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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 3 days

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Temporary Fix! || skirt chaser!Johnny

Rating: E Words: 4.1K~ CW: smut smut smut, a bit of BAD dirty talking, oral sex (m!receiving), protected piv sex, breath play (if you squint), praise kink (lots of 'that's it' + 1 'good girl'). Tags: afab!reader, fat/chubby!reader, you/your pronouns, one-night stand but more like one-week stand. Summary: Johnny's a dog who can't keep it in his pants. a/n: this is for my chubby gals and also for my @crashtestbunny because I wanted her to be able to read this and not have the previous cheating plot in place.

The thing about soldiers… Is that they tend to have lovers. As in, for as long as they stay deployed in a country, they’re bound to get themselves a toy they can have a shag with. Sometimes it’s prostitutes. Sometimes it’s regular women.

This is a lot more common for enlisted soldiers in the Army. The types that get deployed for 9 to 18 months at a time when they're very young, fighting in a war that keeps them far away from home for so long that they “can’t help” but seek affection from local women.

But that’s not to mean Special Forces soldiers, especially those kept on ‘stand by’, always ready for a quick deployment that, at most, lasts a month or two, don’t do it. They do.

John Alistair MacTavish is a grown man, not one of those young lads of 18, recently out basic, who need a whole to bury their cock in or else they'll die. But you wouldn’t think that, seeing as he's constantly seeking out action on the side.

He goes on and on about how childish those stupid recruits are, about some of his old mates who'd shag anything that walks... Only to then leave base with his team to end up at some bar or club in civvy clothes, find a nice bird or bloke (he’s not picky) and go home with them.

A hypocrite, any normal person would call him, a womanizer, a skirt chaser, a player... He’s not above calling himself that. But sometimes he just needs to decompress! That's his excuse anyway. Decompressing. Letting out pent-up aggression. Orgasms are great stress-relievers...

And as useful as his fist is, he’s not a sixteen-year-old anymore, rubbing one out in his bathroom during a quick shower. That just doesn’t cut it anymore. If he has the option to shag someone, why wouldn’t he?

Now that he’s in the 141, the philandering just gets much worse. Whenever they have downtime on a foreign location somewhere, a night free before they return to England, or a night before they get the go-ahead to go on a mission, what have you… He’s out getting himself a shag.

And, worse of all, he brings Gaz along.

Gaz doesn’t have the same issue, unlike Johnny, he can actually contain himself. Maybe that makes Gaz a bit bad too, because he knows that Soap has a tendency to chase like they owe him money... And he still enables him. He still goes out with his mate and they both get wasted and laid without a care.

Maybe Gaz doesn’t think it’s his place to intervene, or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to.

Camaraderie and all.

That’s how they ended up in a club downtown, flashing lights all around them, loud reggaeton playing through the speakers, men and women around them with more skin on display than they had covered rubbing their bodies, sipping drinks, spilling them over each other… Oh, the wonders of a Colombian night club.

They saw you before you saw them. Kyle tapping at Johnny’s shoulder as their eyes perused the space individually, then, he drew the Scot’s eyes to you, standing with your friends, laughing, drinking, softly swaying to the music.

Soft curves in a copper-colored dress that left little to the imagination, clinging tight to a round ass and a thick belly, the hem constantly pulled down by your hands, as it insisted on rolling up, up, up, exposing more of your smooth thighs than you wanted it to.

It didn’t stop you from still rolling your hips to the music, however, turning the fixing of your dress a near impossible task, repetitive, useless, and maddening, Sisyphus-and-his-stone.

Turning to each other, the two sergeants hands shot to the middle of their bodies, a quick rock-paper-scissors ensuing… which Johnny won.

And that’s how you ended up turning around to the sight of a foreigner with the broadest shoulders, thickest arms and pecs, and bluest eyes you’ve ever seen… As well as a mohawk, something you didn’t often see on… anyone, really.

He was a soldier, you could tell, even out of uniform. Not your first time seeing one, this being a city with a military base attached, and certainly not your last time being approached by one.

Oh, how soldiers seem to love fat women. You’ve experienced your fair few, many of them assuming your weight would equal desperation for love and affection, which would result in you accepting a rushed wedding for the sole purpose of getting him out of the barracks.

But you’re not desperate. Other than for a good lay, maybe.

“Erm… Hola.” The soldier in front of you says, blue eyes locked on your face for a surprisingly respectful amount of time considering the sinful cleavage that this dress and your bra give you.

His Spanish has the thickest accent you’ve ever heard, meaning he’s not American… But his pronunciation is off, so he’s clearly an English speaker. Though he’s not English either, you can tell.

“I speak English. Hi.” You told him, watching as he let out a little sigh of relief. Then, the corner of his mouth popped up in a dirty little smirk.

“Well, tha’ makes it easier. Hi.” He replied. “I saw ye from over there… Was wonderin’ if I can buy ye a drink?” He offered. Only then did he allow his blue eyes to slither down, down, down, trailing every inch of your exposed skin down to the black ankle booties you’re wearing, thick, square heels to prevent your hamstrings from feeling the pain of stilettos the next morning.

“Why?” You decided to ask him with a cocked brow, forcing his eyes to shoot upward to meet your face again, locking onto yours with a surprised expression.

“Why, what, pretty thing?” He replied, his own brows, thick, straight, rising up to meet his hairline. He’s confused, his eyes blinking a bit. His intentions had been clear as day. Obvious enough for you to pick up on, but you’re playing dumb, or maybe hard to get.

“Why do you wanna buy me a drink?” You asked him as you dipped your head to the side, your eyes slowly trailing over every inch of his handsome face. Those blue eyes of his are locked on you, pupils slightly dilated, hands hanging off his hips, fingers looped onto the belt loops of his jeans.

“Because you’re proper beautiful.” He replied. Your cocked brow and unimpressed glances up and down, cause him to continue. “And I’d love to take you home, find out what you’ve got on under that dress, and make sure your neighbors hate you from today onward.”

His words are crude, his voice loud and crass, disregarding the public space you’re in, the fact that there are others around, not just your friends, but complete strangers too. Maybe he’s hoping they won’t understand English. But they do. Hell, your girlfriends look at you and exchange coy looks with you, before them, and you, break into a fit of giggles.

He looks at them, noticing they caught what he said, even through the loud music, but then looks at you again. “So? What do you say?” His brogue is getting easier and easier to listen to with every word he says.

Rolling your head to the side, your squint your eyes at him and then shrug. “Do you have to buy me a drink for that?” You challenge him, your eyes snapping back and forth between his own, almost taunting him with your inquiry.

“Not if you don’t want to.” He tells you, eyes lit ablaze and a smirk on his lips.

So, you simply grab him by the arm, bid farewell to your friends, with a wave, and grab your clutch from the table, before dragging him out of the club.

Johnny was expecting a flat, a home, maybe even a university dorm room considering your age. What a surprise it came to him to find you taking him up to a hotel. Not that he’d complain when he noticed the large king-sized bed and the large view, providing a beautiful view of the illuminated city of Cartagena.

His hands were on your broad hips before you even got to closing the door, his mouth clashing onto yours as he pushed you against the wall by the door, calloused hands already sliding over the slinky fabric of your silky dress, tugging it up, so they could slip underneath.

His tongue pushed into your mouth, wet and drooling, saliva traded between your mouths as his strong fingers caught hold of a greedy handful of your ass, digging into the supple flesh and groaning in delight at just the feeling of you at his fingertips.

Your own hands already slid up and around his torso, feeling him up through the fabric of his t-shirt, before sliding down to pull the navy blue fabric out of its tuck into his jeans, rolling it up to expose a strong, bulky body covered in a generous amount of body hair.

Your lips broke apart for a moment, only long enough for you to take off his shirt, tossing it onto an armchair in the corner, and for him to unzip the side-zipper of your dress, taking it off you too.

Then, he grabbed you around the thighs, causing you to shriek, as he bounded for the bed, dropping you so hard onto it you almost swore you’d bounce off. Still wearing his jeans, he slotted himself between your parted thighs, his body bending over yours.

His stubble scratched your neck as he kissed you all over, licking stripes of your skin as his hands pulled off your boots, unfastened your bra… They were surprisingly nimble for such a hulking man. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Johnny cooed as he let his eyes run down your body.

He dragged his mouth down from your neck, across you clavicle, over one of your breasts, and caught your nipple between his teeth, beginning to suck on it, noticing how you hissed a bit, leaning back on your elbows as he did so.

One of his hands caught your other breast, grabbing and carefully kneading it between his fingers, as his eyes shot up to your face, blue irises beneath a pair of dark eyelashes, fluttering slowly as his pupils blew out from how horny he was. His other hand found your black panties and pulled them aside, (more so ripped them with how aggressive he pulled on them), the rough and calloused pads of his fingers catching your lips immediately and beginning to slide up and down, running over your slit.

The moment his cracked fingertips grazed your clit, you whined, your legs spreading apart even more, your body jumping a bit. “Fuck…” You grumbled under your breath, your eyes locked on his face and the way he eagerly played with your nipple.

“Relax.” Johnny told you once he let go of your nipple. Then, he rolled his tongue around in his mouth, collecting some saliva, before letting it drip onto your slit, his fingers catching it and spreading it quickly as he resumed playing with your clit, hand craning in order to push a finger inside.

“Oh fuck…” You moaned softly, hips bucking up against his hand, following his ministrations as he pushed a second finger inside of you and hooked them up to graze your g-spot, pumping them in and out, the rugged feel of his cracked fingertips drawing a surprisingly pleasant sensation of pleasure from the depths of your soul.

His other hand moved away from your breasts in order to undo his belt, leaving it to hang around his waist as he also undid his jeans, sliding them and his boxer briefs down one-handed, in order to allow his cock to spring free.

Your eyes lock onto it as he continues fingering you, a bit sloppy and rough, his palm pressed to your clit and his fingers constantly drawing a ‘come hither’ motion inside your wet walls.

His cock is stubby, shorter than some of the men you’ve been with, but so thick you can’t help but wonder just how he’ll make it fit inside of you, and how straining the stretch of it will be. It’s heavy too, uncut, hanging down even while already full-mast, too heavy to spring back against his belly button. His balls are heavy too, full, round and strained as he continues to play with you, watching your reactions to his touch.

“You like what you see, huh?” He asks you, noticing the way your eyes don’t slip far from his cock before returning to it, watching it lay against one of your smooth thighs, the ruddy color and constant twitching only bringing more attention it as it rubs against your skin, dripping pre-cum over your stretch marks.

“Mhm…” You reply softly as your hand reaches down to tug at it, carefully wrapping around it and drawing it up and down over his length, only letting go to cup his taut balls and fondle them a few times.

