#sharp tv price

[everytechever]

Sharp to take part in major US tech event CES 2023

Sharp Corporation will participate in CES 2023 in Las Vegas, Nevada, United States, to be held from January 5 to 8, 2023. #SHARP #CES2023

Sharp Corporation (Sharp) will participate in CES 2023 (Consumer Electronics Show) in Las Vegas, Nevada, United States, to be held from January 5th to 8th, 2023. CES is one of the largest and most influential tech events in the world. Sharp will exhibit advanced technologies and products that embody the company’s ESG-focused management under the four themes of New Energy, Automotive, AR/VR, and…

[alwaysshallow]

hey babes, for the drabbles in the inbox post all I can think of is price with a breeding kink so upset he's "too old to give you a baby" only for him to end up with a wife pregnant with their 2nd baby

Fifth time, sixteenth test, and he's fuming. He doesn't even look at you, and you feel bad, when he's pacing back and forth around the house, deeply in his thoughts. Normally, you'd try to hug him, like the last times, but somehow, you can't do it now. There's something wrong with his mind, and you just can sense that, even if he's not telling you anything; being with him prepared you enough for moments like these. He's a captain, the head of the team, usually stressing about things himself.

"John, could you finally talk to me?" you ask after another ten minutes, when enough is enough; he suddenly turns around in your direction, like he finally acknowledges that you're here. Apologetic look on his face makes your heart break even more.

"'m sorry, missus." He's quick to sit next to you on the couch, kissing your hand a few times, with hope you're gonna forgive him for ignoring you.

It's what he usually does, and it always breaks your facade, but now you're not mad. Rather, confused, but you don't talk about it with him, when he smiles into your lips and drapes a blanket over you. You two just cuddle on the couch, watching some ridiculously old documentary about war, when he decides to pop the question.

"Why aren't you with someone younger?"

To say you are shocked, would be an understatement; completely bamboozled, you look at Price, your eyebrow cocked. "The fuck are you on?"

He sighs, as he looks down at you; it feels like he doesn't want to fight, but he genuinely asks, which makes you feel weird even more. "Simple question."

You prop yourself up a little, to take a better look at your husband. "Because I love you, and that's settled?"

"Someone younger would give you a baby," he mutters under his breath, as his eyes are on the TV again. John's implication shoots right through you, like a bullet, sharp and hurtful, but not that much for you, as for him. You're quick to sit on his lap fully, to bring his attention to you.

"It's definitely not your fault, John. It might be as well something with me, you know?" you frown, your fingers tracing his bearded jawline, as he still doesn't look at you.

"I waited too long, and now there's the consequences of it." His tone is hard, like he didn't hear your explanation before, and he continues to blame himself for it. Your heart sinks. "'m failin' you, love. If I'd meet you earlier, it would be different. Or if you'd be with someone else, maybe he would give you kids."

"None of that," you say, grabbing his face, to make him look at you. He opens his mouth to say something, but you're quick to put a finger on his lips to shush him; he already told you enough to make you want to do a monologue on him. "We're gonna have kids, even if it will take years, do you hear me, John Price?"

"Affirmative," he replies, kissing you a few times. On lips, cheeks and nose – you learned that doing it this way soothes him. Makes him less nervous than he already is. "I wouldn't blame you, if you'd want to—"

You don't even try to talk to him this time; you just kiss him, interrupting his intrusive thoughts with hope that he'll focus on something else. It's not a surprise when he takes the bait, and he's quick to pick you up in his arms, while you just giggle, knowing that he takes you to bedroom.

Three years later, he's off at deployment, when you learn that you're pregnant again, with your second child. 9 weeks, your gynecologist says, when you look at the scan, thinking how happy you are right now. Tears pricks in the corners of your eyes when you're in your car, taking deep breaths before you'll call your husband.

A lot of thoughts are going inside your head; should you tell him now? He's on the mission, probably doing important things, maybe he doesn't want to be interrupted? Yet, it is an important thing, something that he waited to hear for the longest time, having doubts if he's ever gonna be a father— and now, he's about to be a father for the second time.

"Love, are you okay?"

You blink twice, when you hear him through you phone; you don't even know when you called. "Yeah, baby. I'm okay, why?"

"Been askin' you how's your day, and you tell me nothin'. Got me worried for a second," he laughs, and for some reason, his laugh completely calms you. Before, you were a little scared to even call him, interrupt whatever he was doing.

Now? Now, you're more than excited to tell him the news, since you have time, and your firstborn is with his grandma.

"I'm okay. I promise," you reply warmly, smiling to yourself, as you take a peek at your stomach. You don't have a bump yet, but you smile nonetheless at the thought that, if everything will go well, in following months you're gonna have a bump. "Are you busy?"

"Just got back to base. Will be there for a while," he hums. "What is it, missus?"

"You should sit."

"…everything's alright, yes?"

"Yes, but you should sit. And, turn the camera on, please?"

He doesn't even question your request; in a minute, you see his face – happy and confused in the same time, while you grin the widest you possibly can. You felt joy this big back when you were just a kid, getting your Christmas gift.

And, now you're the one who delievers the gift.

"You're in the car? Thought you're gonna be home," he speaks up, and you have to hold back a laugh.

"I had to see a doctor, and—"

"—you had to see a doctor? You told me you're okay, love. Is it our little man? Baby, I'm—"

"—I'm pregnant, John." Words fall from your mouth.

"What?"

"I'm pregnant," you laugh, as you show him the ultrasound on camera, the closest you can. "Nine weeks. I'm back from my gyn, that's the doctor I needed to see."

"You're not pulling my leg, are you, love?" he asks, and when you shake your head with excitement, he laughs. He laughs so happily, and he even stands up for a few moments before sitting again. "A week, and 'm gonna be back. Is it okay?"

"A week?" you raise your eyebrow. "You're supposed to be another two weeks on the mission, and—"

"—I'd like to spend it with my wife, and my two babies, alright? A week won't harm anyone," he whispers lovingly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "We have to talk about so many things."

And the fact you had to try so many times for the first baby, is just a faded memory.

[sinkovia]

-`♡´- ANON ASK -`♡´-

Anon requested that the ask be posted after the fic.

Pairings: SImon Riley x GN!Reader

Warnings: Angst.

As the days passed by, your once perfect relationship with Simon began to fracture. It seemed as though the idyllic days you once shared were slipping away, replaced by a constant tension that hung heavy in the air.

The source of the arguments seems to stem from your "nagging," as Simon puts it. But to you, it's an expression of love and fear - a desperate attempt to hold onto something precious in a world where loss and danger lurk around every corner.

From the beginning, you both understood the risks in your line of work, but it's only recently that the reality of those risks has begun to weigh heavily on your heart.

You've voiced your fears to Simon, your desire to retire together and find solace in a life far removed from the dangers of combat. But each time you broach the subject, Simon's reaction is the same - cold, defensive, and laced with hurtful words that cut deep. It's a cycle that plays out time and time again: he pushes you away with his sharp words, only to come crawling back the next day, remorseful and apologetic.

In those moments of reconciliation, he speaks to you with tenderness and warmth, promising that he's always careful on missions and that this is the life he wants. He reassures you that perhaps, in a few years' time, he could think about settling down. And each time, you find yourself giving in, desperate to believe that his words hold truth.

But as the fear and dread of losing him creep back in, the same arguments resurface, and the cycle repeats itself endlessly, leaving you trapped in a loop of hope and despair. 

The tension in your life reaches a boiling point when you're summoned to the briefing room, where Captain Price lays out the details of a harrowing mission. Your heart sinks as you realize the gravity of the task at hand - infiltrating the heart of Makarov's forces, your fluency in Russian making you the only person who could do it. It's a suicide mission, with slim chances of success and even slimmer chances of survival.

As Captain Price outlines the high-risk, high-reward nature of the operation, your mind races with conflicting emotions. On one hand, success could mean a significant blow to Makarov's forces, potentially saving countless lives and shifting the tide of the war. On the other hand, the thought of risking your life - and potentially throwing away any chance of a future with Simon - fills you with fear.

You weigh the options carefully, torn between duty and personal desire. The stakes couldn't be higher, and the choice before you feels like a cruel test of loyalty and sacrifice. As you leave the briefing room, the weight of the decision hangs heavy on your shoulders, uncertainty clouding your thoughts as you grapple with the choice before you.

You step into your shared apartment, the weight of the impending conversation heavy on your shoulders. Simon is seated on the couch, absorbed in the television. With a heavy sigh, you make your way over and take a seat next to him, steeling yourself for what's to come.

"We need to talk, Si,"

Simon sighs and reaches to turn off the TV, a resigned expression crossing his features. "Here we go again," he mutters under his breath.

Your heart sinks at his dismissive tone, but you push forward nonetheless. “Price gave me a solo mission,” you watch his reaction closely.

Simon quirks a brow but remains silent, prompting you to continue. “He wants me to infiltrate Makarov's forces,”

“Sounds risky,” Simon comments, his tone neutral as he leans back on the couch, crossing his arms. You take a deep breath, "It's a suicide mission," you confess, locking eyes with him, searching for any sign of understanding or concern.

Silence hangs in the air as you wait for his response, “When do you leave?” he asks, his response devoid of the emotion you had hoped for.

Does he even hear you? Does he even care?

“Did you hear what I said? It’s a suicide mission. Do you even care Simon?” you press, desperation creeping into your voice.

Simon releases a frustrated breath, irritation evident in his demeanor. “Of course, I fucking care, y/n. But like I've said a million times before, we chose this profession. We know the risks that come with our job. Any of our missions could easily turn into a suicide mission.”

Your heart sinks at his callous response, the weight of his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “And if I died on a mission, would you be okay with that? With living without me? With going on with life without me?!” you challenge, tears welling in your eyes.

“Seeing how you're always fucking nagging me, yeah, maybe I’d be okay with that!” Simon's harsh words cut through you like a knife, leaving you reeling in disbelief.

Your lip quivers, and you shake your head, unable to comprehend the cruelty of his words. “You're being mean. You don’t mean that Si, I know you don’t,” you protest, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I do. I mean every fucking word,” Simon retorts, his voice rising in anger. “Do you know how easy it would be to find someone else who will give me what I want? I can never get peace when you're around. We are done, y/n. Don't bother coming home after your mission.”

The finality of his words crushes you, leaving you speechless and broken. With tears streaming down your face, you cover your mouth with your hand, muffling the sobs that threaten to escape. Simon turns on his heel and storms out of the apartment, leaving you alone in the wake of his harsh words. 

With a heavy heart, you rise from the couch and make your way to your room, your mind consumed by the weight of the decision ahead. As you gather the necessities for the mission, a wave of despair washes over you.

If Simon wasn't in your life, what else did you have to live for? There had been multiple missions you had turned down in the past, knowing they were nothing but one-way trips. But now, without Simon by your side, there was nothing holding you back.

Stepping into Price’s office, you steel yourself for the conversation ahead. You inform him of your decision to go through with the mission, his surprise is evident, but he and Laswell offer words of encouragement, instilling in you a sense of hope. With your skills as an infiltrator and your Russian background, they assure you that you stand a fighting chance. After all, who would suspect one of their own?

Despite the uncertainty and the weight of the task ahead, a glimmer of hope begins to flicker within you. Within a matter of hours, you find yourself on a plane headed to Russia, the gravity of your decision weighing heavily on your mind. Simon however remains oblivious to your departure, unaware of the path you've chosen. 

Back at home, he returns that night with your favorite takeout and a bouquet of flowers, his heart heavy with remorse and determination. With each step, he replays his apology in his head, rehearsing the words he's been meaning to say. He knows he's messed up, and he's desperate to make things right. He wants to change, to be a better man for you.

Simon's mind swirls with thoughts of seeking therapy, of learning to control his temper and his sharp tongue. He knows he's hurt you deeply with his words, words he never truly meant. He loves you more than anything, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to prove it. But as he steps into the house, the atmosphere is heavy with silence. The air feels cold and unwelcoming.

“Y/n?” He calls out for you, his voice tinged with concern, but there's no response.

Worry gnaws at him as he wanders through the darkened rooms, searching for any sign of you. Finally, he enters the bedroom, and his heart sinks as he sees a note lying on the bed, illuminated by the faint light filtering in through the window. With trembling hands, he picks up the note, his heart pounding in his chest as he reads your words. 

Simon,

By the time you read this, I'll be on a plane to Russia. I've made the decision to go through with it, despite the risks, and I wanted you to know why.

I've heard your words echoing in my mind, the ones about finding someone else who will give you what you want, about never getting peace when I'm around. And so, I've decided to honor your wishes. Once I finish this mission, I'll find my own place, and you won't have to deal with my constant nagging anymore. Your life will finally be at peace, just as you've always wanted.

I want you to know that I've always turned down these types of missions in the past. This isn't the first time Price has offered them to me. But if I had known sooner that you didn't care whether I went on them or not, I would have gone sooner. I'm sorry for making your life so miserable, for not realizing sooner that I was the problem.

I hope that you find peace now, Simon. I hope that you find someone who can give you what you want, someone who can make you happy. You deserve that much, at least.

Take care of yourself.

Yours always, Y/n

With each word, his heart sinks deeper, the weight of your words bearing down on him with crushing force. Tears blur his vision as he reads your farewell, your words cutting through him like a knife. The realization of the pain he's caused you hits him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air as guilt gnaws at his conscience.

When he reaches the part where you promise to honor his wish and stay out of his life after your mission, Simon's heart shatters into a million pieces. The thought of you willingly walking away from him, all because of his own hurtful words and actions, is almost too much to bear.

He crumples the letter in his trembling hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he struggles to come to terms with the magnitude of his mistakes. The weight of regret hangs heavy in the air as he realizes the depth of the love he's lost, the love he may never have the chance to regain if you don’t come back from the mission.

The suicide mission.

In that moment, he breaks down completely, the full weight of his actions crashing over him like a tidal wave. Seeing how much he's hurt you, how much he's pushed you away to point that you accepted the mission, shatters him to his core.

With each tear that falls, Simon's resolve crumbles, replaced by a deep and profound sense of regret. He wishes he could turn back time, take back the hurtful words he's spoken, and hold you close, promising to never let you go. But it's too late now, and all he can do is sit in silence, praying to a higher form to keep you safe, to let you come back to him alive.

The next day, Simon walked into Price’s office, his heart heavy with worry and anticipation. He needed to know more about your mission, to find any shred of information that could ease his growing anxiety.

Price informed Simon that you had landed in Russia in the early morning hours. However, he delivered the news that communication would be sparse for at least a month. They had scheduled calls planned for updates on the mission status, but they would have to wait until the designated time for you to radio in.

Simon listened intently, understanding the protocol, but inside, fear and dread gnawed at him. The thought of you out there, alone and potentially in danger, filled him with a sense of helplessness.

As the first month passed, Simon waited patiently in the room with Price, every passing minute feeling like an eternity. But as the hours stretched on, there was no sign of communication from you. No Morse code, no call, no comm. Just silence.

Panic began to set in as Simon grappled with the uncertainty of your situation. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the nagging worry that something had gone terribly wrong. But Price remained steadfast in his confidence, assuring Simon that these things happened often, that perhaps you hadn't found the right opportunity to relay a message.

Despite Price's reassurances, Simon couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that gripped him. With each passing day, his fear for your safety only grew stronger, overshadowing any hope he tried to hold onto. But he knew he had to stay strong, to keep faith that you would return safely from your mission.

