped from your tongue, oozed like honey.

He drew in a grumbling breath, strained as he sucked it deep. Could he hear the pining titillation in your throat, dripping from each yelp? Might he hit you harder for it?

You winced, shivered, as his wide hand rested against the matching print that only grew more raised and more red by the second, the touch by turn warming and punishing. “Keep goin’.”

“I’m–”

Bitten off by a gasp as his fingers pushed in only slightly, burrowing into the pillowy flesh of your ass as though the squeeze was unintentional – the pressure on your near-broken skin inflicted an ache that made you whimper.

“I’m sorry for stealing cherries,” you force out, in a wet mewl.

He bore his dissatisfaction with a cocksure suck of his teeth. “Whose cherries?”

“Yours,” you squeaked.

“Mm,” he nodded, grinded out through a tight jaw. “Mine.”

Followed quickly your chastisement; the swish of his hand hurtling through the air, the ear-splitting crack of his open palm striking beaten flesh, the whine of twisted thrill that squealed out from your lips.

“My cherries–” he spat, unrelenting; again he lifted his palm, letting it hover in the air for a brief moment before he brought it down with a force.

Smack.

“–My orchard–”

Smack.

“–My hat–”

Smack.

“–My horses–”

Smack.

“–My stable–”

Smack.

“–My land.”

Smack.

The final blow threw a saccharine cry from your heaving lungs, dosed with a shameful squeak of desperation, wet and eager; eyes watering, your head collapsed into the haybale, prickly against your bright red cheek.

The skin of your rear stung numb, throbbing like a heartbeat, your knees shook with the adrenaline that riddled you from head to toe.

And as you adjusted your knees to balance yourself after he had knocked you off kilter – you felt the slick that had seeped from you, drenching your cunt in slippery syrup, the cool air biting cold at the saturated patch of your floral pointelle panties.

You could only suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down in abashment and guilt, self-flagellation for the burning heat that had pooled between your legs; almost as blindingly consuming as the white-hot sting of his hand-shaped brand.

He leaned back from you, balanced himself with his hand on your ass. Panting like a wolf, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand as though he had overexerted himself, broken a sweat in his outburst. Seemed to pause as he looked over his handiwork – had spanked you hard enough that you wouldn’t doubt how crisp the perfect outline of his hand would have been. Perhaps it was purple, speckled with the spots of broken capillaries and blood seeping under the hot skin.

But it mustn’t have been the damage he had inflicted that he was stuck on, as you heard his heavy breathing degrade into hoarse, animalistic chuffing; a broken grunt as though he had been kicked in the stomach.

You felt his thumb, slow and probing as though influenced by an unseen force – creep towards the cleft of your ass, running along the elastic lace hem of your panties. Teased the trim like it might slip underneath, but it didn’t. No, instead, he hovered it over the gusset, barely grazing the sodden fabric.

Eyes fluttering shut, you inhaled weakly, a quiet simper as he pushed his thumb into the valley of your cunt; wetting the tip with your fluid that soaked the thin cotton, dipping into you as though the single layer of fabric wasn’t the only barrier preventing him from plunging it deeper.

He must have felt the ring of muscle at your entrance tighten and twitch, an inadvertent reflex to his intrusion – because he abruptly tugged his hand away. You quickly released a sharp and feverish breath, cunt still pulsing around the painful absence of his finger.

“Alright,” he huffed, through teeth, as he rubbed the back of his head in exasperation. “Reckon you learned your lesson.”

You squeaked as you felt his pelvis press against yours, weighing against you from behind; as he leaned over you, reaching past you to pick up the cattleman that he had knocked from your head.

“Huh?” He persisted.

“Yes,” you croaked, realising his demand, you were quick to follow it. You leaned upright, kneeling still, as you tugged down the skirt of your dress to cover yourself; grimacing as the light fabric brushed over the burning welt on your rear.

With a hand on his knee he pushed himself to stand, sniffing in vexation as he dusted off his jeans. Bowed his head to put his hat back in its rightful place, pinching the leather crown with a single hand as he gave it a shimmy to adjust it. “Yes what?”

Through a whimper, you whispered, “Yes sir.”

“’Atta girl,” he gritted, “learned you some manners.”

You feebly swept a lock of your dishevelled hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, too poignantly humiliated to think of anything pert to utter.

“Up y’get.”

It took you a moment to gather the nerve to stand, breathing carefully as you placed your hand on the edge of the haybale. Impatient, evidently, John bent down to you, slipping his broad hands under your arms in an effort to pick you up.