“Tha’s it…” He murmurs and hisses under his breath as he looks you right in the eyes. “Wanna be good f’r me?” He coos at you, and you nod in reply as you bite your lip. “How about you get on your knees and let me see how you suck me off, hm?”

Nodding, you untangle yourself from around him, his fingers slipping out of you, as you took your spot on the floor, the soldier having been caring enough to toss a pillow from the bed onto the floor to cushion your knees.

He sits on the edge of the bed, strong, muscular thighs spread open, as you sunk your mouth onto him, without so much as a second’s worth of hesitation. The stretch as you tried to swallow as much of him as you can tugged at the corners of your mouth, making them feel a bit sore, your jaw already protesting at the size of him. But that doesn’t stop you.

You start lapping at the underside of his cock eagerly, wetting him as much as possible to make sure you could continue taking him down your throat. The sounds he was making were sinful, low groans and grunts, hissing through his teeth, one hand carefully fisting the bed covers.

He carefully gathered your hair away from your face, gripping it one handed. “Tha’s it… Greedy thign you are, wanna take all of my fat cock in your mouth, hm?” He goaded a bit as he looked down at you between his legs.

Any other time, any other place, any other man, you’d already be pulling off him, getting dressed, telling him to fuck off… But something in this soldier’s voice, in his accent, the growl behind his voice, the spark in his eyes…

Maybe you are just desperate for a good lay with the thickest cock you’ve ever seen… But you don’t complain. You simply nod at him and bobbed your head even more enthusiastically, lips struggling to glide up and down his length, spread open sinfully to accommodate his size.

“Tha’s a good girl…” He praises, his free hand coming to grip you at the back of your neck, tugging you slowly, forward, to make you swallow more of him down into your throat, making you gag and sputter on his length, sloppily drooling around the size of him, saliva drooling down your chin and onto the carpeted floor of your hotel room.

“Pretty fucking thing… Gonna make that make-up run, hm?” He offers as he pulled you off and back onto his cock, moving your head for you. “Show some attention to that pretty pussy of yours, go on.” He demands, causing you to nod.

One of your hands found your wet slit between your legs, sliding two fingers inside, which felt like not nearly enough after having had his own, and considering the fat cock that would soon replace them, but you’d make do.

“Both hands, don’t be coy now.” He added. Your eyes widen, already anticipating the loss of balance that’d come from the lack of support from your free hand holding you up on the bed. But you do as you’re told, trying your best to keep a perch on your knees as your other hand starts slowly padding at your clit, rolling circles with it.

When you inevitably lose balance, as you knew you would, the soldier simply pulls you forward against him, making you bury your nose against his pelvis, swallowing his cock in its entiry, causing you to choke and gag, trying to catch a breath through your nose. He, in turn, lets out a loud groan of delight, eyes rolling back, as he feels the warm wetness of your throat.

“Keep your hands where they are.” He demands of you, preventing you from trying to pull away and find balance again with your hands on the bed or the floor or his thighs. You can barely do much more than nod against his hip.

He hooks a leg over your shoulder, pinning you close to him, while his hips begin to rock into your mouth, blindly and sloppily, making you gag more and more, more saliva slipping down from your parted lips, making a mess of him and yourself. “Tha’s it… yeah… just what I fuckin’ needed… Such a good girl f’r me…” He grunts as his hand swipes your hair out of your face as it slips from his grip.

“You like this?” He asks you as he abuses your mouth and your throat, while you sputter and try to fruitlessly breathe between each thrust of his into your throat. Nodding pathetically, mouth to full to speak, you whimper against him, making him shiver and shudder. “Of course you do… greedy fuckin’ mouth…”

He only pulls you off him after another couple of minutes, which felt like an eternity, allowing you to catch your breath only for long enough for him to pull you onto the bed, bending you over at the hips, presenting your round ass to him.

“Mmmmm, look at you…” He grunts out as he ruts his cock between your ass cheeks while tugging your head back at the scalp, causing your back to arch ever so slightly, your tits still pressed against the bed covers. “Round fuckin’ arse… Gonna love see it jiggle f’r me…”

He lets go of you again for a moment only to paw at your ass cheeks with one hand, while the other blindly looks for his wallet in his jeans. “Find me a condom, will ye?” He asks as he tosses the leather wallet next to your head, while he steps out of his jeans, underwear and boots, finally.

While looking for the little clip pocket containing them, you spot his military identification very briefly. It makes you realize you didn’t even ask him his name… Nor did he ask for yours. A green and white striped card titled ‘British Army’, with the name ‘John MacTavish’ and some extra info you don’t really pay attention to. John. That’s his name…

Once you pass him one of the silver wrappers, Johnny rips it open and puts on the slick condom quickly, barely waiting a moment before slipping himself inside of you, down to the hilt in one swift motion. You find yourself squirming against the bed covers with a whine, while he groans loudly behind you.

Although the stretch was still wildly bigger than any other man you’ve been with before, it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as you expected it too… probably because you were wetter and more eager than you expected.

He starts rutting inside of you immediately, huffing through clenched teeth as his big hands grip your ass cheeks and keep you spread open. His fingers dig deeply onto your extra fat, squeezing and kneading it, his blue eyes glued to the way your puffy lips part and stretch to swallow him whole. “Beautiful fuckin’ sight…”

“Fuck… Just like that… Don’t stop…” You beg him and whine loudly, fisting the white bed covers and digging your nails into them, your face resting on them sideways, sliding back and forth with each thrust of his.

You’re sure the hotel staff is going to have a field day washing the duvet, your make-up already staining the white fluffy fabric, sliding down with the sweat, and dragging across with each motion of your head.

You can barely speak or think, moaning in turn with him, each thrust of his causing you to croon and whimper in delight, his fat cock hitting you at every possible angle and rubbing every inch of your walls, the veins dragging against your g-spot, the condom barely there.

“Yeah… ye like tha’? Huh? Ye like it?” He coos at you, already slightly out of breath, hips barelling against your plump ass, making it jiggle as he bounces himself off them.

“Oh, fuck yes…!” You whine loudly. His hands slide up to find your hip, pushing you down against the mattress so he can shift more of his weight onto you, pumping at a downward angle, causing you to shriek desperately.

“Oh yeah…” Johnny grunts and starts huffing atop you, leaning all his weight atop of you as he pounds his hips against yours, his breath ragged against your shoulder and hair. “Fuck… Yer cunts feels so fuckin’ good…” He murmurs in your ear, his thick accent becoming.

“Oh, God…” You whimper, shuddering beneath him, feeling the familiar knot tightening in your stomach, each of his strong thrusts rattling every fiber of your being. “John…”

“Oh… tha’s it… Moan my name…” He orders as one of his hands suddenly shoots up and grips you by the back of the neck. “Moan my name…” He insists as he throws his hips down onto yours.

“John!” You call out, doing as you’re told, panting for air as he pushes your face harder into the mattress, slowing his thrusts down and bottoming out inside you each time at a slower pace.

Good thing he did too… Because the knot in your stomach only tightens more and more and more, and then snaps, making you cry out loudly with a choked moan that gets half-caught in your throat as your walls suddenly clamp down around him, tightening the grip on his fat shaft.

“Oh fuck…” Johnny grunts and picks up the pace again, grasp your hip as hard as his hands can, a bruising grip that’ll definitely leave a mark, as he pounds into your weeping cunt again and again and again…

He finally comes, losing his balance and landing on his elbows and forearms on either side of your body, his chest against your back, out of breath, as much as you, even though you feel like you barely did anything other than take him.

“Fuck… I needed that…” He grumbles under his breath as he speaks against your shoulder blade, before leaning up and biting at your earlobe. “That feel good f’r ye?” He whispers in your ear, an earnest question, receiving a little nod from you. “Good…”

Slowly, he pulled himself up, slipping his softening cock from you and rolling the condom off. “So… how long are ye and yer friends stayin’ here?” He asks you nonchalantly while tying off the condom.

“Are you trying to make small talk…?” You ask him, surprised that you can even find a voice or string together a coherent sentence in the aftermath of that. You try your best to drag yourself up and over onto the bed, and once you succeed, you look at him languidly.

“No. I have a reason to ask.” He assures you as he tosses the condom into the paper bin under the desk in the corner, before shuffling back over to you on the bed, lying lazily next to you, an arm behind his head, the other on his stomach.

“Four more days.” You tell him, and he nods at the reveal of information. You roll your head to the side to look at him, both of your bodies sweaty and sticky, your make-up undoubtedly a mess, not that he shows it in the way he looks at you… And even if he did, he’d likely only show pride at making you look like that.

“Well… I’m comin’ to pay ye a visit every night until then.” He tells you, before wrapping his free arm around you, pulling you close. “I plan on gettin’ that tight cunny wrapped around my cock fer as long as I can.”

yes, this is a repost of the original "Temporary Fix." but without the cheating :)

#ikea writes 💚#cod x reader #cod fanfic #masterlist #call of duty #cod fandom #john soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap cod #cod smut #smut #johnny mactavish smut #johnny mactavish is a mutt

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tangledinink · 9 months

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tie them to gift the pb&j villain duo with homemade alchemical weapons <3 <3 <3 @onionninjasstuff @tmntseparatedaucompetition

#rn they are almost perfectly tied and it is BEAUTIFUL lets MAINTAIN THIS #gemini mikey would fucking adore these guys he would love them so much #he wants to recruit them in his army so bad #propaganda #tmnt sep comp #pbj villain au #gemini au #crossovers

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thegnomelord · 2 months

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If you're up to it, I would like to request FtM reader x dragon Price, reader can be dom or sub I just need more FtM things in life besides myself😞😞 -🐆

Sure, I wasn't in the mood for porn so have some fluff. fair warning I'm not all that confident writing FTM reader so ya'll tell me if this sucks lol

CW: SFW, gender dysphoria, fluff, non sexual nudity, cuddling, scar kissing

Most day are good for you. Most days you're able to get out of bed and go about your day to day duties with confidence.

Not today.

You wake before your alarm with an unpleasant feeling in your gut, tossing and turning for an hour in hopes of falling asleep but it's useless. The morning chill only amplifies the horrid sensation — your skin doesn't feel like your own, your body doesn't feel your own. It's like roaches are crawling beneath your skin, thousands of toothpicks stabbing your nerves every time the cotton of your boxers brushes against your flawed flesh. Old words of people you once considered friends ring in your head like church bells: You're not a real man, you'll never be.

All you are, is a badly made replica in the approximation of what you want to be.

Your bones feel like they're lined with lead, every cell in your body begging you to stay under the covers in the darkness of your room for however long it takes for this feeling to go away. But the sharp ringing of the alarm forces you to rise against your wishes. You don't look at yourself when you shower, but the small glimpse of skin you catch in the mirror makes bile burn the back of your throat. Usually you're proud of your torso and the muscles you've built, but all you can think now as you put on the tight fitting army shirt is how wrong it looks on you. You try to pull on the front a couple of times in an attempt to make it baggier around your chest, before just putting on a jacket regardless that it's the middle of summer.