Month after month passed, and still, there was no word from you. Simon waited patiently by the phone in the comms room center, his heart heavy with worry and uncertainty. He refused to give up on you, clinging to the hope that you would come back to him, despite Price declaring you M.I.A.

Even as Price tried to reason with him, pointing out that none of your mission objectives had been completed in the time you had been gone, Simon remained steadfast in his belief that you were still out there, somewhere, fighting to return to him.

Even as the years passed Simon couldn't bring himself to accept the possibility that you might truly be gone, vanished from his life and the world forever. The thought of living in a world without you was unbearable, and Simon couldn't bear to entertain it.

The last words he had spoken to you echoed in his mind, haunting him with their cruelty. How could he have been so callous, so blind to the pain he was causing you? 

Was this fate's cruel work, forcing him to confront the consequences of his actions? Was this punishment for his harsh words, for pushing you away when he should have pulled you close? Was this what he truly wanted, to be left alone in a world without you?

But even in the depths of his despair, Simon clung to a sliver of hope, refusing to let go of the belief that you would come back to him. He would wait for you, for as long as it took, holding onto the hope that one day, you would return to him and his world would be whole again.

Anon Ask- simon x reader but they are both in the military and reader gets assigned on a suicide mission but has a choice to go or not. reader and simon fight and then they decide to go. feel free not to do this no pressure!!! but if you will dont post the ask until after to make it a little angsty surprise!

[lunarw0rks]

sweet thing | part one

˖⁺‧₊˚ read it on ao3 | masterlist | ask box | next part

price takes a liking to his neighbor. vulnerable, expecting, and in need of his helping hand. it's a good thing he always wanted a family.

john price x pregnant!reader (based on this idea of mine.)

warning(s): MDNI (18+); NOT EDITED, price is touch starved and kinda pathetic, pregnancy, angst/depression, alcoholism, fluff, fem!reader [wc: 1.3k]

Involuntary stress leave, they called it.

But for John, it was just short of decay. Sedentary, bitter—restless. Stuck at home while there's still a fight to be fought, men who need guidance. His men.

Before the stress does him in, he figures boredom will close in on him first, and it would be less merciful than any bullet or blade. Chores are a necessity, and hobbies are nothing more than a temporary soothe to his aches.

Every morning, irony wakes him up cold. Takes its pound of flesh. The world he devoted his adult life to fighting for, has nothing in it for him.

(Stiff fingers, heaving chest, bile in his throat, tremors marring his nervous system.)

It's hours before he can shake the feeling, so he compromises by rising at ungodly hours and fulfilling a rigid routine—still a trained soldier to his core. And by nightfall, he nurses a bottle until he's warm again, ready for the reset at dawn.

As they gaze out the window, his eyes search for purpose. Two fingers parting the blinds. Something, anything, please. But nothing. The sharp sting of cheap booze rushes past his teeth, and he's ready to retreat.

He winces through the taste before he's at attention again. The rumble of an engine cut short right next door. He angles himself to catch a clear view of the person. Instinct yells for him to be vigilant, but the sight in front of him snuffs the bellow.

The flow of a slip dress in the breeze, sticky strands of hair pulled back, glowing skin, a nurturing hand resting on the bump that shows through the fabric.

You look anything but thrilled while you wrangle your bags and fight the wind gusts, and you're well aware of it.

All John sees is bloom. Purpose. Duty.

Before he can gather all his wits, he's closed the front door behind him, his spilled bottle dribbling along the end table. It's not so much your beauty that drives him; he isn't a superficial man and can't afford to be.

A living, breathing person is what quickens his stride. Someone to talk to. Someone to touch and study. As of late, the only people near have been on the other side of the TV screen, fueled by dramatics and in character.

You find yourself stuck in your headspace again, mentally listing all the tasks that await you inside your house. Chores, mostly, some grocery shopping—and loads more of that endless baby planning. Relaxation wasn't an option and you're actively learning to accept that. Although, it's admittedly difficult to feel any other way when you've got another human to consider now.

John clears his throat. "Let me take tha' for you, darling."

He waits until you meet his stare to extend a hand, fingers grazing the flimsy straps of your shopping bags. You freeze, soaking in the sight of him.

"Hm?" Your brows knit together, and it's only then that you catch up with him.

"Your bags."

The man has already taken them before the words finish rolling off his tongue, but he stays in place.

A soft chuckle comes out of you to crack open the sheet of embarrassment. "Sorry, I'm a little out of it today."

Pregnancy brain, you want to blame it on. But deep down you know it's because kindness is a new taste nowadays.

Most are courteous and accommodating, making way for you. Others look at you like dirt on their shoes. Fatigue draining your features doesn't help, and neither does the absence of a wedding band. Early on, you were naive enough to believe society had moved beyond the stigma. Wrong, more wrong, and a fool is all you are nowadays, even if only in your head.

Exhausted, not out of it, he analyses, and his heart aches.

"It's alright." His voice is smooth as nectar, leaving goosebumps on your skin that you'll chalk up to the wind. "Shouldn't be carrying all this by yourself, anyhow."

You fight the urge to scoff and instead lead the way to the front porch.

He's right. You shouldn’t be doing any of this alone.

Turning the key, you step inside and let the words spill. “Yeah, I, uh— I didn’t have anyone to call.”

Price should be more shocked by your words, but he isn’t. He is really, and truly, desensitized to all the misfortune around him. And it’s not any different with you. His eyes—conditioned to spot every minute detail of a person—took milliseconds to notice your left hand.

Feel her out. Find out more.

“That so?” He questions softly but doesn’t give you a chance to respond. You’ve painted the whole picture and more.

His words are full of every sensibility possible. “That’s a shame.” Pity. Empathy. Grief. Outrage. All except condescension; none of this is your fault, he can sense it.

You expect admonition.

Leading a stranger inside is bad enough, and walking the fine line between small talk and oversharing is worse.

But you can’t bring yourself to taste it. Outside of some coworkers and your mother, this is your first taste of organic interaction, and it’s been overwhelmingly amicable so far. Not something you can take lightly; loneliness is prevalent.

You let out a tired sigh, letting the silent gesture speak for itself. What else can you say? He's already got you pegged after spending all but two minutes with you. Makes you wonder how you haven't noticed him sooner, though you remember his driveway is usually vacant and the blinds are always closed.

By now, it's obvious that if he had ill intentions, he would've acted on them by now. The silence isn't thick or stiff—it's refreshing, oddly enough.

When his mouth upturns, the crow's feet around his eyes are made visible. They've witnessed things, awful things, no doubt. But he's also got a world of wisdom in them.

This is the part where you find a farewell, something moderately polite so you don't feel awful for kicking him out. (Not your fault you need to rest your feet. At least you get the sense that he'll understand.)

In search for the words, you place a hand on your stomach, "well, it was kind of you to bring that in, uh—"

"—John." He interjects.

Out of habit, you form a clumsy smile and ache to get the proper words out. "It was very kind of you, John. Thank you."

Without any further direction, he's able to pick up on your hints for him to make his exit. The bar is so low these days, it's almost shocking. Shuffling to follow him to the front door, your hand seizes the knob.

There's a lot left unsaid, despite meeting your handsome neighbor only a short time ago. The voice inside urges you to keep it short. Send him off, get out of his hair. He was just being nice.

"I should thank you again," you blurt, almost abruptly. Price turns on his heels with little surprise, a leer written on his thin lips. "Next time, I'll take another trip to carry the bags."

"No next time, love." A purr and a new nickname.

Too smitten to even notice the ruffle of some paper when he reaches a hand in his pocket. Even stole the pen off your entry table (a.k.a the junk-pile-of-mail-table) and you were none the wiser. Dated, the way he scribbles on the crumbled receipt and hands it to you between his index and middle.

Heat rises up your neck and to your face when you inch closer to retrieve the number, somehow finding it within yourself to not break eye contact. John's gaze stays genuine, despite the puff of his chest and the way he breathes your scent in shamelessly.

Albeit frazzled—you weren't born yesterday; he's attractive and extremely luring and you're single and hormonal. Wouldn't take much for something to happen.

And if not, you know you'll have fond daydreams, at the very least.

"You ever need anything, give me a call. 'M good for more than bag carrying."

[oceantornadoo]

toxic but in love fwb!simon with some hurt/comfort

“i know your gala is important, si, but can’t you come? just this once i just want-“ you were wringing your hands, twisting them into unfamiliar shapes as you argued with simon, your situationship. you two were always like this, pushing and pulling at the boundaries of your relationship. moon and tide, destined to move each other but never close enough. “we’re not dating an’ i have a work thing. can’t come.” he shrugged nonchalantly, turning his head so he couldn’t see the pleading look on your face. instead, he pushed himself off your couch and reached for his jacket by the door. the silence in the air turned sour, some dark ugly thing created by him. his heart was a dead thing inside his chest, unable to muster a beat or two for you. he wanted to. a want so deep it ran in his blood, turning him cold. “fine. see you in six months or whatever.” your voice was stony, bitter. you reached for the tv remote and unpaused the show you two were watching, trying not to care about the sounds of him lacing his boots and grabbing his keys. you were done, done with this tug of war. you felt his stare drill through the side of your head as he put on his mask, the final bit to his ensemble. he might think that’s what got him named ghost, but it was really this, this act of playing human when he just didn’t care. he was a poltergeist in your life, knocking things out of order but refusing to show when it mattered. you were done.

one night later and here you were at your first art show, the debut of your career. dressed in your fanciest attire, second glass of champagne in your hand as you tried to network your way through the room. your feet ached from your shoes and there was an itch in your back you couldn’t quite reach, but you put on your best smile as another potential buyer went on and on about their summer in the hamptons. simon wasn’t here but it was fine. the tears you had been swallowing back for the past thirty minutes were just tears of joy at your accomplishments, nothing more. you thanked the buyer and turned the corner, finishing off your glass as you took a much needed break. suddenly a hush went over the crowd, a slight silence broken by a small quip. the room went back to normal but you went to check it out anyways, hoping it wasn’t someone making a bad comment about your work.

you arrived at the entrance and almost passed out at the sight before you. four men-no, machines, dressed in full military regalia stood in front of you. soap and gaz were already working the crowd while price was entertaining one of your donors, but your eyes were focused on ghost. ghost, who traded his balaclava for a more crowd-friendly medical mask, stood in front of you with a bouquet of carnations and a bottle of wine. you approached him slowly like you would a skittish animal, taking patient, methodical steps. “read carnations are for celebrations.” he said, almost sheepishly, as he mechanically thrust the bouquet towards you. you took it out of instinct, eyes still focused on his. “you came?” you said unbelievingly. simon was here, simon brought his friends, simon brought you gifts? he had to have been drugged or something. there was no way. “you called.” he answered, breaking out of his awkwardness. “‘m sorry for yesterday. knew i was coming, jus’ gave you a hard time. had to celebrate my girl’s first show.” your mouth dropped at that. my girl. “but…but we’re not dating?” you took a step forward, the rest of the room falling away as his gloved hand touched your cheek, brushing back the wrinkles on your forehead. “d’ya want to, lovie? was at this gala all night, thinkin’ bout how fun it would’ve been to have you there with me. makin’ fun of all those puffed up generals.” you let out a small chuckle and his back straightened, encouraged by the sound of your laughter. he loved the sounds of your laughter, your drunk giggles and your loud snorts. most especially he loved the sharp barks of surprise you made, the ones you gave when something or someone made you happy without expecting it. like now. “yes. if you’re sure.” the foggy emotions in your head were finally clearing, letting in the sun. his warm eyes caressed your face, pride evident in his face. “‘m sure.” he sealed it with a kiss to your forehead, not wanting to be unprofessional at your work event. simon felt something in his chest. maybe a heartbeat. maybe he had one after all.

—

thought of the “you came? you called” tiktok audio with this one. currently on my period so y’all will only be getting emotional stuff for the next couple of days 🫶

[ceilidho]

prompt: post-apocalypse ghost/reader fic where ghost and the rest of his team come across the feral, blood-soaked reader who stabs first and asks questions later. (on ao3 here)

-

The world ends on a Monday.

Abysmal timing; they’re on leave by chance, the whole lot of them. Soap and Gaz are playing cards in the barracks when they get the call. Price is still in his office when a phone in the corner of the room that never rings suddenly does (he stares at it for a time before picking it up). Ghost is someplace, no one knows for sure; what they do know is that when he does finally answer their calls, he’s out of breath and there’s a thread of panic in his voice that makes the blood in Soap’s veins run cold. 

He’s never heard him sound like that. He never will again.

The virus rages across the country, hopping borders like they melt away into the ether. Country after country toppelling to this unnamed virus that demolishes society so completely that there was never a chance for the military to contain it. That chance evaporates before even the faintest spark of hope is lit. 

Soap is used to killing, but what he never gets used to is the sight of those things that take human shape. Calling them zombies is easy at first, but even that name comes with a sense of distance; it evokes things seen in films and tv shows, not the real flesh-and-blood of it all, not sitting in a caravan speeding down the motorway with bodies torn apart and scattered across the road. He learns to bite his teeth and hold his bile down at the sight of one of those creatures hunched over the masticated remains of a person. 

Then suddenly it’s seven months later. The core unit of them make their way across the continent, taking back roads where they’re less likely to encounter the hoards of infected. They’ve had too many close calls for them to take chances anymore—even armed to the gills and strapped in body armor (the remnants of the military efforts that collapsed within days), Gaz’s shoulder pad has crumpled beneath too sharp teeth and Roach has had his legs swept out from under him, his throat nearly exposed, nearly torn open.

Ghost’s hands are still wet with gore from taking that infected apart. If any of them make it, it will likely be him.

A part of Soap worries about Ghost. Even he feels the tender edges of his own humanity bristle at the day-in and day-out struggle that is now a luxury rather than a hardship. Just being able to survive is a miracle. Ghost just goes dark. From the little Soap knows of Ghost (which is still more than most; he’s confident enough to say that of their group, he’s the one that Ghost shows himself to the most), he knows that Ghost has already endured enough suffering for an army. Never mind a single man. 

There’s a flatness behind his eyes these days and it scares Soap, just a bit. He no longer looks like a person behind a mask but rather the sun-baked skull itself. 

His worry only fades when they come across the girl.

She’s a feral little thing, half-starved and out of her mind. They see her slip in and out of abandoned houses when they make their way through a small village in the French countryside (or what Soap thinks is France), hair matted with sweat and blood. 

It’s Ghost that pauses, Ghost that makes them stop and detours long enough to creep up on her, holding a big hand to her mouth when she howls and tries to tear his whole arm off. It takes over an hour to calm her down long enough to reassure her that they mean her no harm. She tries to take off no less than six times.

Soap has never seen Ghost look smitten, but there’s no other word for it. 

When Price tentatively suggests leaving the girl behind—not a terrible suggestion after she tries to stab Ghost—the look Ghost levels him with brooks no further arguments. They’re keeping the girl. 

She’s his problem, as far as Soap and the rest of them are concerned. No name, unless it’s Soap yelling “Girl” or “Hey, you!” when she does something stupid like actively seeking out infected to kill. Ghost chuckles all deep baritone when he sees her hack away at an infected man’s neck. It’s enough to make a man hurl. Love in a time of zombies. 

He hears them murmuring to each other sometimes, late at night when the team is holed up in a house or a barn they’ve commandeered. Doors always reinforced, someone standing guard on the roof. The low rasp of Ghost’s voice, almost susurrous, almost intimate. Her voice like a chittering wolf. 

