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angelloverambles · 18 days ago

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【Ｌｉｍｉｎａｌｉｔｙ】

Damaged Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Chapter 12 | I’m Cloudbusting Daddy.

Dark themes, references to past abuse. A PTSD freak out. Kinda hurt no comfort vibes? Take care besties.

You press your face into the cool tiles patterning your shower, feeling the water droplets forming random shapes against the thin flesh of your eyelids. It’s calming, the heat of the mist drenching your scalp, flowing in endless swirls around the drain beneath your feet.

It’s been weeks since the great revelations, since you opened the door to your anxiety for Simon and instead of retreating, he walked straight through. You’re glad he’s on leave actually, it’s given you time to process, move the relationship from one of faintly awkward strangers to the footings of a honeymoon period.

Without needing to verbalise it, you recognise that you’re both in deep now, the light above you reduced to a glimmering speck as you descend into dim and uncharted territory. You know he’s probably never spoken about some of the things he told you with anyone, the fact that he trusted you enough to reveal the difficult truth of his past means everything. It’s given you both a new footing you’re still navigating around.

The first time Simon slept in your bed, it felt like a big deal. A fucking big deal actually. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be brave enough to close your eyes around someone again, give them access to a space where you’re unguarded, vulnerable in the extreme. He stuck to his side of the mattress with almost rigid formality that made humour lodge in the back of your throat. Ironing board stiff and barely moving, shovel like hands folded neatly under his head, a side sleeper by all accounts, when you woke up he was still in the same position and the only indication he was comfortable was the change in his breathing, exhales of air expended from somewhere peaceful.

Slowly, like dream walking, Simon had gradually eased into it, until his hand laced with yours when it came time to turn off the amber light on your bedside table. That progressed to your head making it’s way onto his shoulder, or a leg being flung absently across his thigh. Shapes that gradually came together through the blackest night or in the early hours where the soft plumed birds chirp. With each passing day the awkwardness disappeared, until you realised your bed would feel entirely empty without his body there, even given the whistling snores he makes when he’s dozing through a nose broken more than once.

It’s going so well, it almost makes you uneasy. You keep waiting for him to show some sign of impatience with you, try and touch you somewhere that makes the wounds in your psyche flinch away, withdraw under the pain of previous caresses you’ve tried so hard to bury twelve feet deep.

But it never comes. Simon kisses you like a man fevered, possessed by the feeling of your lips against his, nips at your jawline and threads his big paws with your fingers. Steadily you’re recognising that perhaps Simon is more afraid of taking that leap than you are. The jump that involves acting on the slickness between your thighs after a particularly intense make out session, or acknowledging the hardness you’ve felt pitching in his black jeans.

In spite of your own anxieties, you’ve got to admit you crave that physicality with Simon. It’s stirred all sorts of excitement in you, the type that makes your stomach tense with anticipation, heat curling over your shoulders in waves every time he murmurs your name, slightly out of breath from long minutes wrapped up in you.

The water plunging from the spouts above you is turning lukewarm you’ve been in here so long. More than once you’ve taken a shower as an acute distraction from the overstimulation bought on by Simon’s presence. Slipping a hand between your legs to ease the ache he leaves, toying with your clit until a short and sharp orgasm blooms under your fingertips. Oddly, it leaves you craving more though, becoming less and less satisfying with each stolen moment.

A little frustrated, you shut off the flow. You both agreed you’d take things slowly, it’s needed, required even. You’ll have to shove batteries in your old vibe and sneak it into the bathroom. That should stave off the constricting desire that has you gazing at Simon’s broad back when you wake up before him in the mornings. The itch inside you to trace a palm over the corded muscle and sinew built there, press kisses to every scar. It’s a relief in some ways to be so attracted to him, when it’s been a while since frisson didn’t make you anxious.

“Oi.”

“Oi.” Simon replies softly, barely opening one eye, head resting against the sofa cushions. You can tell he’s awake though, his gravelled voice holds no sign of sleep. He’s always watchful, only rests in a light state of consciousness, sometimes waking if you move too much or twitch while you dream.

The tv show you were watching has long since finished, something else is playing. The hum of the dialogue onscreen washes over you, drowning out the negative voice inside your head. Simon’s black gaze is now resting on you entirely, slow blinking like a cat on the lap of an owner who dotes on it.

It’s now or never.

“Do you ever think about…” You pause, trying to bottle the shyness suddenly seeping into your body and making you clench your fists. “Trying stuff? Stuff other than kissing?”

Simon sits up and immediately you regret your statement. In his uncanny way you know he understands exactly what you mean. You get studied by eyes full of apprehension, something churning in the depths you can’t quite grasp, an undercurrent through a restless body of water that’s usually still.