Recruit duty makes a bad day even worse, adding a headache alongside the discomfort and anxiety that straddle your brain. You hate how snappy and agitated you are with them, running them through grueling drills until they regret being born and have probably called you every name under the sun in their heads. The all collapse when you're finally finished with them, stepping away from them. The day's heat made you sweat like a pig, another round of bile burning the back of your throat at how your clothes stick to you.

You flinch back when a hand grabs your shoulder, quickly whirling around to look who it is with a sharp retort burning on your tongue, only to fizzle out when you're met with Price's face.

Your name sounds so right when he says it, the scent of tobacco curling in your nose as he steps closer to you, wing stretching out to subtly hang over you. "What's going on lad?" Price asks, his voice low, like taking a sip of cool water.

The question makes you hesitate, unable to meet his gaze so you fixate on counting the little chips in the concrete floor. "Just one of those days." You grunt, your voice hoarse and scratchy from belting orders all day.

Price hums in thought and then you feel his wing bump against your back, "Follow me soldier." The deep timber of his voice silences some of the dark thoughts crooning in your ears, and you're helpless to do anything but follow after him like a lost lamb. He leads you back to his room (that you haunt most nights), the place blessedly cool and dark compared to the heat outside.

The second the door closes and locks he pulls you in close, wrapping his steady arms around you and pushing your face into the pillowy bosom of his pecs. You struggle for a moment out of pure instinct, but a single call of your name makes you stop like a puppet on cut strings. He repeats your name like a caress, rolling every syllable on his tongue as his chest rumbles with a deep purr.

You melt into him, nuzzling your nose into the deep valley of his pecs and breathing in his smell. He's more intoxicating than any drug you know; beneath the scents of tobacco, dark coffee, and manly musk there's always something that your mind associates with freshly cut grass and rain on dry gravel — Comfort.

"You're so smart and clever." He croons, resting his chin on top of yours, one hand tracing the curve of your back. "But by god are you a dumb muppet." There's no edge to his words, you don't even think of fighting his admonishments. "How many times have I told you to come to me if you feel like this?"

Too many times, to be honest. You're stubborn if nothing else, you always think you can handle this on your own, you don't want to burden him whenever your mind decides to be a dick to you. "I'm sorry." You mumble into his shirt, your hands slowly wrapping around his thick waist. It always does your head in how your fingers can't quite meet in the middle of his back with how broad he is, muscle and fat shifting beneath your hands.

"Sure you are." He tuts, evidently not believing you for a second. But he doesn't pull away, tail loosely wrapping around your leg and his scent and heat enveloping you, his chest vibrating against your face. "Going to let me take care of my boy, aren't you?" The way he phrases it makes it sound like a statement, and you're unable to resist it.

Your mouth goes dry, your body stuck between wanting more and abhorring any more physical contact. But you nod your head, grumbling something probably nonsensical. And any other day you'd laugh your ass off about the fact you're practically motorboating him, but not today. Today you barely have any energy left to think.

"That's my boy." He purrs, clawed fingers gently scratching your scalp. "Shower?" He asks.

You pause, trying to string together a tangible thought. You doubt you could handle that, not with how dark and heavy your head feels. "No." You croak and nuzzle further into his chest in an attempt to hide.

"S'alright, I'm proud of you." He hums, still holding you close as he shuffles across the room with you blindly following him. "Let's get you out of those sweaty clothes, yeah?" Getting a single nod from you, he starts to slowly take off your clothes, pulling back just enough to distract you with sweet kisses. You try to help in taking his clothes off, but you feel about as useful as a small child helping his parents cook, getting a few chuckles from him.

You wind up gently pushed down on your back, spread across his bed that smells just like him and naked as the day you were born. Before the discomfort can make you shy away and try to cover yourself, he's settling down next to you, claws scraping against your jaw as he pulls you into a slow kiss. You swear you can always taste a bit of eternity every time he kisses you, so unhurried like you'll last as long as him.

"Look at you." He hums as you part, his hands sliding down your shoulders and arms to your hips. "My handsome boy." He tilts his head to kiss all over your face, trailing his lips from your brows to your eyelids, cheeks, nose, chin to wherever else he can reach. His beard is soft against your skin, evidently he'd used that beard care product you'd given him. "So strong and capable. My strong knight."

That gets the first vestige of a chuckle out of you. "Does that mean I get to lay the dragon?" You ask, your lips tugging into a small smirk. You've made that joke god knows how many times, but despite his gripes, Price loves it.

"Cheeky wanker." He huffs, his cool clawed fingers trailing along the curve of your muscles up your torso. "Later, if you're good."

A low sound escapes you when his thumbs brush the even scars beneath your pecs. "Good?" He asks, waiting for you to nod before tilting his head down, horns gently poking your skin for a second before he starts kissing along your scars. His touch is gentle like you're a precious treasure in his hoard, his lips velvet soft against the rough scar tissue. Every brush of his lips makes your skin tingle like a live wire, fire simmering in the place he kisses as he trails from one side to the other, laying equal attention on every inch of your scars.

It's pleasant. Beyond pleasant. It leaves your chest feeling so warm and full like your heart will burst through your ribcage.

You feel like a melted puddle of goo by the time he pulls away to kiss you on the lips again. You don't struggle as he lays down on his side and pulls you to him. A pleased sigh escapes you as you feel his wing drape over you like a blanket, tail curling around one of your legs and arms wrapping around your waist; like he's making sure you can't escape (not that you'd want to.)

Dragons are strange, the scales cool against your skin but his core is hot like a furnace, the duality of it calming your mind. "How are you feeling lad?" He asks, the low timber of his voice vibrating his chest.

You hum and nuzzle into his pecs, the ample chest hair tickling your face. "Better." You grunt, blindly kissing what inch of flesh you can reach. You can't keep your hands from wandering, petting the dark hair of his happy trail as your other hand traces the scales on his side. "Could feel better with a bit more attention though."

A snort leaves him, his breath ghosting over your ear. "You're insatiable." His words would be a lot more insulting if his chest didn't vibrate with a continuous purr, his tail tightening for a second before relaxing.

"You're to blame." You feel better as the words leave you, your chest light as a feather as you get to share a small laugh with him.

"Get some rest, my boy," You hum, your eyelids already starting to feel heavy as you feel him nuzzle his cheek into your hair. You don't doubt the whole base will be able to smell him on you tomorrow. "We'll see about laying dragons later."

"I love you." You murmur into his flesh, his pecs becoming the world's best pillow as you nuzzle closer. You stay awake just long enough to hear him murmur his love for you in your ear.

#gnome's tea break #🐆anon #gnome correspondence #cod mw2 #x reader #male reader #captain john price #trinkets from the hoard #captain john price x male reader #captain john price x reader #ftm reader #john price x male reader #cod modern warfare #cod x male reader #x male reader #x sub male reader

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evermoreal · 4 months

Text

it always leads to you ࿐

pairing: simon riley x reader

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

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

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

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

word count: 11k (sorry 😭)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— ∘♡༉∘ —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“sir yes sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“is my handsome face really so daunting?”

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

“but you’re not? now?”

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

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

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

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

— ∘♡༉∘ —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”what’s wrong? are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

“no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“your harley is a death machine.”

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

“you should be driving slow now.”

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

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

“that was four minutes ago.”

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

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

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

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

“and a jacket?”

“uh.”

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

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

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

“you always pick up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“it’s nothing.”

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

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

a spark lit his gaze. “what’d he do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“let’s go, yeah?”

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

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

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

you nodded. “mmhmm.”

“i need to hear your words, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“it wasn’t that bad of a bar.”

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

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

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

he was being kind, nothing else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you grinned. “it sounds lovely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah, yeah. please. want that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mean what, love?”

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

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

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gayelderstourney · 10 months

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OLD MAN YAOI BRACKET ROUND 1

Propaganda:

Bob Zanotto/Helmut Fullbear:

THEY LITERALLY MADE MR CRY THE FIRST TIME I PLAYED THE GAME. THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH AND THEY FINALLY GET TO BE HAPPY TOGETHER. YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH THEY MEAN TO ME.

they are married in canon and are epic and amazing. they had sad canon events where bob thought helmut was dead for like 30 years or something but helmut WASN'T dead his brain was still alive and they are reunited in the game first by way of stealing an evil dictator's body and then later on they put helmut's brain in a ball as a temporary fix while they go out to find his body which has been frozen in ice. the game forces you to walk through bob's memory of saying his vows at their wedding ceremony and it's seriously some of the most romantic and heartwarming shit i've ever heard, especially "just when i thought i was turning to seed, you made me bloom again" like my god. i love them

they're gay and old as hell!!!! there's a level dedicated to their wedding!!!

Helmut is voiced by Jack Black and is currently a brain in a ball, and Bob knows him so well that the mental image of him in his drunken mind says things Bob KNOWS the real Helmut would never say. Also Helmut is temporarily in the body of a guy voiced by Elijah Wood-

Craig Cuttlefish/DJ Octavio:

well you see they used to be friends but were on opposite sides of the great turf war. cuttlefish gets a 14 year old to go stop octavios army. also they argue in splatoon 3 which is just part of the 100+ year divorce arc BUT AT THE FINAL BOSS IN THE JAPANESE VERSION THEY SHARE THE ICONIC LINE THAT CUES THE CALAMARI INKANTATION AND IN THE ENGLISH CUTTLEFISH TELLS OCTAVIO TO "HIT IT" AND START THE MUSIC AND MUSIC IS SO IMPORTANT TO THE SPLATOON UNIVERSE YAAAAA ik its grasping but its lovers to enemies

Literally I have seen so many people call this old man yaoi.

Old men divorce!!!

They're old men who made their divorce the problem of every young person in their lives <3. 100 years ago during the Great Turf War between inklings and octarians, Craig and Octavio were the chosen ambassadors of their respective species. They got along well, but unfortunately found themselves on opposite sides of the war. During one of the battles Craig shot Octavio in the heart. The inlkings won the war and the octarians were forced underground. For years afterward both men grew bitter towards each other, and eventually Octavio attacked the new Squidbeak Splatoon (a group of secret agents recruited by Craig). Octavio lost both times and got imprisoned in a giant snow globe (and Craig calls him cute). In the latest game Octavio got over his hatred for Inklings (Craig's species) and used his flying mech to help defeat the BBEG of the game. After the final fight, Craig said something to the effect of 'that old rascal turned out to be not so bad!'.