You yipped, wriggling away from his grasping hands as he hoisted you upright, and you landed on your feet with a wobble. “I can walk,” you bit.

“Yeah, right,” he groused, spinning you by the torso before hooking his arm around your waist; you yelped as he tossed you callously over his shoulder like a wet rag. “I ain’t letting you run off again, missy.”

“I wasn’t gonna run,” you whinged, but you mustered no resistance as he hauled you towards the stable door, kicking it open with his boot.

He snorted as he adjusted you on his shoulder, carting you out into the evening sun – appeared the sun had begun its approach to the horizon since you had run off from him, you forgot the days were beginning to grow shorter. The hum of the cicadas still blared just as loud as earlier, though, and the air just as warm, despite the fading orange glow of the sunlight.

Trudging through the long grass, no doubt towards his truck, he chided; “D’you expect me to trust you?”

You bit your tongue, scoured your scrambled mind for any retaliation. “I don’t want to get in trouble again,” you mumbled.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he sneered, “I think trouble is the only thing you want.”

The pressure of his thumb lingered against your entrance, a permanent impression that made your heart flutter at the memory. Perhaps he was right.

“That’s not true.”

“No?” He questioned scornfully, grasping hand digging into the side of your waist to keep you steady. “Then why’d you come back here, huh?”

You pouted, staring into the grass, watching the back of his boots rise and fall with each step. Would you tell him it was just to see him? Just to have him find and scold you? Just to toe the line? Long since crossed, wasn’t it.

“I wanted some cherries,” you lied.

“Uh-huh,” he scoffed, as the grass began to shorten, bleeding to the rubble and dust of the old road. You heard the deep click of a handle, the rattling of the truck door, the moaning of its old hinges as it swung open. “Was it worth it?”

You hesitated, gasping as he tossed you into the passenger door of his Chevy – you landed on your back across the worn leather bench seat, bouncing slightly in the fall, head narrowly missing the steering wheel.

“Yes,” you breathed, to answer his question, and he froze like you had caught him in a bear trap.

Stood imperiously between your knees, as your feet dangled out of the open door, skirt having been rucked up by the landing. He glowered down at you, lips in a thin and admonishing line, but his predacious eyes betrayed his stoic righteousness.

Glare clawed down your splayed form from your dewy lips, to the swell of your breasts, to the bare skin where your thighs met your hips. Catching a glimpse of the mound of your pussy from under the hem, hidden from him by the dainty fabric of your underwear.

He breathed raggedly through flared nostrils, put a white-knuckled hand against the top of the doorframe, casting a looming shadow over your body. His gaze was pointed, fiery, burned from lidded eyes - you felt the heat of his stare, it made you sweat, made your cunt ache unbearably for his attention.

Tongue squirming, too bashful to form a plea; you made your entreaty with a meek hand, tracing your fingertips down your stomach, catching in the pleats and folds of your linen dress. With a hook of your fingers under the hem of your skirt, you coaxed it upwards, coyly exposing yourself bit by bit. Watched cautiously as his lour raptly followed your movements, belying his stone-faced expression.

But he stopped you, or himself, with a pat of his hand on your thigh, just above your knee. Left it there. And he ordered, dark and strained;

“Settle down.”

With a moan of petulant defeat, you dropped your arm to your side.

“I’m takin’ you home,” he grumbled, reaching for your skirt – did so with purposeful cruelty, letting his calloused hand graze up your thigh as he grabbed the hem and tugged it downwards to cover your panties.

He took impatient hold of your knees and swivelled them inside the cab, before shutting the passenger door with a creaking swing and a loud slam. You sat yourself upright, wincing at the painful reminder of the lashings on your rear as it pressed into the firm leather seat. He marched around the truck and hopped in behind the steering wheel, you crossed your arms churlishly as you glared out the passenger window.

Peevishly huffing as he started the engine and accelerated off down the deteriorated dirt road, you bounced around in your seat, the vibrations of the rolling vehicle doing little to settle the sore throbbing between your legs.

“I’m telling my dad what you did,” you griped, rich with spite.

“You can tell ‘im whatever you want,” he scoffed, hanging his arm out his open window, wrenching the steering wheel in the tight grip of his closer hand.

“I’ll tell him you hit me.”

“Yeah?” He gibed, “Gonna tell him how worked up you got?”

Scowling, you felt your cheeks glow red as you glowered out the window. “I wasn’t worked up,” you fibbed.