Hovering between sleep and wakefulness, Soap doesn’t look away from the wall in front of him. He knows if he does, if he turns over from where he’s supposed to be sleeping, he’ll see Ghost hovering over the girl roughly half his size, her face blocked only by the way his arms frame either side of her head. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach the sight of his friend’s hips bucking into the girl.

He hears him mutter something like, “You needed to be found. I needed to find you.” and then it’s enough. He lets his brain shut off. 

If it keeps Ghost sane and with them, so be it. 

[d0youc0py]

Can I you do the 141+Konig (or whoever you’d like) realizing that reader feels safe with them?

Love your work!!!!

To outside eyes it was something so simple- but to him it was the highest form of a compliment.

The group was sprawled out all over the living room preparing for the weekly movie night and somewhere between Gaz and Soap arguing who’s turn it was to pick the movie- you had fallen asleep.

Not just that- you had fallen asleep on him. His arm had been draped over the back of the couch and when you could no longer fight back sleep, his side was the perfect pillow. He knew you probably didn’t mean too, but just the fact your bodies natural instinct was to fall in his direction was enough to send a warm buzz through his body.

Sleep had always been a touchy subject for Ghost and Simon. He was lucky if he slept more than four hours a night. Being a light sleeper and falling victim of night terrors made nighttime his least favorite time. He disliked the vulnerability of it.

So the fact that you trusted him in your most vulnerable state was rather precious.

And a mission he wouldn’t take lightly.

Your skin had been crawling for the last fifteen minutes. You’d hope that by ignoring his unspoken advancements he would take a hint, but you were wrong. You peaked at him from the corner of your eyes. He wasn’t unattractive. He had nice features- chiseled but still approachable. Yet something about him just twisted your stomach. Maybe it was the way his eyes were glued to your ass.

Could you handle it yourself- absolutely. Did you feel like having to prove yourself in a bar full of people that you could take care of it yourself- not really. Especially not when you had a Big Bad Captain who could handle it with just a glare. You quickly excused yourself from the rest of the 141, heading over to where Captain Price and Laswell were gossiping.

“Sorry if this is confidential, but a guy over there is giving me the creeps.” You explained.

“The one in the blue jacket?” Price smirked. You went wide eyed and nodded your head wondering how he knew. “Been eyeing you since we walked in. I’ve been keeping an eye on him.” He held out his arm for you and you quickly linked arms with him. The simple action was enough to cause the man to sneer and grumble something to himself. You shot Price a smile and he shot you back a wink.

“That’s why I come to you when I’m scared.” You complimented. You didn’t know it but that comment was the ego boost of a lifetime for him.

Your vision was starting to turn foggy. Buildings became less sharp, people became blurry figures and the ground was looking mighty comfortable. You hands gripped your abdomen��� the other pressed against the wall.

Your eyes scanned the area, hoping to come across a familiar mohawk. You thought the best route would be to follow the sound of explosions, but that was just bringing you closer to the action.

“Y/N?!” Johnny boomed from behind you. You sighed in relief your back hitting the wall. He caught you before you could sink down completely. “Steamin Jesus.” He grumbled. He worked quick, tearing off a piece of his sleeve and holding it tightly against you wound. He called for an evac. “Why didn’t you call for help?” He scolded. You rested your forehead against his.

“I wanted you.” You mumbled. His hardened face softened- a smile almost ghosting his features. You were sure if you weren’t bleeding out he would’ve made some snarky comment, but neither of you had the energy.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered, letting you rest against him.

You don’t know why you agreed to this. Well technically you all voted and you lost but you probably could’ve put up a bigger fight. You hated horror movies. You’d think they wouldn’t bother you given your line of work but you were wrong. You had your sweater pulled up to your forehead trying to block out the urge to take a peak at the TV.

You eventually caved and peaked just in time for a jump scare. You heard a stifled chuckle come from the couch across from you. Kyle was biting back a smile, mouthing a ‘you good.’ You nodded feeling determined to not let the movie get the best of you. That plan was sort lived as a scene so brutal even Ghost had to look away, crossed the screen.

“Don’t be babies!” Soap yelled. You had had enough. While the others were engrossed in the movie you quietly crept over to Kyle’s side of the couch.

“Can I sit with you?” You mumbled. He quickly nodded his head expecting you to sit near him- not press yourself against his side. He chuckled softly, removing his arm from the back of the couch resting it around you.

“You know, performing an exorcism has always been on my bucket list. You’d be in good hands.” He’s always so cheeky.

“Not nice.” You grumbled, sending him a glare. He put his feet up on the coffee table and relaxed against the couch. The calmness in his body started to spread to yours, and pretty soon you had fallen asleep. He was absolutely going to tease you about this later- but for now he was enjoying the prideful bubble in his chest. You had chosen him.

Price tried to take a picture of you two but his flash went off causing everyone to scream.

“Colonel.” You hummed, knocking at the door. His eyes shot it away from his IPad trying to adjust to the darkness of the room.

“What’s wrong?” He questioned, beginning to stand up. You shook your hands.

“Nothing.” You lied. You had a nightmare. One so bad your body was still trembling.

“It’s three in the morning. What’s wrong?” He pressed. He stood up, cracking his back. His eyes had finally adjusted enough to see your tear stained face and shaking shoulders. Suddenly he realized. He had woken up enough times like that himself. He walked around his desk and grabbed a spare blanket from underneath the couch. “Come here.”

You did as you were told, smiling softly as he wrapped the fluffy blanket around your body. “You can sleep in here. I have to pull an all-nighter anyways.” He grumbled that last part to himself.

“I won’t bother you?”

“No.” He assured, grabbing a pillow from under the couch. “You’re not the only one who could benefit from some company right now.” You could hear the smile in his voice. You snuggled into the couch and he trudged back over to his desk.

“Thanks Konig.” You mumbled before you finally fell back asleep. He took a moment to stare at your sleeping form. There had been many times he wished someone was there for him in moments of weakness. He was honored you had chosen him to be that person for you.

Thank you for your kind words!

[daisies-daydreams]

Heyyy can u write 141 and könig’s reaction to u moaning in their ear 😁

Pairing: Multiple Category: Fluff, Semi-Smut Warnings: Sexual Themes, Nudity, Tickling Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: Hello! Thank you for your request! This was a fun one to write for. 🤭I hope you enjoy!

Image Source: Pexels

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI

König

“Kö?” you called.

“In the kitchen, Schatz!” he yelled back. Your small footsteps made him giddy as you stepped into the kitchen. You gasped.

“What’s this?” you asked. He smiled as he looked up from his cooking.

“I’m making you dinner, Kätzchen!” your boyfriend beamed. You gave him a sweet smile as you sauntered over to him. You stood on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Thank you, König,” you moaned out his name as you traced your fingers across his lower back. König’s breath hitched, his cock twitching in his pants as you slipped away from him. You grinned as you turned around, wiggling your ass while you sashayed out of the kitchen. You gasped when he struck your backside with a towel. Your face was flushed as you turned.

“Come here…Maus,” he breathed as he motioned his finger towards him. You smiled innocently as you walked back, stopping a few inches from him. König huffed before turning off the stove. You squealed when he grabbed and set you atop a free space on the countertop. A fire lit in your core as he spread your legs open and captured your lips in a sloppy kiss.

“But, dinner-” König bit your bottom lip as he slid his tongue into your mouth. The taste of his spit was intoxicating as you guzzled it down your throat.

“Don’t worry-we'll both be eating well tonight,” he husked.

Captain John Price

“Soap told me some of the new female recruits called you ‘daddy’,” you said with a cocked brow. John didn’t even flinch as he continued reading his book.

“Yeah? What of it?” he grumbled. You bit your lip and wiggled your hips just a little.

“Would you be my daddy?” you whispered. You watched his hand flinch as John gripped the page he was turning. His bushy brows were arched as his entire face turned red. You laughed, clutching your stomach.

“Oh! Your face is priceless!” your eyes suddenly snapped open before you laughed even harder at your unintentional pun. John shook his head as he closed his book.

“I’ll be in my study,” he grunted as he began to rise from his seat.

“Wait! I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet from now on,” you said. John quirked a brow.

“Promise?” he asked while folding his arms. You nodded.

“I promise,” you grinned. John narrowed his eyes before he sank back down onto the couch. He opened his book back up and started to flip through a few pages. You smirked as you leaned over the couch, making sure to capture some spit between your lips before licking them slowly.

“Fuck me, daddy,” you moaned straight into his ear. John slammed the book shut before he spun around. You gasped as he grabbed you by your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You yelped when he laid a sharp slap across your ass.

“Hope you understand what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he growled as he kneaded your ass in his hands.

“‘Cause it’s going to be a long night for the both of us”.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Gaz knitted his brows as his fingers flicked wildly against the controller. He was nearly done with this level, and he wanted to beat it before he went to bed.

“Ky?” you called from the bedroom.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Come to bed, hun. It’s getting late,” you said.

“Sure-in a minute,” he called back. You rolled your eyes. He said that an hour ago. And the hour before that. You padded into the living room. You rested your hands on your hips when you saw his eyes glued to the TV. He was hunched over in his chair, a small part of his tongue poking out from between his lips. You grinned when an idea suddenly popped in your head. You stifled a giggle as you slipped your pants and shirt off, letting them fall to the floor. Your bra and panties came off soon after. You bit your lip as you snuck behind Gaz. A scoff left him when you pushed one of the button’s to pause the game.

“Hey!” he whined as he quickly spun around. His eyes widened and he gulped when his face nearly swung into your bare breasts. You let yourself sigh, allowing them to hover near his mouth.

“I need you, Ky,” you moaned while rubbing your thighs together.

Let's just say it's a good thing you paused the game.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Simon wiped his brow, the cool, autumn breeze a welcoming sensation. His shirt was lying somewhere in the backyard, his rippling muscles covered in a sheen of sweat. You came out carrying a glass of water. Simon gave a small grin as he took it from you.

“Thank you, lovie,” he said. You watched his throat bob as he gulped down the liquid. He let the ax fall to the ground as he smacked his lips. You came up to him, having to crane your neck just to stare into his chocolate brown eyes. “What’s the matter, hun?” he asked, his hands snaking down to rest on your hips. You bit your lip before you leaned on your tiptoes.

“Just love to watch you work, Si,” you moaned out your nickname for him. Simon emitted a low growl, goosebumps breaking over his skin beneath your hands.

“Yeah? Want to watch from even closer?” he grunted as he kneaded your ass. You gasped and looked around, afraid the neighbors would see.

“W-We can’t do it out here,” you whispered, your cheeks turning hot. Simon grunted as his lips trailed up your jawline, his arms pressing you to his solid body.

“Don’t you remember? I need to check the drain in the shower today, too,” he sighed. Your eyes lit up as he carried you back into the house.

It was a very long shower.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Johnny grumbled to himself. His eyes were red and strained as he stared down at some paperwork he had to take home. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, too tired to notice the creak of the bedroom door opening. You crept towards him before leaning your lips to his ear.

“Come to bed, baby,” you moaned.

“Steamin’ Jesus!” Johnny yelled as he nearly flung himself out of his chair. His brows furrowed as you giggled. “Think that’s funny, eh bonnie?” he mused. Your smile fell when you saw a familiar glint shine in his eyes.

“Johnny-“ you warned. He suddenly pounced on you. Johnny growled playfully as he tackled you onto the bed. Your bodies bounced as he dug his fingers into your sides and armpits.

“J-Johnny! Stop! C-Can’t breathe!” you wheezed as he relentlessly tickled you.

“You said you wanted me to come to bed, yeah? Never said what we’d be doin’ in it,” he jested. Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes as you laughed harder than you think you ever have.

“Please!” you hiccuped with another giggle. Johnny slowed his movements, his hands making quick work to strip you of his shirt that you wore. You shifted beneath him, avoiding his gaze.

“Where’s that bold lass from before, hm?” he mused. You gasped when he blew a raspberry onto your neck.

“Johnny!” you giggled, playfully slapping his shoulder. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest.

___

Thank you for reading! ❤️

@tr4psta @notthatfanfictionwriter

[ghostsgrl666]

price x escort!reader who's sitting pretty on his couch, waiting patiently for him the moment he gets home. His perfect little housewife for hire, fully dolled up just to sit next to him while he watches a match on TV. When he told you to come over, you thought it was for a date, some event or fancy restaraunt outing he needed company for. But here you are in a tight dress that rides all the way up your thighs as you sit down, curiously watching his focused gaze on the screen from the corner of your eye.

It's when he sets his drink down that you understand why you're here. The cold condensation on his fingers intensifies his touch as he grabs your knee, slowly pulling his wide palm up your leg. He's still intensely watching the game as he slides his hand under your dress, thick fingers pushing the flimsy material of your thong to the side before he rubs up and down your cunt. You grab his forearm with both hands, can't help squeezing as he pushes just the tips of his fingers in and out of you again and again. You bite your lip trying to quiet your breaths, unable to let out the sharp inhale that punches out of you as he bullies his fingers further inside, curling them as he starts to fuck you up against that blinding spot that only he seems to be able to find.

Still, he's barely turned his body, about to make you come without so much as a glance. And when he does, he just places his sticky fingers in your mouth to suck on, leaving you spent but aching as you reach for the outline of his hard cock through his sweatpants.

[everytechever]

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[yngtort]

— Hate to love you

chan | lino | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin

NSFW ★

──────────

Xfem!reader • mdni • established relationship • cheating • choking • hate sex in which hyunjin finds out about your affair and decides to put you in your place

Anonymous : Oof I loooved your jealous fwb Felix fic ♥️ When you have time could you please make a jealous Hyunjin fic? It’s one of my favorite tropes 🥵

It had been two years since you got married. Two years of hyunjin having to deal with your complete and utter disrespect, and he’s just about had it.

You were a spoiled fucking brat. Spending all his money on obscene things, stuff that you didn’t even need. Designer clothes that you never wore filled up both yours and his closet.

and let’s not even get to that mouth of yours. Your tongue was always sharp with blonde, not holding back a single insult. You both argued like hell over small shit like breathing the same air. but y’all blew it so far out of proportion to the point where it becomes a full on war between you too.

And when you weren’t arguing, you weren’t talking at all.

But Hyunjin didn’t blame you for your attitude towards him. you were ripped out of your life in a matter of days Just to satisfy your parents expectations. trust him, he didn’t take lightly to the thought either. He ransacked the house when he found out, flipping out on his parents and tossing old relic vases into the walls. He was just as pissed as you were.

That is, until the day he met you.

Love at first sight, that’s what it was. You were a lot younger back then — your hair was shorter, face was warmer, and your voice was like silk as you begged him to call off the wedding.

“We both don’t want this.” You said with tearful and dejected eyes, hands trembling as you latched onto the hem of his dress shirt.

You looked at him the same way when you walked down the aisle of the church.

and during your honeymoon,

and at the birth of your kids,

You hated him with every fiber of your being and he knew it.

So he allowed you to be the snobby bitch that you are to him. It’s the price he’d have to pay for locking you away with a ring.

But there was one thing he could not stand the thought of, You deceiving him and going behind his back to be with another man. so he’s absolutely fuming as he stares at the photos on his phone. You’re seen walking hand in hand into a brothel with some long haired blondie. Had it not been for the fact that he’d just cut and dyed his hair, hyunjin would’ve thought it was him that you were with in these photos.

it was sickening, seeing articles alluding that you had been spending money —his money— on a male escort. Writers degrade the integrity of his character and your relationship— ridiculing his fathers company.