Alright ok hear me out! These two old men have fought in wars for their races against each other and have the craziest pathetic old man homoerotic tension ever. They like, went from at least respecting each other before the war and then they were forced to fight each other and then when Cuttlefish's side won, Octavio went underground like a pathetic lil wet cat and later on he kidnapped Cuttlefish because of game related reasons and both of them still have way too much homoerotic tension!!! And then Octavio gets owned and then in the second game Octavio decides that "Hey actually, lets kidnap Cuttlefish's granddaughter" and the old man isnt even there cause hes busy being a pathetic old man in the under-underground!!! And in the third game they go fron rival/enemies to reluctantly working together to save the world from actual extinction bc some durry bitch wants to cover it in fuzzy ooze and like, both of them have so much old man ship potential and just- theyre still pining for each other even after over a 100 years man,,,,

I personally headcanon Cap'n Cuttlefish as homophobic, but I see the ship a lot and think it's funny.

They’re both at least like 125 probably a bit older, they are so divorced, like peak lovers to enemies back to lovers, Cap’n Cuttlefish calls Octavio cute in Splatoon one immediately after you rescue him from Octavio kidnapping him? So dysfunctional, so gay, so old

They fought in the Great Turf War which was said to be over 100 years ago, Capn Cuttlefish was, well, a captain I believe (he had some sort of rank even if he wasn't a captain, like he led a battle that's singled out in the sunken scrolls of the first game). they act so divorced in the singleplayer mode like they cannot stop insulting each other specifically but octavio always comes back and like kidnaps or insults captain cuttlefish it's so. and when the great zapfish gets stolen in splatoon 3 captain cuttlefish is like "it's the octarians again i know it" like divorced behavior. also it wasn't this time and octavio gets super weird about it. maybe you should stop using children as props in your drama though.

my favorite war crime divorcees <3

They basically are friends to enemies to lovers. Both of them fought in a war that hurt DJ Octavio so bad he can’t become an inkling.

friends -> enemies -> lovers. what more is there to say

they are soooo divorced

they were so gay their breakup ended a war

Craig Cuttlefish got sucked dry by a bear

they got divorced but then they got remarried . they fuckinf hate eachother but they also make out sloppy style and i do not know how that works because neither of them have mouths in their swim form which they are both permanently stuck in. love wins but also loses at the same time with these fucking losers

they are sooo divorced omg. istg they were dating when they were younger and then war n shit happened and now theyre bitter exes who probably still make out sometimes. Makes it so much funnier that theyre old ass men (both over 100!) and Cuttlefish has grandkids

They were on opposite sides of a war and still fell in love

#im so sorry psychonauts fans but cuttletavio had the most submissions. so.#polls #round 1 #gay elders tourney #tournament poll #psychonauts #helmut fullbear #bob zanotto #splatoon #craig cuttlefish #dj octavio #cuttletavio

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seeker-of-stories19 · 3 months

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Autistic Ghost Headcannons

- Intentionally ignores social cues

- Scowls all the time at everything and everyone but usually not on purpose

- Takes full advantage of his ear defenders and balaclava to avoid sensory experiences he dislikes

- Incredibly restrictive eating, often chooses to go hungry rather than touch something he dislikes

- One of his favorite stims is smelling Soaps hair

- Gets overstimulated by certain things but is also very sensory seeking in other ways

- Wears tight gloves and sleeps under four weighted blankets because he likes the pressure

- Stims by making a tight fist, chewing his lips, scratching, hitting himself, leaning against things, rocking, pacing, rubbing the seam of his balaclava, tapping his ear defenders

- One track mind, he hates switching tasks and never does more than one thing at once unless it’s a hundred percent necessary

- Wears a mask largely to hide his scars and identity but it has the added benefit of keeping him from having to worry about making the correct facial expressions

- Very prone to dissociation

- Violent meltdowns, tends to have a vicious temper and destroy everything around him, hurting himself or anyone else unfortunate enough to cross his warpath

- But eventually when he’s in private he ends up just curling into himself and crying and rocking like he did as a kid

- It makes him feel incredibly vulnerable and he goes to extreme lengths to avoid the meltdowns which is a huge part of why they’re so bad

- Only Johnny and sometimes Price can calm him down

- Everyone else just thinks he has an explosive temper for no reason

- Ties his boots dangerously tight to get more sensory input

- Thrives under military routines but ignores rules that don’t make sense

- This definitely caused problems with COs in the past but Price is way more understanding and generally the 141 gets a lot of leniency on rules because of the type of work they do and the specific value of their skill sets

- Soap sleeps on top of him and always squeezes his hand a little too hard

- Hides in his room when overstimulated and shuts down completely, will literally disassociate for hours until Soap finds him

- Obsessively neat, nothing is ever anywhere other than where it’s supposed to be

- Doesn’t mind loud sounds but hates multiple sounds at once

- Explosions and gunfire are usually fine as long as he has his headphones but people talking and eating all at once in the mess makes him want to cry

- Absolutely despises crowds and will get very agitated and pissed off before eventually checking out until Johnny can get him back to a quiet space

- Soap letting him have the best vantage point when they go out because of how bad Simons PTSD and sensory issues are and he trusts Simon to watch his six

- Drinks but never to the point of being drunk

- Has the shittiest temperature regulation ever, gets so overheated but can’t figure out why and would freeze to death if it wasn’t for Soap making him put on layers because he’s basically immune to the cold

- Other than keeping his space clean which is mostly because it’s been beaten into him by his dad and then the army to the point where having a messy space will send him into a panic attack he’s a disaster. He never remembers to bring his dishes over to the tiny kitchen in the 141s rec room and routinely stares at things for days unable to complete simple tasks until he gets so pissed he ends up crying

- Price used to get annoyed by it and they’ve all three harassed him about it but once they realize that he’s genuinely struggling all three of them step in to make things easier for him, helping clean up his stuff in common spaces and wash dishes

- Soap definitely helps him with his laundry but only at 3am when he suddenly has the urge to do his own because ADHD

- His interoception is appalling, he’ll be furious and yell at recruits or just look at people like he wants to kill them on missions until Johnny leans over to subtly remind him that he hasn’t gone to the bathroom or eaten anything in eight hours

- Is fluent in BSL and uses it to communicate with Price when he’s in a verbal shutdown

- Soap and Gaz ask Price to teach them secretly and when they start signing to Ghost one day he’s absolutely shocked

- Generally he gets by with everyone else by grunting and scowling, people are too scared of him to call him out

- Most of his masking relies on peoples fear of him even though it often makes him feel even less human and it’s a vicious downward spiral

- Soap not being afraid of him was a really big deal because of this but also lead to him being really freaked out and unsure how to handle his prying

- Soap just finds him impossibly endearing and loves all the hidden little movements and noises he makes when they’re alone

- Lets Simon use his hands to fidget under the table during meetings

- Even though Soap isn’t the best at social cues himself he takes up explaining things to Ghost subtly whenever he can

- When Simon comes to his room to ask him about something someone said for the first time he’s ecstatic and considers it a great victory

- While a lot of Simons stims are more subtle or at least misinterpreted Soap will absolutely get hyped up when he’s stimming and start jumping or rocking or flapping his hands eagerly

- Soap sends him adhd x autism memes all the time and encourages Ghost to send back anything that interests him even if he thinks Soap won’t like it

- Is shocked to realize how strong Ghosts special interests are as his phone turns into a constant flood of articles and artwork about things Ghost loves

- Included but not limited to guns, puzzles, animal anatomy and bones, flowers (specifically the meanings of flowers) and many others

- Taking things apart and putting them back together, usually his rifle but will generally do it with everything from pens to knives

- Hoards weird things like old ink cartridges and bullet casings

- Has an unbelievable memory for details of old missions, can remember building layouts from over five years ago

- Soap’s room is so chaotic they barely spend time there because of how much it stresses Ghost out

- Generally they just balance each other out well with Simon being aggressively introverted and Soap being just as extroverted

- He pushes Simon a bit outside of his comfort zone and helps him socialize while Ghost reigns him in

- No one else really gets how they operate in the field except each other

- Soap was professionally diagnosed in school while Ghost was professionally diagnosed after Roba under a fake name with Price’s help so it’s not officially on his military record

- Ghost is actually very okay with how his brain works because it’s made him who he is and allowed him to surpass the regular limitations of a soldier

- He struggles more in his personal life but being around Soap heals a deep part of him that he’s buried since early childhood

- They understand each other like no one else ever has

#autistic simon ghost riley #soap mctavish has adhd #call of duty #soapghost headcannons #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghoap #cod mw2 #soap cod #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish

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star-ocean-peahen · 4 months

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The more you think about Jason Grace's life, the more fucked up it gets.

Like, the whole "joined Camp Jupiter as a three year old" thing. We already know Camp Jupiter is fucked up because it places heavy importance on a child army, despite having plenty of demigod adults at hand, but they straight up recruited a three year old into the military. He showed up and got promptly stuck in a barrack for the rest of his childhood.

Like, why?? Why on earth would they do that instead of giving him to someone in New Rome to raise and inducting him into the legion at a respectable twelve??

And who raised him anyway?? A rotating cast of nineteen-year-old demigods?? His bunkmates in the Fifth?? If he was a young teenager I could see that, but he arrived when he was three, was he even potty-trained??? Did he just grow up being educated by bored teenagers and ghosts, watching as demigods arrived and served and retired, being told that he had to be the greatest of them all?? Did he have any other children to grow up with?? Did the legion even consider him different than the other recruits, or did he have to shovel unicorn dung when he forgot his phonics and live with the constant threat of perhaps being sewn into a bag of weasels??

I find it odd that Jason, as a demigod who grew up in a demigod's world, doesn't have his unique perspective explored more. I find it especially odd that the difference between his childhood and everyone else's is ignored. However difficult and varied everyone else's backgrounds are, they've at least attended a school. They had parents, and family, and a home, at least at one point. They had mortal toys and dwellings and communities that weren't merged inextricably with the myths. They knew where they came from. Do you think Jason, with his powerful, kingly father and impending destiny, ever felt like he didn't know who his family was?

I also find it strange that he doesn't seem to have a very wide network of friends from Camp Jupiter? He has Reyna, who he trusts and works with and depends on. He lists Hazel and Frank among his friends, but they look up to him as a role model. He mentions Bobby and Dakota familiarly, but never again. He's familiar and on good terms with basically everyone—but the only person he seems to consider as a close friend is Reyna. And that wouldn't be odd if he hadn't grown up at Camp Jupiter. He doesn't seem to have any constant companion—anyone he considers his family until he meets Leo.

Maybe he and Leo bonded so well because they both knew what it was like to grow up transiently. To have any constant in your life, and know that the day you would move on or they would move on was fast approaching. Maybe the reason he looked at Camp Half-Blood and admired how united and familial they seemed, and wished Camp Jupiter could be similar, was that he could see in them the family he wished he had.