“You don’t have to answer that! Sorry, forget I said it.”

Shit, now you feel awkward.

But Simon closes his rough fingers tightly around yours, the pad of his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.

“Stop apologising to me.” He huffs, the scar on his lip tugged downwards in a stern line. But his severe stare starts to crumble at the edges, humour breaking through the cocktail of uncertainty in them. “M’tougher than I look.”

You snort at that, then hold his hand properly, sliding your fingers to rest on his knuckles, marked and sloping as they are. Flipping his hand to bring yours closer still, you notice something, a vibrant red, crimson smear on the thin skin just before his weathered palm begins.

“Is that lipstick?!”

“Yeah.” Replies Simon, looking utterly unabashed. You press a pad into the stain, garish against his fair colouring.

“Do I want to know why you’ve got red lipstick there?”

He shrugs, lips tilting up at the corners in a surprisingly boyish way. Simon looks like he’s been caught out in some amusing fashion, it piques your interest immediately.

“Si?”

The smirk grows a little wider, so you squish his hand in an attempt to extort the truth from him. It has all the affect of a breeze blowing against a large rock. He doesn’t even flinch, though you’re puffing.

“Tell me!” You lean all your weight on his hand which remains resolutely steady.

“Surprised it’s taken you this long to notice it actually.” He hums, watching you wrestling with him while his eyes crinkle happily at the corners. “Pinched your lipstick weeks ago. Wear it everyday.”

You gawp at him, momentarily distracted. Simon uses that to flip your hand and traps it vice like in his paw.

“I’ve been looking for that!”

“Bought you new ones didn’t I?!” He grins stupidly at the outrage on your features.

“You’re a weird guy Simon.”

“Know that.” Simon shrugs without batting an eyelid. “Reminds me of you. Thought you’d lose your shit if I got a tattoo, lipstick will do for now eh.”

Warily, you eye him, the sentiment is crushingly adoring and it should have you running for the hills. Instead you’re more than a little bit pleased he wants to keep a part of you with him, even if that did involve stealing your favourite lippy.

“Have you got any other tattoos? Apart from your arm?”

“Nah. Don’t like sitting for em. Tha’s why I only got a half sleeve. Never went back for the rest.”

You digest that fact, your brain making links in the pieces of information you have about him. He finds touch difficult sometimes, you know that already. Occasionally he doesn’t sleep at all and you wake up to him pottering around your flat like a helpful poltergeist, tightening loose screws and fixing dripping taps.

“Do you prefer piercings then?”

Simon nods slowly.

“Mm. Done those myself in the main.”

“You pierced your own tongue?!” Horrified you gaze at him, imagining how difficult that must have been to do without flinching.

“Pierced other stuff too. Just took em out when I got bored.”

“Like what?”

“Come ‘ere?” Simon murmurs, pulling you closer then patting his lap. He still frames it as a question, giving you the right to refuse at any moment, to pull back without consequences. Feeling bold, you clamber onto his thick thighs, as his orbs flit over your form.

“See how many you can guess.”

Steadily he stares up at you, big hands resting gently on your hips, the lightest touch that might as well weigh tenfold with how heated you’re feeling. Spread wide across his lap, feeling the stretch in your muscles as they accommodate the broadness of him. It would burn to take him, you’re sure of it, but it would be the best feeling in the world.

Carefully you examine his face, a few lines around his eyes, scars that criss cross through his ash blonde stubble, light lashes framing the obsidian orbs so tenderly observing you in return.

There’s a little hole shaped mark in the corner of his lip, two by both sides of his brows. A few more litter his ears. Quietly you let your fingers trace each in turn, while he sighs at the whispering touches. You tap his Cupid’s bow and tilt your head to add the little metal barbel inside his mouth to the list of sites. Then your hand trails the length of his jawline, down to his Adam’s apple which jumps as he gulps.

“Did I get all of them right?!”

Simon’s orbs look over-bright, black pupils a vortex in which to drown. His breath quickens, a pace to match his thrumming pulse. It’s innocuous, but you touching him so tenderly has roused something wolfish that can’t be ignored. Simultaneously he wants you to stop and go further all at once.

“More or less.” He concedes, leaning his throat into your touch until a thrumming starts to drive between your legs. Boldly you trace a peck over his T-shirt, the outline of muscles bunching under your caresses until he’s taut like a spring.

“Anymore round here?”

Your thumb finds the edge of his nipple and curves around it, feeling the peak while he shivers slightly. It occurs to you then and there that Simon could have more piercings in delicate areas unseen as yet, and the thought of that has your pussy fluttering with anticipation.

“I’ll tell you if you’re hot or cold.” He rasps, throat bobbing again. Is it just nerves? Or is he really so affected by a trailing touch?