And it’s all your fault.

So you’re gonna pay for it.

It’s eerily quiet when you walk into the house. Not that it was ever loud or anything, but usually you could hear the faint sound of your kids playing in their room— tv running and soft giggles ringing in your ears.

But today, you were met by complete and utter silence. “I’m home,” you say to no one in particular, shrugging your jacket off your shoulders and hanging it on the coat rack.

You step deeper into the house, peeking in each room until you’ve reached hyunjin’s office. The door was ajar which threw you off completely. It was always kept locked unless he was here.

But he was supposed to be at the company today.

“Hyunjin.” You peeked your head in, immediately meeting with the man you wedded. He was leant on his desk, cigarette between his lips as his dark eyes stared back at you.

“What are you doing here? Where’s my children?"Hyunjin chuckled at the question, head shaking at you as you looked at him— trying to figure out what’s so funny.

He took a long, long drag from the cig, blowing the smoke out into the air right after. “I decided they needed a night away from their cheating mother,"

You sighed hearing his words, “I wanted to take them out to dinner.”

“You’re not even gonna deny it?” Hyunjin said with a scoff, clear disgust written across his face.

"There’s articles out about it now. There’s no point in lying” your shrug, “just buy off the writer or something. Your reputation won’t be tarnished for long.”

Hyunjin laughed in complete disbelief. You really didn’t care about any of this. It was all just a game to you, he was a game to you.

He put the cigarette before pushing off the desk and walking over to you, a tall figure towering down. “I can’t believe you.”

“I let you do what you want, walk over me and spend every dime…and this is what I get in return?” He snaps, voice laced with fire. “Had I known that you’d turn out to be a whore, I wouldn’t have married you.”

“I never asked for this, I never asked to be your wife.”

"And yet, here we are," Hyunjin countered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're married to me, y/n. You're the mother of my children. So, I expect you to act with some semblance of decency and respect.”

“And if I don’t?” You tested, taking a step forward as you pressed a finger to his chest. “just what are you gonna do about-“

It only took a few seconds, so swift and fast that you couldn’t even register the stinging pain of your back slamming into the wall and a hand wrapping around your neck.

“I’ll teach you how to respect me,” he growled as he held you there. your hands instinctively grip his wrist, nails digging into his skin. “You’ll learn your place in this house and you will never disobey me again.”

“I’ll never respect you, I hate you.” You bite, trying to fight your way out of his hold but hyunjins grip his firm— just barely enough to let you breathe.

"you hate me so much, yet you had to go find a man that looks exactly like me?" Hyunjin said, a smirk brewing on his face. “doesn’t seem like hatred to me.”

He watches in amusement as you visibly tense. Maybe the guy did resemble your husband, but so what? You didn’t pick him specifically for that reason….you think. All that sass your little body had, flew right out of the window as he closed the distance between the two of you.

“Tell me, was he even half as good as me? Or are you just a slut that enjoys sloppy dick?” He taunts as his free hand slides its way into your leggings and over your cunt.

“F-fuck you” you stuttered, feeling his fingers rub against your clothed folds— wetness seeping through the fabric.

“That's right. Fuck me, and only me.” Hyunjin whispers into your ear as his slinder fingers pass your panties into your sopping hole. He pumps them with ease, making sure to press against your cervix to draw out those loud moans of yours.

“Ngh, stop it..”you slur out, trying so hard not to submit but his fingers were working you good, your knees are just four more pumps from giving out. “hate you s’much..”

“That’s okay, baby.” He said, nose brushing against yours— “just gotta fuck you until you love me.”

With that, hyunjin latched his lips onto yours, eating up every moan you let out as he fingers you against the wall, thumb circling your clit in tight circles. N you’re like that for while, melting away with every thrust until your back arched— sending your chest against his.

Hyunjin smirks feeling you gush all over him, walls clenching and sucking on his digits for more, “such an easy little girl. Horny for anyone who bats an eye at you.” He teases as he frees his pulls back.

You’re so weak, almost sliding the wall— but your husband doesn’t let you.“S-stop it! Put me down!” You protest as He hoists you up, forcibly wrapping your legs around himself as he leads you to his desk.

He ignores your cries and places you there, pushing down on your back. Paper’s scrunching under you, pens dropping to the floor as you’re spread out for him to take.

Hyun hisses as he yanks your bottoms down, astonished at how your cunt glistened under his desk light. “so wet and yet you cry for me to stop.”

“t-that’s because-“

“Because you’re a whore? I know that already.” He said before kneeling down, coming face to face with your need. Gently he pushes his head forward, and in one swift motion, his tongue plunges into your slick heat, groaning as your taste coats his tongue.

Your head falls back, mewls leaving your lips as he devours your sensitive cunt. Tongue lapping over the bud, making you completely dizzy.

“Hyun, fuck, just like that, mm gonna cum” you cried, high just a few steps away.

“Don’t you dare.” Hyun grunts before pulling back, denying you release before two fingers plunging into you instead. “you don’t deserve it.”

“No, no, please.” You sob, legs closed around his wrist as he finger Fucks for the second time today. “‘Mm sorry,”

Hyun chuckles darkly, “you’re not sorry, but you will be soon.” He groans, replacing his fingers with his cock, slowly pushing in. Inch by inch he fills you up, nestling deep inside, his hands holding your thighs open.

He slams his hips forward, heavy girth railing you with no remorse, claiming your tightness as his own.

“Dumb girl.” Thrust, “Can’t keep your legs closed” Thrust, “needa wash your filthy cunt out with my cum” Thrust.

He growls lowly as he feels himself getting closer to the edge, his cock throbbing inside of you. "You’re gonna be a good loyal wife now, aren't you? Let me use you when I want?"

“Y-yes, I’ll be s’good.” you answer, barely even there— mind lost in a headspace you’ve never even explored before. “Yours, y/ns yours.”

“Say it, “ Hyun bites out, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls back before slamming forward again, the force of his movements causing your body to jerk forward each time. “Tell me you love me.”

“Fuck, I-I love you..love you s’much hyunie.”

With a final thrust, Hyunjin hips slam against yours, pushing his dick as deep inside you as it can go before releasing his seed. His hands grip your hips tighter as he holds himself there, panting heavily as he fills you to the brim.

"That's it...that's it...gotta make more pretty babies” he rubs your tummy, slowly pumping his load deeper into you and making you whine.

Hyunjin slowly reels back, dick leaving your hole with a wet pop. “I love you so much, beautiful.”

“Love you more.”

:)

Nni : finally did my first request !! Whoop!! I hope you liked it <3 wanna do more, so start sending people !!

Tinytags (comment to be added) : @sydnerss @sunnyyangie @panjakes @foxinnie8 @inniescandy-01

[vienssunshine]

The Girl Next Door

pairing: Makima x fem!reader nsfw/cw: dom!Makima, mind control, mind break, noncon, gore, dark wc: 3.3k author's note: this was inspired by a tiktok cosplay i saw description: a lady covered in blood shows up to your door, just wanting to be let in

With money so tight, moving into one of the small houses in the outskirts of the city was your only option. Though a little rundown, your new home seemed nice enough, cozy and rustic, with your favorite part being how it sits right on the coast. The papers were signed and you could finally breathe a sigh of relief; living in a place of your own, without loud roommates or money-hungry landlords, was just what you needed to get your life back on track.

But then you tried to invite your coworkers over for a small housewarming party. Their smiles fell when you shared your address, and they asked only one question: did you know what went on at the house at the end of the street? 

You had noticed it, of course, the house was hard to miss, so large that it seemed like it was always about to teeter and fall off its perch on the cliffside. But it ultimately wasn’t a factor when buying your property, the price point of your small home the primary consideration. The only thing you had noted was the pleasant view it provided during sunset, the mansion-house sitting over the water reflecting the sky’s blend of colors was a picturesque sight. It was only when night fell and the wind began carrying screams through your windows you finally believed your coworkers' once ridiculous claims—that the house was owned and used by members of the Yakuza.

The first few weeks settling in to your new home were difficult. The noises at night haunted you—the rumbles of tires on gravel as cars traveled past your house up the cliff, the raucous laughter during game nights, and the occasional round of muffled gunshots. You’d close the windows and press your pillow to your ear.

Sometimes men would come up to your doorstep, banging on the door to ask for help finding the only house they could be looking for. You’d quickly give them directions, but once they got a good look at you, they’d change the conversation, saying how they could help you out with your living situation, take you to a much nicer place to which you’d have to awkwardly laugh and excuse yourself. You got an additional lock and stopped answering the door. 

It took you the better half of one month to learn all you need to know about this place, which is that it’s best to ignore anything that happens outside of your home.

Yet, tonight is eerily quiet. You hadn’t even had to shut the window. Besides the chatter from the show playing on your TV box, there’s only the gentle crash of waves on the shore and the low hum of the wind.

Your gaze wanders from the flickering screen to the open window behind you on the couch. The gap in the trees swaddling your house allows a straight line of sight from your living room window to the front of the infamous property, a sight you once admired. You felt like the biggest idiot in the world when you found out you had just moved into one of the worst areas near the city, but it's not like the place screams “this is a Yakuza house, don’t move here!” In fact, aside from the few cars pulled up in the driveway, the place looks abandoned tonight—all the lights are off, leaving the full moon alone to illuminate the house. It’s a strange sight for a Friday night. The place is usually spilling over with drunk guests on weekends, a chaos you usually can avoid by working the night shift. 

Then the front door opens and a figure strolls out onto the porch. It’s not any of the men you’ve seen lurking around before—it’s someone new, a woman. 

She doesn’t look like she’s from the area, dressed plainly yet sharp in a patterned button-up, a black tie, and slacks. Most of her hair is pulled back aside from her bangs that frame her face neatly. What could she be doing out there so late at night? Does she not know what goes on at that house?

The woman descends the stairs, stepping out into the moonlight. With a better look at her, the pattern on her shirt sticks out as strange. Dark, red splatters soak her white blouse. Your breath catches in your throat. It looks like blood. 

Her eyes flick over to yours. They’re orange and bright with a glow that cuts through the dark veil of the night right into your window. 

You duck down onto the couch, curled up into yourself. 

She saw you.

You don’t know how it’s even possible, your house is almost a mile away and in the company of the other homes scattered along the treeline that look just like yours. How did she know to look at your house, right at your open window?

Whatever the explanation, you just poked your nose into business you shouldn’t have. Your one fucking rule and you broke it. 

You get up and lock your door. Both locks. You test the knob with a twist, and then a yank. When it doesn’t move, you back up and sit down onto the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The TV has switched to running infomercials, but the chatter of the hosts is distant and unintelligible, blocked out by each drum of your rapid heartbeat echoing through your head.

Maybe you’re overreacting, letting your coworkers' stories get to you. No, there's something different about this kind of panic—it's instinctual. There's something wrong that you can't place but your body can, even if it can't communicate it back to you.

There’s a knock at your door. You startle to your feet. No, it can’t be her. That’s not physically possible. 

“Hello?” A calm voice travels through the door. 

It is. 

You hurry to the side of the couch furthest from the door, crouching down behind it with a hand pressed to your mouth, eyes locked onto the door you’re absolutely not answering. Maybe she’ll think no one’s home?

“I know you’re in there.”

Shit. Of course she knows, the TV is still playing. You don’t know what to do. You look around, frantically. Is there anything you can use as a weapon? A magazine…an empty cup…a shoe…?

The door you’re certain was just locked—you locked it, both locks—slowly opens, revealing the lady from the porch miraculously standing in the doorway. She couldn’t have run here, her hair still falls perfectly around her face, not disheveled at all.

Her eyes find your crouched form barely protected by the couch. She tilts to the side, greeting you with a polite smile, “Hello there. May I come in?”

You stand up, fingers digging into the arm of the couch. “I didn’t see anything,” you hurry out, “Nothing at all. Please, I–I don’t want any trouble.”

She rights herself before letting her gaze make a round over your body, sizing you up. “You seem nervous,” she observes, “I’m sure a simple conversation can sort this all out.”

“You just want to...talk?” It can’t be that easy. These people, they’re—your mind flashes to the hand, only a hand, that washed up on the shore during your morning walk last week. They’re the type of people to do things like that. 

“Yes,” she responds. Her expression remains placid, polite, and completely unreadable. You’re not certain her look would change if she decided to strangle you to death right now. 

No, you’re not going to let it end like this, your own stupidity killing you. You will not be a hand on the beach, and you’ll do anything to avoid such a fate. And if it’s a conversation she wants, you’ll just have to make sure you don’t say the wrong thing. 

“All right,” you say. “We can talk.”

She steps into the room and closes the door behind her. Then, she leans down to pick up the remote from your coffee table, pressing a button and clicking off the TV. Now it’s just you, her, and the roar of the waves below.

“Sit down,” she says, gesturing to your couch, like it’s hers to offer. Circling around the arm of the couch, you glance over to the window. It’s still open. The cliffside is steep, but if you jumped up on the couch and through the window–

She repeats herself, “Sit down,” and you do. Right, that’s the goal, to talk this out. Coming up with an escape plan would only worsen your stress, it’s easier to just do as she says and hopefully get this whole fuck-up of yours fixed.

The woman sits in the armchair perpendicular to the couch, staining it with the blood on her clothes...it's a lot more than what you could see from a distance and completely removes the possibility of cleaning the chair, you'll have to thrift another one.

She tilts her head, giving you a thin-lipped smile. “I’m Makima, head of the Public Safety Devil Hunter organization. I understand you’re a witness to my involvement in what’s happened up the street.” 

You shake your head. “No, I didn’t see anything.” 

Makima’s smile falters. “Don’t lie to me again.” 

Your mouth goes dry. “Uh–okay. Sorry.”

The smile returns.

“You weren’t supposed to be home this evening,” she asserts. 

You furrow your brows. How would she–? “Yeah, I–uh–switched my shift with a coworker. They had something come up last minute.” 

“Ah, I see,” Makima says, steepling her fingers. “I hate last minute changes.”

You press your lips together and give an awkward nod. “Yeah.” You’re not sure whether this interaction is going well or not, and that’s not how you want to feel when your life's on the line. 

“Well, I find myself in a difficult position.” Makima leans back in the chair. “What I should do is kill you. No one was supposed to see me tonight.”

You knew getting involved in anything related to that house would only bring trouble. Now it’s right here, sitting across from you. You almost break your promise, about to try to convince her that you saw nothing, when she continues:

“But, the standard solution isn’t always the most practical solution.” 

“Right,” you add, like your opinion means anything.

She leans her weight onto the left side of the armchair, studying you. “I do love my job, making a difference in Japan and such, but it can be very taxing. Especially when dealing with the animals that were your neighbors.” 

Your neighbors. It’s their blood on her clothes. You wonder why you don’t feel so bad about that. Or why you can’t take your eyes off of her, even if she’s soaked in blood. It must have something to do with this eerie pull she has—the more she talks, the more you want to listen.

“I do not get many opportunities to release this stress. Many of the men I work with," she sighs, "are insufficient."

"So," she continues, "instead of killing a pretty girl like you, I think there’s a way to resolve our situation favorably for both of us.” She uncrosses her legs. Your eyes flick down to her spread lap before jumping back up to hers. 