Honestly, I feel like meeting Thalia should have left him in a lot more turmoil than it did. He grew up with no family but a god for a father, and here's a person who wanted him. Someone who always wanted him because he was Jason, and not the demigod son of Zeus. Maybe even someone to whom he mattered more than his destiny.

I really, really wish we'd gotten to see more of the contrasts between him and Percy. He is explicitly the Romans' version of the hero Percy is, except he's the hero first, and the person second. Jason did everything right! He did everything perfectly, and Percy still got where he did without being trained for it his entire childhood. He's got such a better reason to resent him than "bad vibes". They could have been foils for each other hhhhhhhrngh.

Just. This lonely, idolized, child soldier's life hurts me.

#and honestly i want to know all about his life before HOO #all the quests he went on! the friends he made! what shaped him into the person he is today!#his identity problems should run deeper than “i like the greek way but i was born a roman” and “i find it difficult to process the kind of #person my mother was"!#riordanverse #heroes of olympus #jason grace #heros of olympus

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rodolfoparras · 7 months

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hello again (gaz anon and also the needy soap, ill go by feral anon if thats all good)

I WANNA GROPE PRICE SO BAD, NOT EVEN IN A KINKY WAY. I WANNA FEEL HIS THICK AS BODY ON MY HANDS, I WANNA SQUEEZE AND PINCH AT HIM. I WANNA FEEL THIS MAN UP.

so yes maybe a drabble of a super handsy m!reader who can't keep his hands to himself accidently makes price horny during a meeting cause he wont stop squeezing and pinching at his thigh... it turns into a fun game of "can price cum without letting everyone know that his boy is jacking him off

Thinking about Price with a s/o who can’t help but touch him all the time and it’s not really pda, it’s a discreet hand on his thigh while he’s in a meeting, thumb mindlessly stroking it. It’s a squeeze to the shoulder before running head first into a battlefield. It’s a brief hug and a pat on the back when he’s made it to the helicopter safely.

Price has always liked it that way, the subtle ways you displayed your affection.

Anything else would be deemed unfitting for the professional environment the two of you are in and besides he’s long bypassed that age where he feels the need to hold his boyfriends hand or kiss him openly on the cheek to let the world know that he’s taken.

However, he finds himself willing to eat his words when the new recruit just doesn’t seem to want to leave you alone.

Starstruck, that’s what you called it.

You’ve had a long and successful career in the army. It’s only normal for younger recruits to want to come up you, ask for a picture or an autograph or even a story from the many lives you lived.

That doesn’t mean that it soothes the green monster living in him because he can’t help but uncomfortable fidget when some stranger rests their hand on your shoulder for a picture, can’t help but coldly stare at the way a stranger’s fingers linger on yours for longer than needed when you sign something for them, cant help but want to crush the expensive tobacco leaf he’s smoking when yet another person comes up to you two wanting to hear about your days from the army, unknowingly cutting off yours and his conversation.

Price wasn’t a big fan of pda but what harm could it do to lean a bit closer to you during a meeting, shoulders brushing, and knees knocking together.

Price had long surpassed that age of feeling the need to claim, but what harm would it do to let your pinky fingers brush, when your hand is already resting on the table.

And if he makes direct eye contact with the recruit as he holds hushed conversation with you then its only their fault for sitting directly across from him.

You’d been surprised by the sudden wave of affection but welcomed it with open arms, sending soft smiles his way when he leaned closer, briefly linking fingers under the table when no one was looking, indulged in hushed conversations until his cheeks flushed and pupils widened.

He hadn’t expect to love it this much, had done it at first because of the green monster residing inside. However he couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed having to be careful not to get caught, feeling butterflies at every word or every touch, all while being fully aware that everyone at the table knew that the two of you must be something more than just coworkers (and if the recruit had ended up looking like a kicked puppy then it’s just a win win situation.)

Price was thrilled.

However what Price hadn’t expected was that he would end up with a hard on while in the middle of the meeting.

Maybe he was a bit too thrilled.

While everyone was rising from their seat Price was pretending to organize the small pile of paper work in front of him. You who’d been sitting next to the other man had noticed his strange behavior and sent him a questioning glance but he was unwilling to meet your eyes and while the crowd dispersing you decide to stay behind and wait for Price.

“Are you coming?” You say still confused by the man’s strange behavior.

Price clears his throat feels his neck and ear burning as he gives a pathetic response “Yeah you go ahead”

He continues staring down at the table,body ever so tense until he hears the door slams shut and a sigh of relief escapes him.

However he quickly tenses up again when he feels your hands on his shoulder and he hears you whisper the words “John, sweetheart, I’ll only ask once and I want you to be honest. Are you hard under the table?”

He swallows hard, adams apple bobbing as he white knuckles the table.

“Yes-yes” he manages to stutter out feeling his ears and necks burn at his words.

“Good boy” you praise and kiss his shoulder “Now would you like for me to help you out here or take it to your room?”

“Here please” he says, head swiftly turning to meet your gaze.

“What do you say?”

His pupils are blown wide cheeks flushed and mouth agape when he says the words “Please sir touch me”

“Of course sweetheart, you know I’ll give you anything you want”

Spitball w/ me?

#hope you’re doing lovely!#feral anon #John price #john price x reader #john price x male reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price x male reader #captain John price #call of duty #sub male character #dom male reader #scribbles

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kneelingshadowsalome · 5 months

Note

Would you consider young Konig to be an incel like guy or just an awkward young man whose social anxiety makes it difficult for him to talk to women?

It’s awful but young recruit almost went down the full incel pipeline yes :/ He had high hopes of finally finding a girlfriend once he hit the army because soldiers get a lot of women, right? He’s not bad looking, he makes money, he’s ripped as fuck, no one bullies him now. He should either have a lovely cute girl by his side or a flock of ladies wanting to sleep with him by now!

Turns out they all look at him weird or turn their noses up at him once he starts to speak. He can’t even find a one night stand because he’s a bit too eager. Blows up most of his chances for a date because he says something filthy far too soon on those stupid dating apps he hates because they’re clearly rigged for women.

It fuels his grief even more: and like with most people, unprocessed grief turns into rage. Only, König already has loads of that... At some point he doesn’t even know if he wants a girlfriend anymore: he just wants someone to fuck (and hold close for a while before they leave him). He doesn’t believe in his chances which makes him an even lousier bf candidate, which makes women shun him even more, which makes him despise women in general even more.

That's until he meets you.

This time, the game’s changed. It’s a woman who approaches him: a woman who's adorable, sweet, and eager. You turn out to be married, yes, but König won’t say no to his first chance of getting some pussy. He likes it that you know what you want – he doesn’t have to think about whether you’re going to stand him up on a date or if some "Please go to therapy" text means you're trying to flirt with him.

You’re clearly infatuated, just like he is. You look at him with sparkling eyes when he fucks you, you make him a nice meal when he comes home (he calls your house home now, the place where he actually lives is just a flat, storage for him and his stuff), you pet his head after he’s eaten you out. You let him chase you around the house and rip your underwear to pieces, you let him bite you and carry you to bed and send you dick pics, just like a girlfriend would do! You’re only pleased when he sends you naughty texts and pics of his dick, he can tell. He can give you all the things Colonel can not (or will not): all in all, this setting works perfectly fine for him. If only he didn’t get so obsessed…

Because suddenly, you’re not just pussy to him. Suddenly, you’re not just the first girl he got to fuck. As much as he hates the Colonel, young König would swallow sharp shrapnels to get to be with you. He tells everyone at the base that he now has a girlfriend: he even shows them your picture (taken without your consent: you’re giggling and trying to cover yourself with his shirt after another rowdy session). He’s not sure if the uneasy smiles he gets are pity or jealousy (because of course everyone can see his gf is the cutest woman on Earth and also hot as hell).

He wants to call you all the time, hear your soft, shy laugh when he tells you he’s going to bully you when he gets back. Stomach full of those famous butterflies and cock twitching in his camos, he could listen to your laugh forever. If only it wasn’t for that stupid ring on your finger, König would take you to Austria to meet his mother.

#double trouble au #2 Königs 1 reader

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tw1l1te · 2 months

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼- 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 3

Part 3! We finally get to Wars, Sky, and Wind! WIND IS PLATONIC ONLY DON'T BE GROSS

Warnings: possible suggestive themes (AGAIN NOT FOR WIND), angst, mental health topics, scars/wounds

⋆｡°✩

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖗𝖘

21-22 years old, one of the captain's of the Hylian Army. Zelda offered him a higher rank (general I'm assuming) and a position on the Hylian Council, but he refused almost right away.

Pretty tall, an inch above Twilight, but still shorter than Time

Blonde hair, shaggy but in a fashionable way. Idk y'all, he makes it work

Leaner muscle, double pierced lobes, wears chain linked earrings when at fromal events but usually sticks to his signature blue hoops

Can't read Hylian that well, but can understand/speak several languages, such as Twili (Twi is kinda jealous)

The strategist of the group. He was always under a time limit during the war, so he knows how to handle a tricky situation quickly and efficiently most of the time

Went to school in his developmental years, though was recruited at around 14-15 because he was way better in the fighting field than in academics. It worked out for him though, so he's not complaining.

As much as he cares about appearance and fighting for his country, he hates balls/formal events. The fake interactions and smiles make him sweat and he usually leaves an hour into them. He'll suck it up if you're there with him though

Closest to Time, Wild and Legend ironically enough. Wild and himself can relate on the aspect of being in the Hylian army, and they typically talk about how their experience was. Legend and him mostly bicker, but its all fun n' games. Time and Wars are essentially the higher-ups, though nobody actually says that, its just been silently established.

Super wary of Y/n, especially with his expriences with other dimensions and eras. He was honestly convinced you were part of Cia's plan or the shadow, since your timing seemed a little convenient, but you've gained his trust little by little, maybe a little too much.

Unlike his usual demeanor with women, he doesn't outwardly flirt with our protagonist. Yes, he throws a few quips here and there when appropriate, but he respects Y/n. He doesn't see them as everyone else. He has them on a pedestal towering over everyone

Has scars from the war, duh. He was mostly up close in the front lines, so a lot of slashes and nicks. Has a pretty bad burn on his left arm from Volga's fire, it's healed but still pretty scarred on his skin.

𝖘𝖐𝖞

20-21 years old, the "Chosen One".

Average height, light freckles across his face and shoulders, he was living right under the sun, you can't tell me he doesn't have freckles!!

Also... sleeper build. I said it. He has a sleeper build and boy when Y/n first sees him shirtless?? AWOOGA-

I headcanon him as having a gigantic triforce insignia tattoo all over his upper back. It was part of his ceremonial return, more on that later.