“Mm. Sure seemed like it.” You could hear his smirk without having to look at him.

You fumed. “Sounds like you’re proud of yourself."

He only released a quiet and scornful huff of laughter in response to that. Nothing snide left to say, now that you’d accused him of purposefully arousing you. But he was right. It was all you could think about, writhing and sizzling in your mind and in your stomach; a fire that he had lit, and now he mocked you for being ablaze.

Daddy’s house came into view, two storeys high with a wrap-around veranda, cladded in chipped white siding and adorned in carved cornices. Sat atop a rolling hill of dry grass, surrounded by century-old white oaks that kept it shaded.

You could only sulk, keeping your arms vitriolically crossed and refusing to utter a single word until the truck rolled to a halt over the raw gravel of the turn-around driveway.

Your father was where you’d often find him; leisurely lounging on the wicker veranda bench, reading glasses on his nose and some dull book about the economy in hand. But he perked up at the arrival of Mr Price’s truck, an especially unfamiliar sight, one that would no doubt spike some suspicion.

John left the engine running and hopped out of the truck. You sorely begrudged the dire possibility that you’d be forced to return to your childhood home, stuck in the tedium of your quotidian life, left to only daydream about the events of the afternoon as you washed dishes and folded laundry.

So in the brief seconds you had before he stormed around to the passenger side, you slipped your hands under your dress. Tucked your fingertips into the waistband of your panties, bucked your hips as you shimmied them down your legs and plucked them over your feet. And you nestled them behind you, out of sight as John yanked open your door, beckoning with an impatient and commanding hand for you to step out.

You groaned as you followed his wordless demand, jumping down into the gravel and glaring up at him with a vindictive curl in your lips. You spitefully stayed still, then, not taking a step in any direction of your own volition, wary that he might glance upwards and spot the coquettish little calling card you left in his truck.

“Move it,” he ordered.

You only pouted. “You’re a dick.”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he tugged your shoulder in the direction of your house – then lodged his hand at the back of your neck, under your hair, an authoritative grasp so that he could drive you by it. And he did, nudging you along, you stumbled awkwardly over your bare feet as you were carted towards your veranda.

Daddy pushed himself to stand, holding his hand over his eyes to shield them from the blinding setting sun as he ambled to the top of the deck stairs.

“Johnathan,” he spat, disgruntled and apathetic – just wanted to get back to his book, no doubt. And when he spotted you, last, of course, he queried; "That you, hun?”

You glared into the gravel, flushed with fervent humiliation, disguising it as malice.

“Found her trespassing,” John yelled, terse and irate. “Again.”

Your father hooked his thumbs in his beltloops, squinting down at him. “Fence is on your property, John. S’your problem if she fits through the gaps.”

“You need to keep a handle on your daughter,” John snarled, thick with derision, fuse running short. He released your neck with a slight shove, then, and you vindictively rolled your shoulder away from his lingering touch.

Your father snorted. “Looks like y’got a better handle on her than I ever will.”

Had enough, you stormed away from the condescending rancher, marching with your arms crossed towards the steps.

“Y’know what happens if I catch you back on my property, don’t you, girl?” John barked after you, a growl in his throat.

Shoving past your bewildered father as you trudged up the creaking stairs, you rolled your eyes. Concealed the coy smirk that curled in the corner of your lips, you answered with a grouse;

“Trouble.”

for the besties who asked to be tagged in part 2, here you go!! @lilliumrorum @stars4sar @itsalwaysbetternottoknow @iamnotfinedaddy @erajoie07 @rafaelacallinybbay

#can you tell i listen to lana del rey #john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price smut #bella-drabbles

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shotmrmiller · 1 year ago

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i wrote about 15 sentences when i chose to give it up, cuz i cant finish it without it seeming like crack so im just gonna say that cbf!johnny would totally "Let's wrestle" himself into some pussy.

Using his strength to put you in positions you can't escape from, maybe pins you down from behind. You're stubborn as a mule though, refusing to yield, so you start bucking your hips to try and get him off but the only thing you're doing is unwittingly rubbing your arsecheeks into his slowly stiffening cock and when he's finally had enough, he harshly grinds back.

You freeze at that because you really didn't think about what you were doing, and now he's pulling your bottoms down, just enough to be able to thrust himself in between your thighs. The noises shouldn't be so loud, so sticky, but he's just smearing his pre-cum all over your inner thighs and pussy lips— or maybe it's your own arousal, who knows, who cares. His heavy breathing hitches when his flared head eventually nudges at your entrance, and he doesn't move after that. You realize he's waiting to see if you'll stop everything, if you're gonna come to your senses, but your head is so fuzzy with lust that you silently arch your back, and he lets out a long groan as he oh so slowly sinks into you until his hips are flush with yours.