“Um, I don’t know what you mean,” you respond, even if the unexpected pulse through your veins contradicts your words. Your body must be becoming confused, all the adrenaline and nerves—your quick breaths, pounding heart, dizziness—it’s beginning to be understood as arousal. 

Makima hums. Then, her hands pull the black tie loose from her collar and go to the topmost button on her blouse. 

“Wait, what are you–” The button is undone, and your protest fades away at the slightest glimpse of her collarbone. Suddenly, you don’t feel like interrupting anymore. Instead, you sit quietly and watch, transfixed, as each little button pops open in succession, revealing the milky skin and black lacy bra underneath. It’s fucked up that how attractive she looks while undressing from blood-splattered clothing. She shrugs off the shirt and it falls onto the back of the chair, the sight of her exposed torso making your stomach flip.

“Do you understand better now?” Makima asks, a coy lilt in her voice.

You let out a shaky breath, eyes roaming over the curves of her breasts and waist. Her body is heavenly, a miracle it ever landed on Earth. The Yakuza…the blood…it’s all slipping away as she emerges to the forefront of your mind. 

“Take my pants off,” she commands, not even looking at you, rather, examining the black tie dripping between her fingers. Though moments ago you were frightened for your life, it’s without hesitation that you fall to your knees in front of her, your nervous hands working to undo the button on her black slacks. You’ve never felt like this before, a sudden desire so strong it’s overcoming your system, but, with a beautiful woman and her flushed face and lowered lids looking down at you, feeling this way is only what makes sense. 

“There you go,” she says, helping you slide off the pants. A lacy thong that matches her bra skates high up over her hip bones, making a V that draws your eyes down to the warmth between her thighs. Now unhindered, her scent leaks into the air, and your eyes flutter as you inhale. It's intoxicating, seeping into your system and clouding your mind, making it harder to think, even to move, until Makima’s words cut through the haze. “It’s okay to touch.”

She reaches down and picks up your wrists, placing your hands on the curve of her waist. You shudder, she’s so soft. Your fingertips roam her torso, exploring the curves and dips of her body, sinking into the flesh that gives as you squeeze into it. Then your fingers travel down and hook underneath the straps of her underwear, lifting the fabric from her skin. The reveal of that small patch hidden by the black strings only feeds your desire more, it’s growing much larger than you can handle.

Makima smirks down at you. “Is there something you want to do?” She spreads her legs wider, gifting you more of her to look at. 

No, you shouldn’t do anything, shouldn't even want to. Getting involved with her is a terrible idea. She's a murderer, she—Makima brings your fingers to the gusset of her underwear—she—she's so wet for you. Makima guides your christened fingertips to your lips and you swipe your tongue over them, drinking in the saccharine flavor. Those heavy thoughts are soon pushed from your head, leaving you only with your deep want to please.

“Wanna make you feel good,” you answer, looking up to her for permission, eyelids lowered in a desire-drunken state.

“So sweet,” she says, resting the side of her face on her hand, “You may.”

Relief overcomes your chest, so grateful that Makima would allow you to touch her in the way you so desperately want to. She’s so kind, so giving. It’s hard to remember why you were even scared in the first place, now your only fear is to be away from her touch, to live without the warmth her blazing gaze casts upon you.

Makima cants her hips up off the cushion of the chair so you can pull off her underwear by its strings, drinking in the way her wetness sticks to the fabric for a moment after separation. Your hands are on her thighs the moment you rid them of the underwear, fingertips squeezing into the plush flesh. You ease her knees open to get a full view of the dripping cunt before you, the sight of it as glorious as the scent. 

You press a kiss to her inner thigh, and then another, but find yourself moving things along faster than usual. There’s a magnetic draw to her center, one that pulls you in between her thighs so before you know it your panting mouth is inches from her pulsing cunt. 

“Go ahead,” Makima encourages, “You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

You hum your affirmation, unable to fully process the question, too distracted by the desire spewing through your veins; it’s only intensifying, it needs to be acted on. 

It’s the moment your tongue touches the sweet nectar dripping from her cunt that any remaining doubt, hesitation, or concern floating around your mind evaporates. The sensation is overpowering, the best thing you’ve ever had to grace your tastebuds, and you instinctively lap at her cunt again, hungry for more.

“So eager, aren’t we?” Makima teases as your hands land on her hips, locking your body in place as you drink in her fluids. 

“Yes,” you slur, barely able to get the word out as you lick and suck. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, it’s making your body buzz, your brain drunk.

“That’s good,” she says, “I–ah–I needed this.” 

Her praise sends dopamine flooding through your system—she likes that you’re doing this, it’s making her feel good. You like it so much that you’re making her feel good. It makes you feel so good. It’s all you could ever want. What else is there?

You moan into her thighs, wanting to touch between your own, but not daring to release yourself from the pleasure of touching her. It’s like her skin is seeping a toxin into yours, inspiring a reaction that you know you should push down but can’t, only able to sink your fingers deeper into the flesh of her hips, strengthening your body’s connection to hers as you swipe your tongue along her cunt. It’s so warm on your mouth, her folds soft and pliant as they welcome the tongue pushing through them that’s insistent on exploring every inch of her now that you’ve been granted access.

Makima’s hand lands on your head, running her fingers along your hair in slow, even strokes—petting you. Your hips twitch at her stimulation, oh how you love when she touches you.

“You’d make such a good pet,” she says.

Pet. You’d love to be her pet. Worry free, protected, loved. You could leave this whole situation behind you. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, and she could give it to you. 

“Please,” you whimper into her warmth, “Make me yours.”

“You want to be my pet?” she repeats, her free hand closing in around the black tie still sitting in her palm.

“Yes,” you murmur, eyes glazed over. In this moment, it’s all you could ever dream about. 

Makima grins and leans forward, wrapping her black tie around your neck, tying it, and pulling it tight. Then she sits back, and with a yank, returns you to the space between her legs with her makeshift leash. 

“Then keep going, pet.” 

You moan and eagerly return to your position between her thighs, eating her out messily, sloppily, like a goddamn animal. 

Her fingers tighten in your hair and her head falls back against the back of the chair. “Fuck,” she moans, “That’s a good pet. Good–ah–pet, such a good pet.”

You want to keep being her good pet. Making her feel so good so her chest rises and falls rapidly with her short, uneven breathes and so she pulls at your hair like she is now. You don’t care about the pain—how unnaturally strong her grip is, how tightly her thighs are locked around your head, how the tie is chafing the skin of your neck. None of that matters. The pleasure of serving her outweighs all of it. You’ll give her what she wants, no matter the consequences.

And she only wants one thing right now. So you bury your face even deeper, bringing all your attention to her throbbing clit. Her hips jolt, lifting her aching hole up and you meet it with a finger that you push into her warmth. She clamps around you, pulling your finger into her. You just add another and she takes it too. Your lungs are burning—not having taken a breath yet—but you don’t care. You’d die here if it meant she’d cum. You’d die here if she merely asked you to.

With a low, long moan she seizes on your eager tongue, fingers tight around your leash as she pulls you by it into her deeper. You lick and suck as she cums all over your face, drenching you in her scent, her flavor. Claiming you. 

You sit back on your heels, watching her, waiting for whatever she says next. A command follows, “Redress me.”

Like a good little pet, you do, pulling her underwear back up her legs, then her pants. Finally, her bloodied blouse.

“Your clothes are still dirty,” you say, “Do you want to wear mine?” Instinctively you go to pull your shirt up but Makima waves her hand.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Okay,” you say, “And your tie?” Your hands come up to your neck to untie it at her request.

Her eyes flick down to the fabric around your throat. “Keep it as a reminder of who you belong to.”

“I will,” you agree, hands coming back down from your neck. As you lower them, you notice some of the blood from her clothes has transferred over, staining your skin in uneven splotches. 

When you look back up she’s halfway out the door. “No one needs to hear about our little encounter. Or anything at all regarding tonight, correct?”

“Of course not,” you respond. Not even torture would get you to betray Makima. You’re hers now.

“Good pet,” she rewards you. The door closes behind her and you walk into the kitchen to wash your hands.

There’s no reason to worry about the house at the end of the street anymore.

[guyfieriii]

We’re going out in style, babe (I)

God, it’s been a WHILE. I really lost all zeal for writing for a little while, until recently I watched the tv series ‘Mr. & Mrs. Smith’ (it’s so so good, you guys!! everyone go watch it) and it got the ol’ wheels turning. This was supposed to be a one and done thing but I got carried away and I lack the stamina to write a big whole thing so this’ll be a two-parter.

Anyway. This is my little version of it with Price. Angst and some stuff. The usual business. Haven’t written anything in months so please read this with the lowest possible expectations. Ya girl’s rusty.

Pairing : John Price x F!reader

Trigger warning : Explicit Sexual Scenes

It’s almost romantic.

The sight of husband and wife lay bare, broken and bloody. Look closely enough to see past the gore, past the ugliness set in a halo of ichor to see a sense of deliverance. The gift of release knowing they’ve met their end, and they’ve met it together.

Well, almost.

You choke out a wretched cough seeped in blood. One you’d feel rip into you, bullet holes and all, if you just weren’t so tired. You can taste it, though — coppery and astringent.

Punctuating.

This is it, you think, feeling the curve of your spine slacken at the relief of what’s coming.

I’m sorry, John.

The words spume against your lips, the only sound making it past them is a wet gurgle.

You’re grateful, for once, for the tears mar your eyesight. They keep you from seeing the true extent of his pain. You can feel it though, his agitation, his helplessness simply in the feather-light brush of his fingertips against your own. It can’t be easy, watching his wife slowly bleed to death beside him while he does the same. Seeing the way your lips turn ashen under a cochineal film of blood, watching the space between each breath lengthen gradually until all that’s left is the in between.

It’s slow. Painful. Each passing second permeated in struggle.

But better him than you.

Let me be first to go, you think in your typical manner of self-service.

It’ll all have been worth it, if only you’re the first to go.

“Oh,” It’s the first thing you can think to say,

“You’re English.”

It’s not the first thing you notice about him, though. No the thing that catches your attention at once is his eyes. Clear, calm and oh so blue. The sheer depth of them, though. Stare into them much longer, and you might not be able to find your way back out.

“Disappointed?” The question is dipped in jovial cadence. Thank God. He’s not offended.

“No. Not disappointed. I was only expecting—.” You pause, uncertain on what expectations you had starting out. Whatever they were, you can’t really remember now.

“What were you expecting, love?” He asks, simply and you know without a shadow of a doubt that it’s sincere. It echoes in the resting timbre of his voice, in the sharpness of his gaze which is dulled only slightly by something you might confuse for affection if you didn’t know any better.

You can only stare in response. Wait for the punchline that never comes.

Jesus Christ. He really does wants to know.

It’s unfamiliar territory for you to be in. To hold someone’s concern in your grasp the way you do his. However, as hard as it is for you to accept, it seems just as easy for him to simply give it away.

The weight of it makes your heart beat faster. Harder. Suddenly your mouth is too dry and you fight the urge to blink and break the spell. If he notices your discomfort, he says nothing about it.

An odd thing, really. That the two of you were matched.

“I’d like for our first day of marriage to not be a complete disappointment.” He prompts, still expecting your answer.

“Listen, uh—”

“John.” He supplies with a tone that makes you think you’re missing out on a joke.

Yeah, it’s a fake name. Haha. I get it.

“Jane.” You reciprocate, awkwardly.

“I’m Jane. And you’re perfect — er, John.” You declare with a sharp inhale only to be met with the scent of him. A bonfire is the first thing that your mind puts up front and centre. A bonfire doused out by a the lightest drizzle, so the smell of smoke still lingers. Along with it, the wafting aroma of cinnamon. Chocolate. All things warm and inviting.

You decide, in that moment, that you really really like the way he smells.

“Starting off with perfection, am I? At least give me till our silver year to really nail it.” He states, yet again, with such utter sincerity you almost miss the joke entirely.

“Till our—? Oh. Right.” You glance away, sheepish.

“This is yours; I believe.” Through your peripherals, you see a ring dangling at the top knuckle of his little finger. A delicate gold band. Simple and suited to your style. You glance at the finger right beside and see that he’s already worn his.

Right. Fuck.

“Uh, yeah. Thank you.” You reach out to take it, but he curls his finger back into his palm.

“Oh no, darling. Let me.” With the utmost care he grabs hold of your wrist, his thumb closing around your pulse — which much to your dismay is racing. It looks so slight, enclosed in his grip — which is paradoxically unyielding and yet so unbearably soft. A cushioned cage you might not mind being held captive in. You can’t bear to meet his eyes, so you keep your gaze downcast, intently focused on the way he slips the ring on your finger.

It’s not supposed to mean anything. Just work. Practicality more than something romantic. You’re spies and being married only makes it less likely that one of you will defect.

But for some reason it doesn’t feel that way. A moment shrouded in solemn intimacy. A promise. It feels that you’re bound to him, a stranger , just with the simple decent of a golden band down your finger. A covenant not meant to be entered into lightly — it’s an undeclared forfeiture of your life into the hands of another. So no, it’s not exactly romantic.

It’s something so much more.

“It’s official, eh? Mr. And Mrs. Smith.” Your hand still rests against the back of his and he makes no movement to release it.

You don’t much seem to mind.

You sleep in different beds, of course.

A habit formed with some difficulty, you’ll admit. There are times when you’ve parted ways in the hall like two men on the opposite ends of a duel — fingers curled around the trigger, waiting on the impulse to pull it. You’ve never given in but you’ve come close.

That fading post mission adrenaline leaves you pliable to your baser instincts, and you find yourself imagining all the ways he could make it better.

All the ways you could.

One night, in a hotel room in Verona, you found yourself skirting the precipice of giving in, with nothing but a 6 inch wall between the two of you.

You pictured it. Some other version of you, ready to take the plunge. This other you having the privilege of indifference in a make-believe realm wherein consequences don’t matter, and you tried to swallow the envy that rose up your throat like bile.

Tried and failed.

Your hands seem to move on their own accord as they slip between your thighs, your mind fabricating the illusion of his own taking their place.

A practiced dance of your imagination and dexterity that takes place often. More than you’d ever admit, even to yourself. You’d brand yourself in shame the morning after, and yet at night, all alone, you come at the thought of all the ways he’d take you.

He’s big. You know it.

You’ve caught glimpses of the outline of his cock in the bugle of his briefs like a voyeuristic pervert. He seemed big enough when flaccid, and you quivered.

You imagine the girth of him, hard and throbbing, promising all the ways he’d make it fit.

You use three fingers, push them deeper still and try to mimic the ways he’d fill you. You’re certain you fall short. He’d stretch you till your cunt had no give left, and then he’d stay there. Let you mold yourself to him, so he’d never feel the need to go elsewhere.

Knowing he’s within an earshot, you’re louder than you normally are. Much to the dismay of the men you’ve slept in the past, you were never vocal in bed. You’d reach orgasm, nearly mute and theatrics for the sake of male ego was something you couldn’t spare the patience for.

Tepid — that’s what they called you, disappointment oozing from each syllable.

You just couldn’t bare to disappoint John.

You put on what can only be considered a barefaced performance for the pure interest of his attention, expressing desires aloud you wouldn’t even dare admit in the privacy of your own self-contemplation. It spurs you on to climax, a fortissimo of vulgarity spewing from your lips.

In the aftermath you lay there breathless, caught unawares by just how far you took this little experiment of yours. Granted, it was all for John’s benefit but somewhere in the middle of it the pretence washed off you to reveal a gleam of authenticity.