Suprisingly very school smart for falling asleep in class all the time. Sun was and still is very jealous of his natural smarts.

Has his lobes pierced, wears small red hoops. He wants to get more stacked piercings, a loftwing feather to match with Y/n in the future, who knows?

Doesn't have the biggest sweetest tooth, but he does love pastires of almost any kind. Pumpkin ones are his favorites, though Y/n's cinnamon rolls are quickly climbing up the ladder.

One of the most conflicted about Hylia and the whole "following the goddess" thing. He s=has insomnia because of it, causes him a lot of anxiety.

He was very depressed after his journey was finished, as he didn't identify as anything else besides a hero, and since his purpose was completed, he was nobody.

Struggled a lot with isolation and self-deprecation right up until joining the Chain. He still struggles with it, despite it being years later.

After meeting you and learning about your similar struggles of identity and burden's of mental health, he felt so much less lonely. Sure the Chain were his brothers and they knew what he had been through, you really understood him. You went through the same thing, you knew what it felt like.

Close to Hyrule and Four, but probably most attached to Y/n, even before the romantic feelings set in. He's got a big heart.

Biggest sleepyhead. Will sleep almost anywhere, especially if he's exhausted.

Hobbies include woodworking and playing his harp, but recently took up making a piece of jewelry for Y/n. He's been working on it for months, adventuring prevents him from working on it too long. He wants to give it to you during the winter festival, when you're all his.

𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖉

little shit

...

I would say I'm kidding, but he is :3

around 13 I wanna say, it's only been about a year since his adventure.

Short, duh, but his growth spurt is kicking in. He's catching up to Y/n, and you are not excited to be the shortest in a few years.

Sandy blonde hair, a bit wavy. Somehow always has a tiny bit of sand in it, no matter how many times he washes his hair.

If you think Twi or Hyrule had the biggest sweet tooth? HELL NO

If Wind ever found out about energy drinks or soda/pop, we're done for

Not the best in terms of speaking and reading Hylian, though being a pirate has helped him develop his own colorful vocabulary

Very skilled with up close combat, though the others hardly ever let him be on the front offensive

Similar to Wild, likes taking pics of anything (mostly weird faces that the others make)

Y/n and him clicked INSTANTLY. He might've not trusted them immediately, but they were best friends super fast. Wind has helped you get through homesickness by tellng you his own stories about his home.

"Captain" of Tetra's ship, or that's what he believes

Everyone knows Tetra's in charge though

Struggles a bit with alcoholism, being a pirate and all kinda leads you to be reliant on alcohol. The boys are trying to help him with it, but its the main coping skills he uses when after a high stress situation or he's feeling lost mentally.

Everyone sees him as a little brother, despite how much of a little shit he is >:3c

#yandere linked universe #yandere linked universe x reader #linked universe x reader #linked universe au #final promise au #linked universe headcanons

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cursedkeyboard · 4 months

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Babies shouldn't grow up ☆ Jason Todd & GN!Reader (PT.4)

What does Jason do as he raises his kid lovingly like he wished he'd been raised? Try his best and fail spectacularly to keep his nosy family away, of course. [PART ONE ♤ PART TWO ♤ PART THREE ♤ PART FOUR ♤ PART FIVE ♤ PART SIX]

Pairings: Platonic Jason Todd & Child GN!Reader / Batfamily & Jason Todd

After about a year and quite a few months, maybe around the second christmas Jason spent with you, Jason became antsy

The problem wasn't with you two, no

You were his angel and almost never caused him any trouble, even if he'd always call you brat and squirt

The problem was Bruce and Dick and his entire nosy ass family trying to find out why hadn't he come home for christmas a second year in a row

Not only that, he also had cut back on many other activities he'd usually do with friends or his family

Like taking over patrol shifts for others, hanging out with Roy, visiting the manor to see Ace and Alfred, and gossiping with Babs

C'mon, you know he's totally the type to think his kid is so much better than everyone

You're his damn best friend, his confidant, the person he trusts most in the world and would die for in a blink

So Jason wouldn't even notice he was neglecting every other person in his life until they started blowing up his phone and trying to break into his apartment

Like the fucking demon brat did

Damian tried, at three in the morning, with his katana and everything

His excuse? He was tired of everyone talking about why Jason was growing distant and decided to solve the mystery by infringing his privacy

Jason's excuse to grabbing him by the collar and throwing him out of he window before he could take another step inside? You had classes that day

And children are supposed to sleep a lot to grow

He thought that'd be the end of it, after properly threatening every single one of them into staying the fuck away from his home

but then again, Jason should've never put faith in people who are nosy for a living

So he started having to hide you during the day when the two of you hung out

Jason took you to Bat Burger after a rough day at school? Dick conventionally shows up minutes later! And you hide under the table

Jason and you were taking a morning walk to start the day? Surprise! Cass is suddenly coming your way. And you're jumping into a bush (he helped you take the twigs out of your hair later but laughed the entire time)

You finally convinced Jason to watch the latest superhero movie that just came out? Ho, boy! Look, Duke just so happened to also have been wanting to see it! Aaand you have to pee real bad

For you it's like a game, never let the Waynes catch you

The rewards are many; head pats, Jason's laughter, a hardcover book that you had been eyeing

The consequences of failing...?

That was the scary part for Jason

He'd spend nights thinking about it after tucking you in bed

Would they take you away? Would they think he's abusing you? Would they be disappointed in him for thinking he could be anything else but a disappointment?

Irrational and emotional, those thoughts were, but you were the life of Jason's life

Fuck, you're the one person he hadn't let down yet

The one person he didn't disappoint or hurt

You thrived every day, growing up and putting on weight, learning more every moment because you had a thirst for knowledge just like him

God, every time you looked at him like he was your whole world

Like he was your damn hero

It gave his life a little more meaning

He wanted to keep you safe, watch you grow into a beautiful person, better than he could ever hope to be

But he also wanted you to stay being his

His kid

Not taken away by protective services or recruited into Bruce's little army of children

So imagine how his stomach dropped when during one fateful night, as he helped you with your haircare routine

–Jason sitting on the couch and you between his legs on the floor, your back to him–

his door opened up, was picked open, and a good portion of his family (Dick, Damian, Stepth, and Bruce) waltzed in like they fucking owned the place

There was no way to hide, both of you caught off guard

"Jason! Games' over, buddy, we're here now–"

"Is– Is that a child?"

"What the fuck."

Jason was torn between taking them on on a 4v1 or pulling you in his arms and jumping out of the window

You chose for him, quickly climbing on the couch and hiding away under his arm, almost completely covered by his bulky form

You're not a coward but you're also not good with people like you are with Jason

You also don't exactly like the big bat after everything he did to your da–

To Jason

"Tell me you didn't kidnap a child, Jay."

"No, Steph, I didn't fucking kidnap anyone–"

"Is this why you didn't let me in? I expected better from you, Todd."

"You fucking brat– Can you just leave–"

"No, no, hang on, am I an uncle? Oh, my god, am I? Holy shit, I am!"

"You're not a fucking uncl–"

"Jason, explain."

And oh, how that terrified Jason

He hated the way Bruce was staring at you, like you were a puzzle, something he needed to figure out before he could ultimately collect

It almost made Jason snarl like a wounded dog

You were his kid, god damn it, and Jason would be damned if he let Bruce take you

So he swallowed his fear and clenched his trembling hands and made everyone sit down before he explained

He asked you if you wanted to go to your room, just in case you didn't feel comfortable around them, but you shook your head

"I don't wanna leave you alone."

"...Okay, okay, squirt, what you say goes."

None of them missed the way Jason easily wrapped his arm around you, tucking you close, and how you hid you face partially in his shoulder, glancing at them with one eye

And so, he began telling his tale

Interrupted only a few times because Dick couldn't shut the fuck up to save his life and Damian thinks being insufferable is a good personality trait, Jason finally let the cat out of the bag after about two years of keeping it hidden

"Why didn't you come to us? We could've helped."

"Helped? Bruce, look at the demon spawn, he sleeps with a knife under his pillow and he's, what? Thirteen? This kid here sleeps with a Garfield plushy, like children should."

At that, you slapped his shoulder (it still didn't hurt) and all Jason did was chuckle and kiss your forehead

It was jarring for all of them to see such a soft version of their most volatile family member

In fact, they could now see how the entire apartment had changed

No longer was it a... mojo dojo casa house of sorts, but a cozy and welcoming environment

Shit, the fridge even had cute magnets on it to hold all of your drawings

Frames with pictures of you two were placed everywhere, along with your awards from school and his own additions like a couple of plants and vinyls on the walls

It stung a little to know he'd kept a whole child away from them for so long, to know he didn't trust them enough

It especially hurt Bruce, since technically this was his first grandchild

All in all, everyone eventually fell silent, one fuming, some curious, and others brooding

Until you broke it by finally speaking, tilting your head until you were looking directly into Batman's glowing eyes

"I don't care if you're Batman or Bruce Wayne, if you hurt Jason again, I'll kill you myself."

To say Jason was proud was putting it mildly

He was so ecstatic he could make that day a national holiday

Jason ignored the rest of his family freaking out about how you knew Batman's identity and hugged you close, squeezing you gently

"Fucking love you, kiddo."

To be continued...

#jason todd #red hood #red hood x you #platonic jason todd x reader #jason todd x gender neutral reader #jason todd x y/n #red hood x gender neutral reader #red hood x reader #red hood x gn!reader #jason todd x gn!reader #platonic red hood x reader #platonic #batman #bruce wayne #dick grayson #damian wayne #batfamily x reader #platonic batfamily x reader

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dovabunny · 6 months

Text

Want some omegaverse GhostSoap baby drama?

Ghost (alpha) dumps Soap before the omega could tell him he's pregnant. Soap was devastated from the break up, but couldn't get it over his heart to terminate. So, he decided to retire - effective immediately, without honours. The only person on base who knew was the dedicated omega doctor who could only cover for him so long before he couldn't hide it anymore.

He slips out in the night.

But he didn't realize someone was following...

Price had gone to his office at 2am looking for his favorite lighter when he found the letter under the door from Soap about his immediate resignation and retirement. He rushes out in time to catch Soap sneaking off base with just his bag.

He was suspicious that Soap had maybe crossed them, that he was deflecting. He overhears 'the airport' between Soap and the driver who just pulled in. In a mad rush he runs to his room to grab a backpack then set out to follow the man from a distance.

Soap had been distant for the past few months, increasingly so. His doctor had him booked off active duty, only allowing office work and recruit training but even then he was withdrawn. It didn't help his suspicions.

He follows Soap all the way to Scotland to a small town.