There's a bit of pain that comes with being stretched by him, but he starts undulating his hips and the ache quickly melts into a pleasure so heady, that the hair on your arms stands on end.

Johnny lowers himself onto his elbows and wraps a hand around your throat, bringing your head back to whisper in your ear. "Ye feel so good around me, squeezing me like ye dinnae ever want me out. Like yer made for me, pretty girl." He grinds his hips into you, going deeper than where he already is, and you can feel a small trickle of arousal drip from you when he presses his cock firmly at the entrance of your womb.

"Liked that, did ye, bonnie?" He squeezes the side of your throat, restricting blood flow, and grunts, "Try to keep quiet, hm? Dinnae want wake the parents."

#what can i say #nothing cuz hes got me in a chokehold #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod mwii #johnny soap mctavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish smut #john soap mctavish x reader #drabble

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circusinthewalls · 6 months ago

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Semi-NSFW König Ramblings - 18+ MDNI, AGELESS BLOGS DNI

[Masterlist]

König who sleeps with his massive frame curled around you like a bear. It's almost suffocating at times, but on the colder nights, you do appreciate it.

Sometimes he'll paw and grope at the fat of your hips in the midst of his slumber. Other times, his hand ends up laid over your chest, fingers interlaced with yours there.

Seldom is there a morning when you don't wake up more tangled with him than you had been upon drifting off. His thigh nestled between yours, or with you draped halfway back across him, his face buried in your hair.

He loves the version of you that greets him in the morning. All tired mumbles and squinted eyes, and at least one roll onto your opposite side away from the window.

Still need curtains, you insist. Better ones.

Of course, he listens, but in truth König never plans on getting them. Who would he be if not the man you cuddle up to when the morning sun has turned you blind?

So, like always, he kisses his reassurances along your hairline. There's apologies, too, because he'll mutter to you with false urgency that he has to be up on time. Knowing all the while that he'll be staying in bed for another half hour easily, but it warms his heart with something special when you cling to him tighter and beg him to stay just a little longer.

Writing not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or to use with AI technologies.

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fandomfloozy · 9 months ago

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Oh, I'm pretty boy?

pairing: katsuki bakugo x sick!reader

c/w: fluff, early relationship, petnames (katsuki calls reader babe, reader evidently calls katsuki pretty lol), sprinkles of hispanic!reader/spanish-speaking!reader, gn!reader

wc: 1.3k

~°•*~

You've been sick the last few days.

You're on the tail-end of recovery now, thank god, but for most of the week you've been bed-ridden, and snotty, and sweaty, and hot, and cold. It's been miserable, if you're being honest. With the light at the end of the tunnel in view, you're glad the worst of it is over.

There has been one upside to being sickly, though--one aspect that makes you wish you could be sick just one more day: Ever since you fell ill, since the moment he'd heard you were taking leave off work to rest at home for a bit, you've been under the thorough care of your very own, self-appointed nurse, Katsuki.

There's this saying: "You'll never truly know someone well enough until you've seen them struggle financially, grieve a lost loved one, or witness them while they're sick."

Your relationship is new. Not early days, but still far too soon for him to be seeing you sick, for your liking.

But when he showed up at your door a couple days ago--masked up, worry-eyed, and holding all the essentials for treating a typical head cold--how could you refuse him?

And to be fair, he's been a rock. He's changed your compresses (water bowl kept at optimal temperature), given you medicine in intervals (timed and administered to the MINUTE), and even cooked you palatable meals (anything you could keep down, but namely the caldo recipe he got from your mom when he asked her what you ate when you're sick). He did everything short of rubbing Vick's vapo rub on you (not for lack of trying), all while keeping a level head and brushing aside your concerns over feeling like you're burdening him.

"You're my partner," he'd say matter-of-factly. "This is my job, ain't it?"

A rhetorical question. He said it as if it was an irrefutable truth, as if he hadn't even considered an alternative, as if the very thought of leaving you to fend off this cold by yourself was an affront to your relationship, scowl on his face and all.

His bedside manner needed work, but when he said those words to you... let's just say the flush rising up your face probably had nothing to do with the cold.

So, yeah. While you're happy to be feeling better, you can't help being a little disappointed that the doting will soon come to an end.