Reeling from it, you’re unable to sleep a wink.

“Sleep well, then?” He asks you, the morning after.

“Uh huh. Some of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in my life, John.”

He looks at you like he’s about to call you out on it. Never does.

You resume your compartmentalized way of living soon after. Other than a shared fake name, your home, and the covert particulars of your questionable line of work, you two don’t share much.

Until a mission calls for it, you’ve managed to keep to yourselves a fair amount. You usually cross paths at mealtimes, which you never complain about since he wordlessly took it upon himself to do all the cooking, only letting you help clean.

Quaint domesticity at its finest.

“Safe to assume you chose high risk work as well.” He’d said over breakfast on your first morning there. “Why?”

You’d entered the kitchen to already find him there frying some eggs over the stove. You notice the little dining table to the side already set for two, a glass of orange juice poured for the both of you and toast points standing in their rack in the center of the table.

He gestured for you to take a seat before serving you a duo of over easy eggs and cup of coffee before taking his seat across.

Well, then.

Maybe there were some perks to this life of married domesticity after all.

“I thought I could use a challenge.” You offered him a half answer, as close to the truth as you could.

“And what was it that you did before this?” He asked

“Should you really be asking me that?” You countered.

“I think so, given that you’re my wife.”

My wife.

Enjoying the bit a little too much, aren’t ya John?

So were you, if you were being honest. But honestly never was your strongest suit.

“And why did you—?” You questioned him back in an effort to evade, “Pick high risk, I mean.”

“I’m ex-military, love. Figured I’d choose what I’m used to.” He answered you almost immediately, with not a hint of discomfort or thought of reserve. Either he was a fabulous liar—

Or he trusted you already.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

“I like my eggs scrambled, by the way.

“Glad to know you feel comfortable your preferences for eggs with me, Jane.”

“Small steps, John.”

Six months in, and aside from a few close calls, you and John seemed to make a good team.

You’ve found that while he’s quick to improvise. Almost always, there’s a wrench thrown in the works, and while you might grapple over a changed course of action, he’s already adjusted to the new circumstances.

You’ve also found that he hates being separated from you in the field. You used to think it to be a manifestation of suspicion, to constantly have an eye on you.

Not that you’d blame him if it was. You weren’t exactly a fountain of knowledge when it came to sharing things of a personal nature. It would only be natural for a little mistrust to brew between a set of spies.

Married, or not.

You were disabused of that theory all too soon.

“Status update?”

“Made it through. I lost them.” You wheeze out, just barely.

“You good? You okay?” The fear in his voice is palpable through your earpiece as you stumble through to an alleyway and try to catch your breath. With the adrenaline waning off you finally feel the bullet that grazed your shoulder.

Flesh wound. You’ll live.

“Jane, fucking answer me.” He rasps, urgent and desperate. Like his sanity depends on your well-being.

It pisses you off, sometimes. Just how deeply he cares. Would you dare call him out on it, though? Now that you’ve been fed on it for months till your belly was ready to burst, like a stray turned house cat. Would you survive without it?

“I’m fucking winded, John. Just need to catch my breath. I’ll be better if we could get the fuck out of here and go—”

Home.

“—back.” You say, instead. “Let’s rendezvous at—”

“I’m coming to get you. Just stay put, yeah?”

“Jesus C—” You hiss through clenched teeth, pressing down the base of your palm into your shoulder to help slow the bleeding down. The pain of it shoots down your arm like veins of lightning, only adding to your irritation. “I’m not a child, for fuck’s—”

“Jane.” The tone of his voice shuts you up. There’s not an ounce of anger or annoyance in it. Only supplication.

Well, shit.

You knew from the very first day you met him — John was a man rooted in conviction. Hard to sway, even harder to deny.

“Fine. I’m waiting.”

He finds you hunched against the wall not 10 minutes later and you can see him visibly sag in relief. The moment he turned the corner and his eyes fell upon your own, his contracted brow-line receded, the rigidity in his stance eased, and the look on his face—

If the deities could speak to a man’s worship, you thought, this is what they would talk about.

“How bad is it?” He offers you a hand to help you stand, the other immediately seeking to find the wound hidden under the crimson blotted front of your shirt, tugging slightly at the neck of it to get a better look.

“I’m sure you’ve seen worse.” You suddenly feel all too shy at the thought of a little exposed skin in front of the man who is your husband. When his thumb grazes the underside of the wound, an unsuppressed flinch jostles you in his hold and his grip tightens.

“You’ll need stitches.” He murmurs, his movements now zephyr-like, fingers mindlessly wandering across the span of your collar bone. You can’t help but imagine the way he’d help you undress, fingers caught at the bottom seam of your shirt being gently lifted. His thumb hooking underneath — maybe just to unassumingly graze against the skin of your abdomen. Maybe to see what the rest of you would feel like against the warmth of his touch.

You’ve caught him staring — whenever you’re dressed bare in nothing but a tank top and loose pair of shorts, the lace hem of which dances so gently across the smooth expanse of your thigh. You’ve witnessed him stop in his tracks, his gaze trained downward for a moment too long to not be considered improper and just then you find it. The effervescent unsheathing of his jealousy, towards a garment of all things. It doesn’t stay long; you could blink and miss it.

But you don’t miss much.

So, when he helps you undress, later that night, and tends to your wound—

Would he stop there, you wonder?

Would you maybe want to find out?

The first time he does fully undress you, is on the eve of your first-year anniversary.

You’re greeted with a gift — a bottle of Laphroaig, 40 and garment bags with a little something for the both of you. Enclosed within an envelope is the note:

Congratulations on a successful first year of marriage.

“Be a shame for rest of it to go to waste.” You say, when John immediately reaches for the bottle. His thumb swipes across the label in an appreciative caress while he tips the cap in your direction as a way of asking drink this with me?

“Keen to dress up for me, love?” He unzips your bag to reveal a hint of luminescent satin — deepened cerulean, to match his eyes.

“I—”

“Because I am.”

You see it unfold before you — the extent of his imagination. Unfurling like an iris in bloom. His eye-line coasting across the length of your silhouette, pausing at slight intervals — the slope of your neck, the curve of your breasts, the pliable swathe of your abdomen. His fists clench in a trice and you feel the pulse of it hammering in your core.

A building reservoir of desire you’ve held back behind a dam of logic that strains beneath the weight furthermore.

He makes you feel at a loss — seemingly unpulsed by this conspicuous display of obscene want. Hunger for what is continuously denied.

Either he takes it on the chin like too good of a sport, or he simply hides it better than you do.

Either way—

You might as well try to even out the playing field.

With a rapid maneuver fuelled only by provocation and guile, you crook a finger along the collar of his button down, the palm of your other hand placed securely over his chest.

“I will, if you will.”

This was it — the fracture in the levee holding back a year’s worth of self-deception. With the curtain drawn on every enciphered impulse, you could finally meet him on equal, honest footing. The kindling that lay bare now set alight and you can only hope you aren’t scorched by it.

And if you are—

You pray it consumes you quick.

The rest of the evening just kind of blends together — three finger pours, a little music, some dancing, if you could even call it that.

John’s generosity with the scotch turned you sloppy, with all your past attempts at decorum now semi-liquid — like a condensed pour of honey out the jar.

“Dance with me, Jane.”

“Just want to get your hands on m’, don’t ya? Clingy fucker.”

Pot, meet kettle, you think to yourself.

Drunk or not, at least you’re self-aware.

It’s in the middle of the night when you jostle awake, with a dry mouth and a hammering in your skull that you feel in your teeth. Somehow, you made it to bed. Still dressed.

You smooth a palm across the creased satin encasing your body, bunching the fabric into your fists absentmindedly.

“Couldn’t bare to take you out of it just yet.”

You’re caught off guard to find John lounging in the chair in the corner of your room, your dulled senses inhibiting the reflex to reach for your gun.

“Never sneak up on a spy, John. Could’a shot you dead if I wasn’t this fucking hungover.”

“Thank God for small mercies. You’d make an awful widow.” His tone bleeds irony but there’s an undertone to it. It’s one you don’t recognize.

He’s since rid himself of his jacket and cufflinks, with the first few buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up and his arms crossed over his chest that rises and falls with every deliberate breath he takes. The picture of nonchalant inertia to the unknowing eye.

Not you, though.

You see the simmering thirst in a man who has been parched for too long, the certainty set in his eyes in search of an oasis—

And something else. An offshoot growing from the root of brackish resentment you can’t quite place.

And maybe, just maybe you worry you’re about to have your heart broken.

Not that you’d ever tell him.

“Fuck you.” You mutter, indignantly, massaging the bridge of your nose in an effort to ease the ache.

With lithe and measured movements, John approaches you. Through your peripherals you watch his feet get closer and closer with every step, until he’s inches away. With a firm-handed pull at your chin, he forces your gaze towards him— that indescribable tincture yet staining his features.

His head tilts imperceptibly, eyes narrowing in determination while he decides….what?

Whether to fuck you? Whether to leave you be and maintain the suffocating, acetic undercurrent you’ve maintained for an entire year in keeping your hands to yourself?

Whether to—

You stop your deliberations straight in their tracks as his hold on you tightens ever so slightly, his thumb disengaging from the rest to glide across your bottom lip.

Pulsing headache aside, you feel your entire being throb in anticipation.

“John—”

“Hush,” He takes advantage of your parted lips, probing the seam of them a little deeper. “Let a man savour a moment, for fuck’s sake.”

Seconds dissolve into minutes, as you wait with bated breath. Each lungful heavier than the last under the stifling pressure of a singular moment being pulled taut beyond belief.

“Jane, darling?” His voice is a mere whisper.

“Hmm?”

“How badly do you want to be fucked right now?”

A sizzle of defiance erupts deep in your belly. The urge to impugn stings the tip of your tongue when you see it. That look. That look that pummels down any defence you could even hope to construct. It demands sincerity, even when you can barely muster it on a good day let alone hungover and painfully aroused.

So, in the place of a rejoinder that would leave you both sexually frustrated and teetering the edge of combustion, you say the truth.

“So fucking badly, John. For months. Possibly from the moment we met.”

What hits you in that moment is disconcerting mixture of emotions: part relief at the unburdening of long-held truths, part self-consciousness at the ease in which just you’ve confessed them.

The latter dissolves almost immediately when you watch the resulting smile that etches itself across his face. A smile that screams pride. Absolution. The kind you’d find on a man who finally reached the peak of his dreams.

You were his Everest. Finally conquered.

“That’s my girl.”

His words leave you breathless. It’s not the first time he’s called you his, so it isn’t the novelty of the statement that floors you. It’s the fact that for the first time in a year, you recognize it to be true.

You’re his — been his for some time now.

The epiphany goes to your head like strong drink — and right on the heels of your previous state of inebriety, it’s all too much to take.

“Fuck, John. Just—” Whatever you might’ve said next is devoured by him in an abrubt dive to kiss you. It’s fervent and messy, all tongue and teeth leaving the viscid traces of saliva across your lips, jaw, and neck.

It’s an unremitting onslaught of his lips and hands — him touching you, tasting you at a pace you couldn’t dream of outrunning. Sometime in the midst of it, he’s managed to strip you both down without missing a beat. I’ll take care of it, my darling, he’d said when you protested to the number of layers that still lay between the two of you.

That was the thing about John. He’d not let a single demand of yours go unsatisfied. A depraved part of you wondered how far you could draw it out, test his endurance. Find the limit and shame him for it.

Needless to say, you never did.

Not out of decency, a trait of which you were always found deficient. It was only out of the fear of having had something unattainable only to eventually lose it. Fact of the matter is, there would be no limit to what you could ask of him.

Onto to simpler requests, then.

“Fuckin’ need you inside of me.”

His cock fills you up just as you’d expected— stretched to capacity, the head of his cock grazing against your cervix with a couple of inches to spare. You hiss through your teeth, your nails digging into his back to recompense for the building pressure.

“Shit, John. Fu—uck—” You pant, lungs convulsing beneath the strain of his weight pressing down on you, skin meeting skin at every possible junction.

“Should’a let me work you out first, then.” He grunts, lips latching on to the shell of your ear.

He forced an arm between the two of you, his fingers find your clit, drawing gentle circles. A direct juxtaposition to the shallow quick paced thrusts, while his other arm snakes around to border the crown of your skull. A preemptive measure for a good and thorough fucking.

Eventually the burn at the rim of your cunt subsides and you take more of him than you could’ve ever imagined. Right to the hilt. He draws back out, just halfway and looks, as if to admire his handiwork before slamming back in with a reverberant so fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ good or some variation of the praise over and over.

A year’s worth of raked up want comes cresting over this one night— he fucks you once more with the privilege of leisure the second time around. When you’re fucked out, slack-jawed with a raw cunt dripping cum, he croons with self-satisfaction and promises you’ll take him again.

You do, naturally. Drunk on the smell of sex which weighs down the air in the room, obedience comes easy.

He’s gentler this time, softer in the way he touches you. Fingers raking over flushed, sweaty skin. His tongue gliding over every inch of you, twice over, like he means to really savour it. Catalogue what every part of you tastes like should this be the only chance he gets. He fucks you slow and deep, a litany of indebtedness perpetuating every movement.

There are things about him you commit to memory, as well. The lingering taste of his last cigar that glides across your tongue when he kisses you. The flickering pulse in his brow when he’s close. The weight of his cock sheathed within you, the sting that comes with it.

When the haze of prolonged unfed lust unfurls with a yawn of satiety, you find all that remains is a sense of premonition.

Of a tragic and bitter end.

[stupidr3dpanda]

I'm thinking of... BAKER!SIMON RILEY WITH A SMALL BAKERY/COFFEE SHOP!!

Who lives upstairs of the shop because it's more convenient and better than having to drive to the shop. Who wakes up every day at 5am to start the day with a warm cup of his favorite tea and heads downstairs to start preparing the ingredients, warming up the ovens and prepping doughs for that day.

From measuring ingredients, preparing his work station and organizing the tables and chairs in the shop to decorating cookies and small cakes! After 4 long hours of preparing everythig he gets ready to open the shop around 9am!

It's never too busy and never too slow, just enough for him to keep himself occupied, hes always good at memorizing his regulars orders after the first two times they come in.

Like the sweet old lady that always comes in every day at 11am sharp for a cup of earl grey and two Eclairs, always sits to enjoy the morning sun outside the shop and admire the overgrown climbing roses bushes that are starting to take over the right wall of the shop and half of the display window on the same side, she always recommends him a gardener that could help trim it down enough to make the shop look prettier at a good price, but he always forgets to call.

Or the always tired looking mom that comes in all Fridays around 2pm with her two little kids, always orders a double expresso for her and one strawberry smoothie with a banana muffin for each of the two boys, boys that normally would make a scene on every shop they go, except for Simons shop. She doesnt have to know that the reason they behave during their visit to the shop is because of a little conversation that simon had with the two kids when she wanted to use the bathroom ok their first visit. He's not having two little rascals ruin the quiet and peaceful atmosphere of his shop! Nope! Not on his watch!

And then, there's you, the quiet girl that comes in every business day at 5pm an hour before closing time, when the shop is always empty, always orders a simple latte and a slice of strawberry shortcake with a low and timid voice, who always avoids eye contact at all cost, and who always sits in the farder corner of the shop to eat quietly with a note book open on the table and a pen in hand.