He watches from afar as a very nervous Soap knocks on the door of a cozy family home and is greeted in joy. An hour later he watches Soap fling the door open and leave again, screaming and cursing can be heard from inside. His face stained with tears, a red bruise on his cheek.

Had he gotten in trouble with an informant? Was his superiors not happy with his report or performance? He'll wait till he calls Laswell. He needs more Intel first.

He quickly sends Ghost a text that said 'till I'm back you're in charge'.

He follows as Soap takes the late train to the next town and checks into a small motel. Over the next few weeks he mostly stays in, sometimes visits the hospital. Is that where he meets his contacts? Is the motel a front? Slowly Price's suspicion turns to concern, and worry.

Then an ambulance is called to the motel. Price spots Soap being loaded in.

He can't fake the local accent to blend in so he stays outside the small-town hospital for a day and a half before Soap appears again...

... carrying a small bundle in his arms.

But something doesn't add up, something is off.

Soap seems devastated in a way that breaks Price's heart. He smiles through the tears at the little one in his arms as he slowly walks down the street into the night air.

A few blocks down he stops in front of the small orphanage next to the church. He places the warmly swaddled little one at the orphanage's steps, knocks and quickly leaves sobbing.

Before the door can even be answered, however, Price finds his body moving. He dashes out of his hiding spot and swoops the wee one into his arms, quickly walking away as he hears the door being answered to nothing and no one.

A block down, once he's sure it's safe, he peeks down at the curious little face.

And sees blue eyes like Soap...and pale skin and blond hair - like Simon.

It doesn't take much to deduce what happened. He had noticed Ghost had also been withdrawn and taking riskier solo missions since he and Soap stopped being each other's shadow suddenly. In fact, he'd been so busy trying to stop Ghost from getting himself killed or killing a recruit who happened to catch him on a bad day - that he'd not realised this probably had something to do with Soap's withdrawal too. Too busy and distracted to put two and two together.

They were both hurting. Soap clearly felt he couldn't take care of the wee one, but wanted it to have a chance. Even if it meant leaving the army.

As he walks he pulls out his phone to make a call. Laswell pulls some strings and files, and before he gets to the hotel the Captain's official records included that of his newborn son: 'John Simon Price'.

Till his boys are ready, he'll keep their little one safe and happy. Grandpa Price will make sure of it.

#soapghost #ghostsoap #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #captain john price #grandpa price #my writing #ghost cod #omegaverse #cod soap #ghost x soap

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shanksbaby · 2 months

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Kuzan x revolutionary! reader - headcannons

thanks to @yama754 <3

you were a young recruit of the revolutionaries, despite your age however you soon managed to rise through the ranks of the Dragon army, and you soon gained his trust. Precisely for this reason she has entrusted you with a particular and also dangerous mission.

that is, to insert yourself among the marines, so that you can steal sensitive information on their possible future moves, and on Mary Geoise so that you can free the slaves who are in that city.

As dangerous as it was, you were excited to have such an important role

so you join the ranks of the marines, obviously starting from the rank of recruit and being assigned to a certain Aokiji. You had heard that he was a lazy admiral, who spent most of his time taking naps, and that suited you since you wouldn't have a superior who probably wouldn't keep an eye on you.

unfortunately you have caught the admiral's attention. The first thing he said to you was "Hey sexylady, are you free tonight?"

obviously you answered no, first: because he was a marine, and you hated them; second: it would have undermined your cover. Luckily for you, he didn't insist and continued to interact with you as if nothing had happened.

however over time you have become closer and closer. Despite you hate marines, you had seen how Aokiji acted towards civilians, how compassionate he was, how kind he was in his own way. And you understood that he wasn't all black and white.

and so you started opening up to him, and he did the same to you, even though he was an aloof guy. He shared his ideas about justice with you, and you couldn't help but admire him; as much as you opened up to him, you still lied about some issues so as not to blow your cover

during a mission you exchanged your first kiss, after he saw a pirate hurt you, he realized that his feelings for you were romantic: that he didn't want to just go to bed with you, he wanted more, you weren't just a 'sexy lady'

as much as you had tried to avoid any romantic connection with him, you had fallen in love. You couldn't lie to yourself anymore. So you kissed him, even though you felt bad towards Dragon.

so you move forward in your relationship, and you managed to collect important information, thanks to Aokiji, who trusts you and also starts telling you about his meetings. Of course, as much as you were happy to serve your purpose, and send information, you simultaneously felt guilty towards your boyfriend.

this went on for months, until he found out about you communicating with Dragon. He had already become suspicious of some of your behaviors, so he had decided to follow you. Now he had two options: let you go or capture you, impel you down where you will be tortured.

as much as he felt betrayed by you, he still loved you, even if he was mentally going through your memories trying to figure out if you were faking it or not, he felt affection for you. So he decided to let you go, even though he was more than capable of catching you.

you wanted to explain to him, you wanted to reassure him that it was real between you, that he wasn't expected, that you loved him, but he didn't let you speak, he simply looked at you with a look you had never seen before, icy, cold, far from that warmth of eyes that you had learned to love.

"If I see you next time, I will catch you. Don't mix my letting go this time as an alliance." that were the last words from him

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semisolidmind · 8 months

Note

i dunno if this has been asked before, but i kinda wanted to splurge a little bit.

how and where does azure lion and the other animal celestials play a part in the BEW au? or even TAB AU. my personal idea on it could be that azure uses reader kind of as leverage against wukong, while as in TAB maybe reader is used to cause a rift between the brothers so that azure has an easier time murking wukong.

alright, so. the big bad brotherhood. they mostly just play the part of extra soldiers and sovereigns in wukongs conquests, his own little war council. im gonna go with the idea that the betrayal hasn't happened, since wukong doesn't get recruited by heaven in the base versions of these aus

(ive said before that, at least in bad end, the brotherhood wouldn't bother with reader too much. buuuut i don't think i specified what they're like in TAB and their reaction to their comrades marrying reader.)

peng (the bitch) doesn't much care for reader. they wonder why the all-powerful wukong is bothering with a human. they likely make a snide comment or two when wukong first introduces her to them at a meeting, which wukong (and macaque) immediately shut down with threats of violence. mac especially doesn't tolerate peng being an ass to his wife; his hatred for the winged menace is potent. luckily the bird demon is catty, not stupid; and surprisingly, they learn to keep their beak shut about their leader's wife. this leads to them largely ignoring her. reader doesn't like them much either, but tries to be polite.

yellowtusk feels pity for reader. he knows she didn't exactly become queen of flower fruit mountain willingly, and believes that she would be happier with other humans. but he's not called "wise" for nothing; he won't be lifting a finger to help her. even as strong as he is, he knows he stands no chance against the two simian warlords. regardless, he's polite to reader and will speak with her about the various topics that she's read about. he's a surprisingly good conversationalist.

demon bull king is ambivalent towards reader. he knows what it's like to want someone outside your station, so he doesn't say anything negative to wukong about it. he'll speak to reader if she speaks to him, and is overall polite (seeing as she is technically a queen and he has a lot of respect for wukong), if not very gruff when doing so.

azure lion is the only one who would be actively kind to reader, the only one who would speak with her like a true equal. despite his status as a once-celestial soldier, demonic sovereign, and a general of the infamous monkey kings' demon army...he still has a soft spot for mortal civilians. if a platoon of the monkey king's army is passing through, one would hope that he's leading it. less innocent blood is spilt when the lion general is at the helm.

its because of this that he was concerned when wukong introduced reader to him. what was a human doing on flower fruit mountain? she's married to the monkey king? she seemed...very uncomfortable in the presence of her husband. the lion demon knows that she was likely frightened by the two monkey warlords' use of "demonic courting tactics" and introduced himself gently. the fact that she responded to him (considering his size and appearance) without too much hesitancy, was able to bow politely and look him in the eyes despite all she'd likely been through at the hands of his brothers–he couldn't help but admire her bravery.

azure is aware that his sworn simian brothers are unconventional in many aspects of their life, so the fact that the two of them would marry a human (the same human, no less) isn't too surprising. the two are of one mind, and azure has made a tentative peace with the ruthless way his brothers conduct their business.

...but he can't help but feel sympathy for reader. she didn't choose this life for herself, though he can see the lingering affection she has for wukong and macaque. and once he gets to know her (an occasional talk outside the council room while the warlords are busy discussing strategy, a close seating at a banquet, or during a party on the mountain), azure begins to understand why they chose this woman. a fondness grows in his heart for the quiet human who is kind to him despite knowing what he's done.

he won't say it aloud, but...had it been him who'd been found and tended to by reader, azure couldn't be sure he wouldn't have made the same choice as his brothers.

#twice as bad au #bad end wukong #lion's den au

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knightofthenewrepublic · 7 months

Text

Percy would have worked with Octavian, but the Augur never gave him a chance

(or Why Octavian's actions weren’t justified)

As people spend more and more time critically examining the Riordanvese (often to a fault, it must be said) one of the most common revisionist arguments is to try and absolve the mortal villains of the consequences of their action; usually by exaggerating their motivations. That includes the argument that Octavian was so quick to war partially because he was treated poorly by the Greeks. Particularly by Percy Jackson.

But does that actually hold up?

People will argue that Octavian was not evil, because attacking Camp Halfblood was justified from his perspective; he thought they had broken a truce with New Rome and attacked it. And that would be a fair argument, IF that was the only bad thing Octavian had done, or even the worst thing. It wasn’t. And Octavian had begun trying to trigger conflict well before that. Percy, on the other hand, did his best to prevent it.

The first scene where Percy meets Octavian, is also the first time we see his sinister side. And that is of course when he tries to blackmail Hazel into supporting him for Praetor.

Now there is an aspect of the context of this scene that I think a lot of people overlook; their ages. Octavian is 18, or near enough, and Hazel is 13. This is a guy old enough to vote, (the only one of them who isn’t a child soldier) blackmailing a girl too young to get a learner’s permit. Just before this, Percy says Octavian reminds him of someone; which is obviously a reference to Luke Castellan. This type of nearly grooming behavior would have really reinforced that impression; which explains Percy’s hostile reaction to it.

Percy slipped his hand into his pocket, and grabbed his pen. This guy was blackmailing Hazel. That was obvious. One sign from Hazel, and Percy was ready to bust out Riptide and see how Octavian liked being at the end of a blade.

But Percy keeps these urges internal. He doesn’t voice his anger, and doesn’t give any visible reaction. The other two keep talking like he’s not there. This is a pretty good demonstration of Percy’s hard won self control; on his first day at Camp Half-Blood he doused Clarisse with toilet water for less, without even meaning to.

The next interaction he has with Octavian isn’t much better.