Which is why you now sit with your head resting in your hands, elbows on the kitchen bar, making the most of admiring a now unmasked Katsuki as he cooks your dinner on what will be the last of your "sick days."

You're unashamed in your ogling. You feel bold. It might be the relaxed atmosphere. It might be the way Katsuki let you wear his hoodie tonight... It might just be the cold medicine. You feel dozy, comfy, and so dopily content as you watch your boyfriend chop vegetables.

He does it with ease--so practiced that it's like he's on autopilot. His defenses are down, completely in his element.

"'Ya sure you want all this cooked in with your rice?" Now that you're feeling better, he's less inclined to hold his tongue about his thoughts on your childhood dishes.

You yawn and nod. "Mhm, it's the way my mami always makes it."

"Just sayin', I could make ya rice without all this extra stuff."

"It's a good thing you're not making rice, Katsuki." You pout dramatically for emphasis. "You're making sopita."

"Sopita," he repeats, shaking his head with a sideways grin. "Alright, babe. I've got you covered. Sopita coming right up."

You switch to resting your cheek in one hand, continuing to observe your boyfriend as he works. He looks so serene this way. With his smug little half smile, even his expression screams "relaxed"--very unlike his usual frown and furrowed brow.

You're not used to seeing him like this. Sure, you've seen him in a good mood, upbeat, excited, even downright elated, like on the day you agreed to go out with him.

Katsuki has always been an... expressive person, even when it doesn't grant him the most flattering of expressions.

Right now, though, while he's contented and caring for you in the comfort of your own home, his features are on display in such a way that you wonder if the cough syrup really is getting to you.

He looks almost...

Pretty...

"You're starin'."

You know you are. "Sorry," you laugh. "I was just thinking how it's a shame you have such a cara de fuchi most of the time, Kats. You're so pretty."

His head snaps toward you. "Fucking WHAT." The furrow is back in his brow. If you were paying proper attention, you'd notice the flush rising up his neck and the back of his ears, but your eyelids are feeling a bit heavy at this point.

You wave your free hand dismissively. "You know, cara de fuchi," you explain. You're sure you've used this phrase in front of him before. "Like you're a sour puss, you pull faces--"

"I'm not fucking pretty," he interrupts.

You open your eyes slightly to squint at him. "Pfft," you laugh. "Has no one ever told you that?"

"Hell, no." He turns back to the task at hand. Grumbling under his breath.

With his signature grimace making its return, the allure is gone; but now that you've seen it, you can't unsee it. He's beautiful. His eyes are a nice shape, and the crimson color of his irises is striking against his light complexion. The way his hair falls just above is strong browbone makes you want to push it back and rub at the scrunch between his brows. And you know he has soft lips, but on top of that, they're such a nice shade of pink. His jawline. His cheekbones. His chin.

It's a fundamental truth. Katsuki Bakugo is pretty.

You fold your arms on the island and press your cheek into the crook of your elbow. "I'm sure people would tell you more often if all the pretty wasn't covered up by your perpetual stank face."

Cue said stank face. He bumbles over his words in frustration for a second. "You're sick and loopy, stop bein' weird."

You giggle. "And you have a nice face when you're not acting chronically disgusted by the world."

He looks at you properly and you smile to yourself in pure delight and fondness.

"You're pretty when you're happy, Katsuki."

He deliberates over it for a moment, stank face semi relaxing. He's about to say something else when you cut into the silence with another yawn.

His gaze softens into an amused smirk as he reaches for your cheek and pinches softly. "Alright, alright. Don't fall asleep on me just yet, you gotta eat properly before goin' to bed."

You swat his hand away and rise to attention while rubbing your eyes. "Okay, okay. I'm up."

He smiles and goes back to cooking your half-prepared meal. "Ponte las pilas, or whatever the hell your mom says when you start lazin' around."

You huff at that. "I regret teaching you Spanish, you always pick up the worst phrases."

Katsuki barks out a laugh and you can't help the snort that follows as you giggle right along with him.

You two settle into the monotony of the last evening of your first of many sick days together. You're sure your boyfriend has had more than enough of witnessing you sick to satisfy stipulations. Suffice to say that he felt he knew you and your "sleepy freak tendencies" a bit better now.

There's definitely an addendum you'd make to that old saying, though: You'll never know how pretty someone is until you've seen them care for you while you're sick.

~°•*~

divider via cafekitsune

gif via ara-kan (deactivated)

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