He wonders what is it that you write so much about, is it the taste of the latte? The taste of the cake? Is the frosting too sweet today? Is the latte too bitter? Too sweet? Are you one of those girls that monitor everything they eat throughout the day? He's always trying to convince himself that he doesn't care! He shouldn't care! Who cares what you think! He doesn't what do you mean? He couldn't care a flying pig about you!!...

He does care, he wants to go up to you and ask what you think of the cake, did you enjoy your latte? Do you come here after work? What are you writing about? He feels like a teenager, a pathetic teenager with a stupid crush, he's dying to talk to you but. You're always turning down every attempt he makes of conversation, always keeping your answers short and simple. He supposes it's because you are timid or probably because you already have a boyfriend and are just trying to turn off any ideas he might have in his head. So he's just happy to admire you from afar, just a mere spectator to your life.

At 5:45pm he watches as you stand up from your table and starts walking to the exit, his heart sinking knowing the shop would be closed the next two days and he won't be able to see you. But he suppose he can wait.

At 6pm the "OPEN" sign on the front door of the shop is turned to "CLOSED" and the doors get locked up, he cleans the tables and chairs, heads to the kitchen to start cleaning and putting away equipment and any left over pastries and ingredients.

After everything is back under control at around 9pm with a tired sigh he heads back upstairs to start prepping dinner for himself, with a filled stomach and what's left of a beer in hand he sits on the couch while a crappy TV show is playing.

Once exhaustion starts taking over his body he turns off the TV and pets Riley's head on his way to the bathroom for a quick shower, after he's done he heads to his bedroom and changes into some comfortable pajamas, goes to the kitchen and grabs a glass of water to take his vitamins and finally heads back to his bedroom to lay in bed making sure his glasses are beside him on the little nightstand at the other side of his bed, turning off the light in the same nightstand he pulls the covers over his body and slowly drifts to a deep sleep with the image of you lulling him to sleep.

You give thanks to whoever God it may correspond for remembering to change his vitamins for sleeping pills, cause if not he would have been immediately woken up by the weird sound that comes out of your mouth after hitting your head on the window while trying to get in. You know you should be an expert at this point but that stupid window seems to have some kind of bef with you since day one!

As you make yourself inside the all familiar living room you crunch down to pat Riley on the head and give the dog one of those sweet dog treats from inside your bag. Hearing her make what you assume is a content sound while eating the treat you stand up and lay down on his couch and hug one of the decorative pillows on your side, his couch is comfy, but his bed is so much more comfortable.

You stay there for a few moments before standing up and walking down the hall to his bedroom, as you slowly open the door you see him gently snoring on his bed, so deep in slumber that he doesn't feel nor hears the noises your shoes make when you head towards his bathroom that's located in the same room, you look for his laundry basket and a small smile is painted on your face when you see it in the same spot behind the closet of the bathroom, you take out the hoodie he was wearing that same day and bring it to your nose taking a deep inhale of his essence, the sweat and cologne mixing itself in the said hoodie leave a sweet smell that makes your cunt clench round nothing, it's so intoxicating you can't help but bring your fingers down to the inside of your panties and make small circles around your poor clit.

Thinking what it would feel like if it were his fingers going in and out of your wet cunt, you think of what he would do if he were to catch you right now. Yell at you for being a creep? Call the police? Be disgusted you are satisfying yourself with his dirty clothes? Or perhaps, he would like. Tell you how dirty and pathetic you are, bend you over his knees with your ass and cunt exposed to the cold air of his room while he spanks the living hell out of you. Maybe finger you while he's at it? Always bringing you to the edge and never letting you cum, dirty sluts don't deserve to cum. Or maybe he would be understanding, oh you poor girl, if you wanted him to fuck you you could have just asked him to! No need to hide away and get off his dirty laundry and your little fingers when he's right here to give you the real thing!

Just that thought brings you to your sweet and needed release. You take your fingers out of you and for a moment you think of just washing your hands but another thought stops you and brings a smile to your face.

Once his hoodie is back in the basket you make your way to his bed, where he's sleeping like a newborn, innocently and unaware of the crime that just happened in his bathroom with his hoodie being the poor victim.

There's enough space in the bed for you to lay day beside him and the pills are strong enough to not have him wake up when your weight sinks in the mattress. His pillowcases smell like sweat and the pine spice of his shampoo, probably because he always goes to bed with his hair wet, his covers smell like old laundry and sweat too, they're already in need of a wash, last time he washed his bed linen was a month ago.

You scoop over until you're face to face with him and your eyes trace his all too familiar face, you bring your fingers to his lips and gently stroke his lower lip, remembering how soft his lips feel when you gently place your lips yo his. Your hand moves and the back of your fingers start to move slow circles on his right cheek, after that you just stay still watching him sleep peacefully until you yourself start to get tired that's always your cue to leave, not without giving him a last pick on his lips and standing up to leave.

As you make your way out you give one more treat to Riley and gentle pat on the head before looking around making sure everything is in its place like it was before and you leave through the same window you came in making sure not to hit your head again and to close it like it was.

In the afternoon of the next day when Simon is half way of doing chores around the house and while he's doing his laundry he finds his hoodie with some strange looking stains that weren't there the day before when he took his shower. Maybe he accidentally stained it while making dinner, perhaps when he was working decorating the cakes with the frosting? Yeah that's probably it, given that the strange looking stains smell a little strange almost sweetly. He just shrugs and throws it in the washer, he still has chores to finish and he's not about to play detective for a simple frosting stain.

Ughf! This thing has been invading my mind and I had to share the thought! I love pathetic and obsessed reader 👉👈

Let me know what you think! I hope you're having a good day/night and please remember to take care of yourself!!

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Witch/Demon AU

Where the reader is a witch and task force 141 are the demons you made a pact with. (Slight fantasy elements because of magic)

Warnings: demons (not religious tho), made up witchy things, pretty much just fluff for this one

Kinda long I just wrote stuff

It had been a mistake, a big one but a mistake nonetheless and now you were a witch with four different pacts to four different demons

You almost don't want to call them demons since they act pretty much like regular humans, especially since they have human jobs in the military

Almost

The boys will always remind you just who you made a pact with, whether that be by scaring you (unintentionally or not) or showing you the full capacity of their abilities

They're not over at your house very often since they work a lot but when they do have a break they will show up in your house unannounced

You've been startled before when you see Gaz chilling out on your couch watching TV or Soap is napping on your bed

Soap likes to spook you using mirrors or by showing up randomly

"Soap I'm in the shower!"

"And I'm dirty as hell scoot over."

Price doesn't visit often as Soap and Gaz do but you've noticed that the house gets a little warm when he does and you wonder if he does it on purpose of if that's just him

Ghost visits but he doesn't make himself known as often as you'd like

He's scared you more than once when you've spotted him in a corner or within the shadows of a dark room

They act like your house is their house

Technically, it is now that you have a pact with all of them but that doesn't stop you from being upset when they've eaten all your food and racked up your bills

"All of you have to start pitching in or I'm sending you back to wherever you came from."

Naturally they do it because you could easily do that to them

Having four pacts means you've become quite the powerful witch

Your magic is powerful

You can do a lot of spells that many witches can't and sometimes you have to be careful or else you could hurt yourself

They like watching you cast spells and do rituals, though they've gotten rid of the summoning ritual since you don't need any more pacts

The boys are very protective of you

Anyone deemed a threat to you will surely regret it and the only reason why they would still be alive is because you've told them they can't do it

You've come close to seeing their true forms, but they're quick to make sure you don't

"We just don't want to give you nightmares." Gaz smiles and you always look at his sharp teeth

All of them have wiggled themselves into your dreams before for the hell of it

They all refuse to possess you unless you ask them to, they may be demons but they have manners

You like it when they show their horns and tails because they're all unique to them

You're an unofficial member of Task Force 141

Overall, you gained four new friends who happened to be demons who have to do what you tell them to but they like you so they will anyway

Tags: @deadbranch @writeforfandoms @tiredmetalenthusiast @coleishere @xintothewoodswegox

A/N: pretty generic but maybe I’ll write four separate fics for each of them so they can get their love equally if you guys like it

[lucid-loves]

Hello

I have a request for ghost a one shot where the reader is a member of 141 and she falls for him

You got it! ❤

Come a Little Closer

Pairing: Ghost x 141!reader (fem!reader)

Word Count: 5.3k, One-Shot

CW: strong language, fluff, bullying, slight mention of violence, one-shot, clear attraction

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: You have just joined the 141 and getting to know the boys has been a lot of fun. The only one that you seem to be having trouble getting close to is Ghost. It doesn’t stop you from having a crush on him or trying to catch his attention any chance you get.

Part 1 ~ Part 2

“Welcome to Task Force 141! I’m sure that you will find this team much more fitting to work with given your skills.” Price congratulated you as he escorted you to the base’s leisure room. Many of the soldiers hung around there to relax with drinks, television, billiards, and other games. The 141 was no exception.

You had been struggling with your assigned team on base. Teamwork and trust wasn’t there. A lot of it stemmed from jealousy as you demonstrated much better skills then they had on missions. You usually ended up taking home all the glory. However, the full picture was that the others often made mistakes or overlooked things. It wasn’t your fault that you were a perfectionist when it came to your job.

They still tried to make your life on base difficult in petty ways. Trashing your room in the barracks, stealing your clothes while you showered, bumping into you on purpose. It was very clear that the team you were assigned to before was full of people that peaked in high school and thought that the military was an easy way to make money despite being intelligently average at best. 

Not you, though. You worked hard. You dedicated your time to getting better each day. You stuck to your work with maturity. Thankfully, Price noticed this pretty quickly when he was looking at recruit files. Nothing out of pity either since he didn’t know about the bullying. You didn’t report any of the bullying to anyone in order to keep peace and establish your maturity.

And now, you are reaping the rewards. Being assigned to the 141 team was a fresh start. When you walked into the leisure room, almost everyone looked up at you. Women didn’t often come into the room because it resembled something more like a man-cave. Beer bottles everywhere, sports usually on the TV, and a strong, masculine energy that often made women too uncomfortable to visit. 

You, on the other hand, found it exciting. You really wanted to hang with the big boys. Earn your place. Prove to everyone that you deserve to be on the base and a part of the 141 as their newest member. That started with getting to know your new teammates.

Gaz, Soap, and Ghost were surrounding a pool table, clearly in the middle of a game. Whoever was solids was getting absolutely destroyed. When Price and you got closer, they stood at attention. Price waved his hand, putting them at ease. “Men, this is our new member. She has incredible skills that are sure to add to our team’s strength. A sharp-shooter, highly intelligent, and great with hand-to-hand combat.”

You smiled brightly as you finally introduced yourself. It was time to make a great impression. Plus, you already felt like you could be yourself while doing it. “Y/n. Thank you for this opportunity. My condolences as well to you, Soap.”

Soap raised a brow in confusion, clearly not understanding what you were talking about. “Pardon?”

“Your loss. At billiards. What a brutal way to lose too. You might as well give up now and give Gaz the betting money.” You smirked, eyeing the expressions light up at your quick-wit and observation skills. Gaz and Soap were the only ones holding pool sticks. A couple bills rested on the side of the table. Their expressions before they noticed you and Price gave away who was winning and who was losing.

“Well, the newbie is sharp. You should listen to her while you still have your dignity, Johnny.” Gaz laughed, already accepting you fully into the team. Soap shot him a glare before turning to you with a mischievous look on his face.

“You think you can turn this game around for me, y/n?” He inquired, pool stick already being held out to you. Smiling like a kid on Christmas, you took the stick to play. 

Kyle was quick to protest Soap’s sly move. “That’s cheating! Don’t make her do your dirty work for you, Soap. Just take the loss, bruv.”

You fished your wallet out from your back pocket, taking out a few bills of your own to add to the betting pool. “How about this? If I can beat Gaz by starting off with Soap’s miserable disadvantage, I get all the money. If I don’t, then Gaz takes all.”

Soap and Gaz looked to each other, and then to Ghost who just sat in his stool, overlooking the entire game as their referee in a sense. He’s been watching the situation unfold carefully even since you walked into the room. You caught his eye when you entered. Not many women were working at the base in general, let alone waltzing into a presumed boys-only club like you have always belonged. Not only that, your deduction skills were sharp. Your smile was optimistic. You seemed to have no fear in any of the changes you were going through. 

Out of curiosity to see if you could put your money where your mouth was, he nodded. His deep, rich voice lit a little fire inside you as he finally spoke. “I’ll allow it.”

You took the stick from Soap and looked at the table, examining your situation entirely. Everything was considered as you planned your move. The position of your remaining balls, Gaz’s, even the weight of the stick in your hand. Doing the mental math, you carefully lined up a shot, your form perfect and deliberate. The margin of error wasn’t something to scoff at. You were a perfectionist when it came to your job, after all. This, you considered to be part of your job.

As you posed yourself on the table for the shot, Ghost couldn’t help but look over your form. Neither could most of the other guys in the room since women coming in was rare, but his opinion mattered the most. You were on his team now. He was going to be working with you nearly every day from here on out.

And damn, did you look fine bending over the table like that. 

You took a deep breath as you struck the cue ball, having it hop over Gaz’s stripe in front of it to hit the solids behind. From the force, the solids scattered, three of them sinking based on pure luck. You stood up from your position, satisfied from your play. Bewildered expressions looked between you and the game. “Your move, Garrick.”

And just like that, you earned more respect from your team. Price chuckled at Kyle’s nervous look, now realizing that he was probably going to lose all his money if your skills and luck withstood for the rest of the game. It seemed like he had nothing to worry about when it came to you. You fit right in like a piece of their puzzle.

~

The following several weeks have been a blast for you. You have gotten close to your team in a way that made the base feel more like home to you. They helped you train, gave you pointers, invited you to meals, and played all the games you wanted to play. Except, they no longer wanted to put money on the table lest you rob them blind.

The relationship between everyone was a breath of fresh air for you as well. No fighting, no bullying, no arguments. They clearly respected each other. They respected you too. There was teasing a lot of the time, but it was all out of friendliness and brotherhood. 

The only thing you were wary about was Ghost. You’ve caught him staring at you on occasion, his eyes giving nothing away once you noticed his gaze. He didn’t talk to you much either. But you knew that he noticed you. You knew when too, given that you were growing attracted to him.

Ghost has always been a legend around the base. He had impressive records of nearly every scoreboard around the training centers. Tales of his missions spread like wildfire each time he would return from deployment. The rest of the team was equally as impressive as well. Yet, there tended to be more of a buzz when it came to Ghost. Part of it was due to his expertise. Another part of it was the mystery of the skull mask he always wore. The last part of it was his physique. He was huge compared to a lot of the guys around here.

You were no exception to the admiration bandwagon. Seeing Ghost’s records and hearing the stories actually inspired you to hang in there with training. You aimed to be strong, resolute, and confident in work just as he is. However, that was purely a muse infatuation. Nothing more than looking at him as a prime example of what a soldier should be. Now, you began to see him differently.

It started with the little things. Subtle shifts in his body language, changes in tone when circumstances changed. You took notice of those things as a means to find a way into getting more friendly with him. As you continued to observe, however, you felt your body reacting more to his being. The way he towers over you with his massive frame. The way his muscles flex with each movement when you sparred. The way his fingers lightly brush against yours when you hand him completed paperwork.