“Recruit,” he [Octavian] asked, “do you have any credentials? Letters of reference?” Percy shifted. “Letters? Um, no.” Octavian wrinkled his nose. Unfair! Hazel wanted to shout. Percy had carried a goddess into camp. What better recommendation could you want? But Octavian’s family had been sending kids to camp for over a century. He loved reminding recruits that they were less important than he was. “No letters,” Octavian said regretfully. “Will any legionnaires stand for him?”

Now just asking this question is obviously standard practice, so Octavian isn’t wrong for that. It’s his condescending reaction that is the unsubtle putdown.

But then things come to a head very quickly, when that night’s game of capture the flag ends in a visit from the god Mars, and the command he delivers; a quest to retrieve the legion Eagle, and free Death.

Now what’s really important here is that, while people often think of Leo attacking Camp Jupiter as the point where Octavian turned against the heroes, THIS is the actual point. THIS is where he goes from being a nuisance to being an antagonist.

It starts in the Senate meeting the next day, when Percy tries to make sense of the situation:

“This Giant, the son of Gaea--he’s the one who defeated your forces thirty years ago. I’m sure of it. Now he’s sitting up there in Alaska with a chained death god, and all your old equipment. He's mustering his armies and sending them south to attack this camp.”

Percy is just repeating what Mars literally told them the night before. Octavian’s reasonable reaction to this is:

“Really?” Octavian said. “You seem to know a lot about our enemy’s plans, Percy Jackson.”

Him, and everyone else who was conscious at the end of the war games.

In spite of being almost outright accused of treason, Percy still keeps his cool. This shows a lot of growth on his part, compared to where he was in the second book of the previous series:

This was so completely unfair, I told Tantalus to go chase a donut, which didn’t help his mood.

After a bit more discussion, Octavian makes his move. First he gets in another insult.

“Mars has clearly chosen the least likely candidates for this quest. Perhaps it is because he considers them the most expendable.”

And then he argues that the senate should not give any of the support that would normally be given to a quest. The odds of them succeeding are already so low; better to use their resources to protect the camp.

It’s pretty easy for us, the readers, to overlook what a dick move this really is. Of course WE know that the heroes are going to come back alive; but in universe, there is nothing to guarantee that. Even a small magical trinket could be the difference between life and death. And Octavian is trying to deny them that.

This could be understandable, if there was any sincerity to it. A sad but necessary sacrifice for the greater good, to protect the camp. But after arguing that all their resources have to be saved for the battle, Octavian proceeds to do nothing with them. When the giant’s army arrives, the legion simply marches out and fights them with conventional ranks and swords. Aside from a few roman scorpions (large crossbows), no specialized weapons are brought out, no magical items are used, they didn’t even build a wall or a trench. So there was no real reason not to give them anything; even if he sincerely believed the quest was doomed, that was all the more reason to help. The right magical tool might have at least given them the chance to get back alive. Depriving the questers served no purpose other than to make them fail.

You can also see this, in the fact that all Octavian’s stated reasons don’t actually win over the senate.

The senators’ eyes moved back and forth between Octavian and Reyna, watching the test of wills. Reyna straightened in her chair. “Very well,” she said tightly. We shall put it to a vote.”

No one gives their support to Octavian before this. The senators are waiting to follow the person they see as more powerful, not the argument that was more convincing.

As for motivations, there is only one that Octavian could have; with the election just days away, he wants to prevent a rival for the praetorship.

Is the fulfillment of an epic quest a silly basis for entrusting someone with supreme executive power? Yes, in the real world, it is. But demigods don’t live in the real world; and in their world, everything revolves around quests. Quests drive every important event in the series, and are the ultimate standard by which the skill and power of a demigod are demonstrated. As Annabeth puts it in TLT:

“At camp you train and train. And that’s all cool and everything, but the real world is where the monsters are. That’s where you learn whether you’re any good or not.”

If Percy returns from a land that wiped out half a legion of demigods, with the long lost legion Eagle, the mob that is Rome will raise him up on the fanciest shield they can find. And Octavian isn’t the only one who has put that together. The very next chapter sees Reyna tell Percy that he could stand for praetor if he succeeds; and we are reminded several times that Octavian is far more politically savvy than she is. If she’s put it together, you can bet that he has.

But going back to the senate meeting itself; we see another example of Percy choosing not to start a conflict with Octavian, even when he seems to be trying to get him killed. Instead, he focuses on the important issues:

Frank jumped to his feet. Before he could start a fight, Percy said, “Fine! No problem. but at least give us transportation.”

Percy is more concerned about succeeding in saving the camp than satisfying any grudges. Octavian is more interested in how many insults he can fit into one meeting.

“A boat!” Octavian turned to the senators. “The son of Neptune wants a boat. Sea travel has never been the Roman way, but he isn’t much of a Roman!”

(The insult proves to be quite a hypocritical one in BOO, when Octavian has boats built to surround Camp Half-Blood.)

Octavian’s next attempt to start a conflict with Percy is slightly more subtle.

They were only halfway across the forum when someone called, “Jackson!” Percy turned and saw Octavian jogging toward them. “What do you want ?” Percy asked. Octavian smiled. “Already decided I’m your enemy? That’s a rash choice Percy. I’m a loyal Roman.” Frank snarled. “You backstabbing, slimy–” Both Percy and Hazel had to restrain him.

Why is Octavian talking about being enemies? It doesn’t say Percy asked angrily, or Percy growled, or Percy glared at him. It’s a very dramatic reaction.

And Percy has done nothing to suggest that he wants to be Octavian’s enemy. Sure he has grown to dislike the augur, as most people would with someone who insults them and blackmails children:

Nico put his finger to his lips. Suddenly all the lares went silent. Some looked alarmed, like their mouths had been glued together. Percy wished he had that power over certain living people . . . like Octavian, for instance.

But he’s been keeping those critical thoughts to himself. He even avoided arguing in the senate meeting so as not to escalate things. The worst thing he’s done was knocking Octavian out during capture-the-flag which was both a perfectly fair move and a good strategy. Hardly something to base a feud on.

Most likely, this is a freudian slip on Octavian’s part. He’s already started to see Percy as an enemy, for no other reason than he might be a rival. That, or it’s an attempt at gaslighting Percy into thinking he somehow provoked Octavian into trying to get him killed. In any case, the augur hardly seems unhappy to see him, and the two legionnaires at his side, go off to their deaths.

Octavian smiled wickedly. “The last person she [Reyna] had a private talk with was Jason Grace. And that was the last time I ever saw him. Good luck and goodbye, Percy Jackson.”

If he’s happy to see them go, he’s certainly not happy when they come back alive.

The look on Octavian’s face was priceless. the centurion stared at Percy with shock, then outrage. Then, when his own troops started to cheer, he had no choice except to join the shouting: “Rome! Rome!”

Not the appropriate reaction when Percy is saving the city, not to mention Octavian’s own life. The auger doesn’t have a single kind word to say.

The Roman symbols burned into Percy’s arm: a trident, SPQR, and a single stripe. It felt like someone was pressing a hot iron into his skin, but Percy managed not to scream. Octavian embraced him and whispered, “I hope it hurt.”

Just before this, Octavian kills a teddy bear and reads the future from it, announcing:

good omens for the coming year–Fortuna would bless them!

It has been suggested that Octavian actually had a very different vision at this moment; that he saw the Argo II opening fire on New Rome, and kept that to himself, but turned against Percy and the other Greeks because of that. This doesn’t seem likely. It would serve his purposes better to share that information; and he would have seen that vision in front of hundreds of demigods hardwired to notice small details, none of whom notice him having any visible reaction to it. Besides which, this can’t be the point when he turns on Percy, since he’s already been trying to sabotage him for most of the book.

Now if there is some big conflict between Percy and Octavian, this is the time for Percy to win it decisively. To use his new power and authority to put the auger in his place.

But Percy doesn’t do that.

“Why should we trust these Greeks?” Octavian was saying. He’d been pacing the senate floor for five minutes, going on and on, trying to counter what Percy had told them about Juno’s plan and the Prophecy of Seven.

Rather than simply steamroll over the discussion, and try to use his authority to silence any opposition, Percy allows Octavian a reasonable amount of time to air his concerns, before finally stepping in with his counter argument.

When Percy lays out the details of why they must join the Greeks, Octavian never comes up with a logical counter argument. Instead, when a messenger reports the Argo II has been spotted, he resorts to paranoid rambling.

“Praetors!” The messenger cried. “What are your orders?” Octavian [who is not a praetor] shot to his feet. “You have to ask?” His face was red with rage. He was strangling his teddy bear. “The omens are horrible! This is a trick, a deception. Beware Greeks bearing gifts!” He jabbed a finger at Percy. “His friends are attacking in a warship. He has led them here. We must attack!”

Yesterday when he last read the entrails, Octavian said the omens were good. Now, they’re suddenly horrible. That pretty well justifies Percy’s growing disregard for Octavian’s auguries.

Not only that; he is accusing Percy of treachery, while at the same time suggesting they attack a ship that can be seen bearing a white flag.

And this is before a single shot has been fired on New Rome. That false-flag attack by Gaea can not be the inciting incident for Octavian’s hostility to the Greeks. Not if what he wanted to do before it happened is the same as what he wanted to do after it happened. The attack is just what incentives the rest of the camp to support him.

The last interaction between Percy and Octavian is pretty much the first two chapters of MOA, where Octavian does his best to offend the Greeks.

“You’re letting these intruders into the camp!”

When Reyna orders Octavian to go make a sacrifice to the gods, Percy adds:

“Good idea. Go burn your bears Octavian.”

An insulting way to put it; but no more so than calling the Greek ambassadors (including a Roman praetor and Percy’s own girlfriend) “intruders.” And no more harsh than the insults Octavian has used for legionnaires below himself, like Frank and Hazel. And Percy has been given enough reason not to trust Octavian’s auguries any more than he trusts him.

The last exchange between them is about the praetorship:

Octavian snorted. “Which means we have three praetors! The rules clearly state we can only have two! “On the bright side,” Percy said, “both Jason and I outrank you, Octavian. So we can both tell you to shut up.” Octavian turned as purple as a Roman T-shirt. Jason gave Percy a fist bump.

I can only imagine how long Jason has been waiting for someone to say that to Octavian. It has been suggested this is an abuse of power on Percy’s part, but there is no reason to think so. They are surrounded by the senior officers of the legion, some of whom will be on Octavian's side, and no one raises an objection. And it's not like Octavian actually treats it like an order.

“I’ll step aside for Jason,” Percy said easily. “It’s no biggie.” “No biggie?” Octavian choked. “The praetorship of Rome is no biggie?”

No need to go into detail about how the rest of the series goes. Gaea triggers a war between the Greeks and Romans, and Octavian walks right into it. There is no reason to think he was working for her; but he was plainly looking for an excuse to start hostilities.

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