There were moments of chivalry from Ghost too that never failed to make your heart hammer inside your chest. He’s caught you from losing your balance when you tried to reach for a file that was too high on a shelf a couple of times. His hands would instinctively grab your waist, pull you close to him, and anchor himself to stay steady from the force of your fall. He never failed to ask you if you were okay as well in that baritone voice you began to get butterflies from. It didn’t take long until he began reaching for things you needed for you after those instances.

Ghost has also taken up the habit of always opening the car door for you, making sure you could get your spot sitting in the middle without having to crawl over anyone. Even in instances of realistic training, having to rush into a vehicle as quickly as they could, Ghost always made sure the door was open for you to get in first. The close proximity to him given how small the backseat usually was contributed to your growing crush on him too. 

On the surface, Ghost never seemed to mind helping you out. Many of his new habits were taken upon himself once he began working with you. Yet, he still never really talked much to you and you could never decipher his staring. It made you worried that he was growing resentment over feeling like he needed to help you out with the mundane. 

Ghost still had a strong wall when it came to you. However, you were determined to break it down.

~

It was the first Saturday night back on base after a tense, two-week long deployment. For the first time, the 141 saw you in action. You picked things up quick, you followed orders to a tee, and you were spot-on with your sniper. It certainly helped the team get things done, but it didn’t stop the mission from being long and dangerous. There were a couple of medical scares, plenty of gunfire, and a few secrets revealed. It didn’t end until you put a bullet through the target’s brain.

So, the team wanted to decompress on their first Saturday back on base. They also wanted to congratulate you for getting the final snipe on the terrorist leader they were hunting. It was your first deployment with them, something that also deserved to be celebrated too. 

The team headed out to a nearby bar. A hole-in-the-wall kind of place that not a lot of people knew about. A classic place with an old-school jukebox, war-plane memorabilia, and a simple bar menu. After buying you your first couple of drinks, the men began to disperse to socialize and see if they could get a little lucky tonight. All except for you and Ghost who sat quietly at the bar, drinks in hand. The silence between the two of you was awkward at first. At this point, you have never been in a casual setting alone with him. You were either working with him or the rest of the boys were with you.

However, to say nothing would be a wasted opportunity. Even if being alone with him made you feel gooey inside like a school-girl with her first crush, you still wanted to know him better. Soap had given you good information about him to use too. 

Casually, you took a slow slip of your liquid courage. “Johnny says you have a good sense of humor.”

Underneath the mask, Ghost quirked a brow. He didn’t realize that you talked about him with his teammates when he wasn’t around. He wondered what else you talked about when he couldn’t be there with you. For now, he played along. “It’s dark humor. Probably not your cup of tea.”

When he looked at you, he saw a bright light. Clever, ambitious, brave. Ultimately sweet too. Along with him acting chivalrous for you, you have been considerate of him as well. You often brought tea to the team, but Ghost’s cup was always different. You always brought his favorite tea flavored exactly how he liked it. Everyone else liked theirs plain. He liked his with a little milk. 

You have also tidied his desk a few times after he complained about not finding something he needed. He never knew how it would get so messy. Before he knew it, his desk would look like a tornado ran through it. However, you would straighten it just enough for him to find what he needs. Enough to jog his memory of where he put it down without having to look through unfamiliar organization. 

In his mind, you were someone that needed to be protected for the darkness of the world. Starting with himself and his dark humor.

Still, you persisted. “Try me.”

Ghost looked at you for a moment, causing your heart to skip a beat. You could see him contemplating something. Fortunately, he let you have this one. After the past two weeks, you deserved just a little glimpse into who Ghost really was as a person. “Why don’t blind people skydive?”

“Why?” You grinned, eager to hear the punchline. Finally, you were talking with Ghost like this!

“Scare the shit out of their dogs.” He finished, taking a sip of his bourbon while waiting for your reaction. He expected you to scrunch your nose up in disgust or give a fake laugh just to humor him. 

Instead, he was graced with your genuine laughter. You actually found the joke pretty hilarious. “Damn, that’s pretty good! Alright, I got one for you. Why did Sally fall off the swingset?”

A small smile crept along his face as you began your own joke. “Why?”

“She doesn’t have any arms. Here’s another one. Knock knock.” You continued, not feeling at all discouraged by his lack of laughter at the first joke. The second half was always better.

“Who’s there?” He followed along.

“Not Sally.” You finished, earning yourself an honest chuckle out of him. This was the first time you have seen him smile and laugh. The sight made you feel warm and fuzzy. Slowly, the crush you had was turning into something more. You actually imagined a future with him for a second.

His voice snapped you out of your thoughts, garnering your full, undivided attention just as he gave you his. “That was actually pretty funny. I’ll give you that one.”

Before Ghost knew it, his walls were crumbling down as you exchanged jokes and laughter with him. His own curiosity about you was turning into something that he didn’t think he would ever have for himself.

~

You and Ghost had been growing closer ever since breaking the ice at the bar. He felt more comfortable talking to you casually, you felt more comfortable asking for his help, and there was more peace within yourself as you learned that Ghost never harbored resentment towards you. He was just a little rough around the edges.

For some reason, that made him even more attractive to you. The thought that you have actually been able to get his guard down around you had you chipper than a songbird in the morning. You’ve been eating up his special attention too. Every time the team went out, Ghost and you would always find the time to talk. Just the two of you. It had you over the moon each time.

Despite your growing feelings, you kept them to yourself. You didn’t want to ruin the peace that you have so carefully inserted yourself into. You didn’t want to jeopardize your friendship with him as well. It took a lot of time to get to where you were at with him. Being open about your love for him wasn’t worth the risk.

However, it didn’t stop you from daydreaming. You often found yourself daydreaming about what it would be like if Ghost was your boyfriend. You haven’t seen his face yet or used his real name even though you already knew it. Yet, you knew that he was devilishly handsome and his name would feel incredibly on your lips. You wondered what kind of pet name he would pick out for you if he was the type. 

You even thought about what he may be like between the sheets. It was hard not to imagine it when you sparred, feeling just how powerful he could be when it came to getting what he wanted. 

Jesus, you were down so bad for him.

Your daydreaming continued as you showered in the community bathroom. It was late at night, most soldiers already turned in for the night. You had just gotten back from another great night at the bar with your team. Humming and bathing, you didn’t even notice the door to the bathrooms open up.

Once you were all done, you wrapped a towel around yourself and stepped out of the stall in order to grab your clothes. However, you were surprised to see that they were missing. This kind of thing hasn’t happened in a while. You nearly forgot that it did since you were having such a great time with your new team. 

How could your old teammates still hate you after being gone already too? To even go as far as to pull this kind of shit again?

You sighed in frustration, looking around the bathroom to see if the culprits were still hanging around. When you found no one, you tightened the towel around your torso and prepared to head to your room as quickly and quietly as possible. 

The barrick halls were quiet save for a few snores from behind locked doors. Your hair was dripping water along the beige tiles. The stone was cold under your bare feet. The halls seemed freshly waxed too. If you weren’t careful, you could genuinely fall and break your neck.

As you carefully made your way to your room, you could hear footsteps behind you. As soon as he called your name, your cheeks began to turn red in embarrassment. 

Ghost was taken aback by your appearance. You were in nothing but a blue towel, dripping hair creating a slipping hazard in your path. In and outside of work, you were careful to keep up appearances. You didn’t seem like the type to shower and walk the halls nude. 

It would be a lie if the only feeling he had was concern, though. At the same time, his feelings of attraction towards you began to stir. Something that has been getting harder to fight since meeting you.

You gave a nervous laugh, refusing to turn around to face him. This was mortifying. “H-Hey! I forgot my clothes back in my room. Guess I had one too many from earlier. My room isn’t much farther now. So. . . what are you doing here in this part of the barracks?”

From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a wallet. Your wallet. You haven’t even noticed that it was missing. “Found this in the backseat of the car. Figured that you would be missing it sooner rather than later.”

Now, you were hoping that someone would assassinate you to save you from embarrassment. Perhaps your white lie earlier was actually a little true. More importantly, it felt like Ghost was giving you no choice but to completely turn around. But, you couldn’t possibly face him like this. Face on fire, heart racing, breath shuttering. What started as a fun night was now one of your most humiliating ones.

“Thanks, Ghost. . . Do uh. . . Do you think you can hand it to me after I change?” You scrambled, trying to find the most graceful solution to your predicament. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could see Ghost avert his gaze and give you a nod, trying to give you as much privacy as he could given the circumstances.

Awkwardly, he followed you to your room, trying not to completely violate you with his eyes. It was difficult trying to determine what was enough distance to put between the two of you. Ghost wanted to be right next to you, shielding you from the world as you were obviously very uncomfortable. At the same time, he didn’t want to upset you by crossing a boundary. 

On top of that, he really wanted to see what was under that fluffy towel of yours. It was an involuntary thought, but he still felt horrible about it. 

Finally, you approached your room and took out the key that you made a habit of hiding in your shower caddy rather than with your clothes. However, it became apparent that despite having locked the door, it didn’t stop anyone from invading your space.

When you opened the door and turned on the light, you revealed a complete disaster. Bedsheets ripped to shreds, mattress stained with beer, personal belongings destroyed. Even family pictures that you so delicately framed on your walls were scattered along the floor, broken glass everywhere. Your dresser had been rifled with as well, all of your clothes ruined from various stains, rips, and wrinkles. 

Everything was damaged. All of it. And you didn’t understand why. It has never been this bad before. Why now?

When Ghost noticed that you haven’t walked into your room yet, frozen in a state of shock, he finally walked over. He nearly took a step back himself when he noticed all the damage. He’s never seen anything like this before. It made him upset immediately.

No, not just upset. Furious. How could anyone think this was okay? How could anyone do this to you?! Ghost clenched his fists and his jaw, trying not to explode with fury. At first, he wanted to make his anger be known for all the barracks to see. He wanted to call everyone out of their rooms and force a confession. He would then beat the absolute shit out of the culprit right in front of everyone.

However, that’s not what you needed right now. It’s probably not what you would’ve wanted either. Over the time he’s spent with you, he has realized that you preferred logical, calm, and peaceful solutions. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself or anyone else from calling attention to mistakes. You took care of things with grace. Yet now, you looked like you were going to fall apart. 

Ghost was quick to realize that this wasn’t a sudden attack based on your expression. This was something that you have been dealing with for a while. It just got to its worst tonight. If he had to guess, he would guess that you hadn’t just forgotten your clothes back in your room either. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were stolen.

The fucking bullies were gonna make you walk around the whole base naked. Ghost really wanted to kill someone now.

But first, he had to take care of you. Swiftly, he removed his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, covering you up as best as he could. Your attention trained on the disaster that was your room slowly began to shift towards Ghost as the warmth of his jacket seeped into your chilly shoulders. Gingerly, he draped wrapped his arm around you, using his body to cover you up even more. “Let’s go, love. I’ll take care of you.”

Needing comfort, you followed Ghost closely, not minding at all how close he was pressed to you as you walked side by side. His warmth was welcomed as you shivered from the chill of being nude and the shock of losing your valuables. With the pace you kept up with, it didn’t take long for the both of you to approach the door to a different room across the base.

Ghost’s room. 

He unlocked the door and ushered you in, making sure that no one saw you out in the hallways. Once the coast was clear, he closed the door and turned on the light. Compared to his desk, his room was pretty clean. His bed was made perfectly, his clothes were all put away, and his TV stand was free of clutter. The whole room smelled of him too. Teakwood, leather, and bourbon. 

You almost couldn’t believe it. You were really inside of Ghost’s room, a place that not even the other 141 men have ever been in. As you looked around, Ghost went through his dresser for suitable clothes for you. Soon after he began looking, he picked out one of his shirts and adjustable pajama pants to wear. “Here. I’ll turn my back.”

Silently, you began to dress in his clothes, your senses flooding even more with everything that was Ghost. The t-shirt and pants were large on your frame, but they were warm and soft. It covered you well enough too. As soon as you were done, Ghost turned back around. Once he saw you, it was like his breath was stolen straight from his lungs. He didn’t think that you would look so good in his clothes. As oversized on you as they were, he still found it perfect. 

He cleared his throat, regaining his composure at the sight of you. You yourself were feeling restless about being in his private space. The way he looked at you, the way he protected you, and the way he held you made you really realize that you definitely had more than a crush on him. You fell in love with him. 

With each gesture that he made towards you, you fell even deeper for him. You could hardly find the words to say back when he spoke so softly towards you. “Take my bed tonight, love. We’ll get you squared away with a new room first thing tomorrow.”

Not wanting to make you feel more uncomfortable than you probably already were, Ghost attempted to make his way out. However, you grabbed the back of his shirt, making him freeze. You couldn’t just take his space without at least sharing some gratitude. You were grateful, and he deserved to know it. Besides that, you saw this as more of an opportunity to be with him. You were getting greedy. “Thank you, Simon. But. . . do you mind staying? If you want to leave after I fall asleep, that’s fine. I just. . . don’t want to be alone tonight.”

At the sound of his name upon your lips, he melted. He could feel all of his insides heat up as you said his real name. As dangerous as it was now to be alone with you, he could never say no. Not when you asked him like that.

“Get into bed. I’ll turn off the light.” He agreed. Relief washed over you as he reached for the light switch and waited. As soon as you got into his bed, cozied up in soft, clean sheets, the room went dark. 

You could hear the shifting of clothes as he changed into something more comfortable. With the moonlight shining through the window, you could just make out his broad, bare chest, strong shoulders, and scars along his toned body. You hoped he didn’t notice you staring as he got changed, your gaze not even breaking once as he began unbuckling his belt. A part of you was hoping that he would crawl into bed with you half naked like that. 

After he threw on some pajama pants and a cotton t-shirt, he reached for his mask. For a moment, he contemplated taking it off. You were still in the room with him after all. Was he ready to show you his face, even in the dark?

Finally, he decided that he was. Not just ready to show you, but ready to pursue you too. You’ve earned everything from him. His respect, his praise, his space, and his trust. You even earned his heart as he realized that he had fallen for you. His bright light. The perfect puzzle piece in his life. It was scary how seamless you seemed to insert yourself right into his life and his team. However, he wasn’t going to take it for granted. You belonged with them. With him.

Whoever wanted to mess with that was going to face Ghost’s wrath. Starting tomorrow after he helped you get a new room.

Now, he removed his mask, revealing how right you were about him being devilishly handsome. His defined jaw, his perfect lips, his silky blonde hair. You could shower it all with kisses if you could. 

He got into bed with you after the mask was off, his body heat immediately warming up the bed. Still keeping some comfortable boundaries, Simon made sure to leave some space between the two of you. You didn’t mind it. You were just happy to have gotten this far with him. Perhaps having a romantic relationship with him wasn’t completely off the table after all.

When he finally settled in, you whispered good night. “Really, Simon, thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it, love. Just try to sleep tonight.” He humbly brushed off, his heart bursting at the seams with how sweet you sounded in your gratitude. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from calling you by the new, truthful nickname either. Something that your own heart couldn’t get enough of.

It didn’t take you long to fall asleep, the comfort of Simon being with you like this much too nice to fight. Once he knew you were fast asleep, he began to try to rest as well. Eventually, he took the risk and wrapped his arms around you while he slept. He normally had a hard time sleeping. Nightmares usually kept him up. However, tonight was different. He felt more at ease with you even if you did make his heart race at the same time. For the first time in a long time, he managed to have a good night’s sleep.

All it took was to have you in his arms.