Sinking lower, you stroke down to his navel, navigating his belly button with a quirk of your eyebrow. Simon inhales softly when you pause just under it, tentatively drawing little circles.

“Hot.”

You giggle, the vision of this giant of a man with a cute noughties belly bar is almost too much to handle. So carefully you’re now barely taking in oxygen yourself, your hand reaches the waistband of his jeans, resting on it with a feathery lightness that totally belays the amount of intoxicating want you feel for him. The incredible urge you have to undo the faded metal button and let down the zipper of his fly.

There’s a split second pause while your imagination goes into overdrive, contemplating one thousand different moves that would lead onwards to the place you’ve been fantasising about getting to with Simon.

That momentary lapse in observation is all it takes to miss that he’s frozen, no longer heavily lidded with lust, forearms straining and bunched with tension until the muscles look fit to burst through his flesh. All easy humour has vanished from his face, his eyes are burning like supernovas in their sockets, while his knuckles whiten.

Then seamlessly he’s on his feet, you’ve been deposited onto the sofa and he’s halfway into the hall. You barely have time to blink, to readjust to the change in position before you hear the bathroom door slam.

Shit.

You don’t know what to do, give him space? Is that the best thing? Or does he need comfort? Surely he wouldn’t have moved if he didn’t need alone time. Waiting for a beat you listen, it’s eerily quiet, not even the sound of the clock ticking over to midnight in the kitchen breaks the tension.

Shit, shit.

Anxiously you clutch your knees, wavering between going to check on him and the worry that might make it worse. Concern gnaws at you, along with rapidly rising guilt. You never even considered what level might be too much for him and that brings nausea to your throat.

The front door opens.

“Need fresh air.” Simon calls shortly.

It shuts with a finality that feels like a death toll, leaving you reeling a little in it’s wake.

Shit, shit, double shit.

On AO3

Masterlist

@cutiecusp @pxssygxblin @murder-hobo @misshugs @cherrieswine @garbau @callsignang3l @cmbghost

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angelloverambles · 24 days ago

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Absolutely feral btw

Previous step I Masterlist

Thank you, my dear Nikto nation, for bearing with me on this journey of undressing this guy. The uncensored version is available on twitter.

If you don't want to use twi - let me know in dms and I will send you a link to a file.

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angelloverambles · 28 days ago

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жена: Nikto x Female Reader

tw// mdni (ages in bio or be blocked), adult content, stereotypical gender roles in marriage talk, female reader gained some weight

oOo

Some men used endearments; some would say a direct, forward approach to all things, even in domicile, was crass; some expected embellishments to married life. But Nikto was not some man, and he was invariably forward, but never crass. Traditional in nature that fit the masculinity of his kin, but not domineering. He just was.

So he called you by that. Wife. Startling, at first, when he called you that after he slipped the ring on your finger. And you were to call him husband, but maybe the straightforward titles were a little bit too soon for you, so you still lauded him with his name and other endearments that he never seemed to mind. Nikto. Honey. Baby. Sweetie. Comical, when such an address juxtaposed the seemingly brutalistic being that was your husband. But he still held onto your waist when you called him Gum Drop and let you fuss over him like an aristocratic cat named Niki.

Wife. Direct. But that was what you were. His wife. And it was growing on you, when he did the little things like call you over and give you irises back from deployment. Ready the car for you to play passenger princess. Turn you over to press your face against the heat of his chest. There needn’t be poetry or fanciful declarations, not when he fixed the things in the house you brought up ASAP, packed cash into your purse before he was off. If things were broken, he could repair it. If things were lost, he could find it. If there was a need, he would chase it down and hand it over with a single word.

“Zhena.”

Wiping your hands on your apron, you placed the sbiten on the tray and brought it over, setting it down on the coffee table. Your husband didn’t need to call you twice. You gently climbed onto his lap to lay your cheek against his. Settling you onto him, Nikto took the hot beverage and salo and took his fare, the bob of his Adam’s apple lulling you to coziness. He occasionally brought the glass to your lips and fed you bits of buttered bread. The radio’s soft jazz played on. It was snowing again. The small jack-o-lantern he carved for you glowed with the lit candle inside.

All was good. Domestic. You’d never expected to settle into the role of doting wife, but Nikto just made it naturally happen. The marital bliss, however, came with some rather daunting weight gain. If Nikto noticed it, he never said anything. Actually, no, he definitely did notice, but all that happened was him cooking even better and, if you weren’t being extra in thinking this, settling his hands more over your backside and thighs. He also resized your wedding band without a word and added a few more diamonds. Maybe the only thing he ever brought up in regards to your new figure was being able to brave the eastern European winters better, and then he rolled you onto your tummy and took you hard and fast from behind.

Wow. You flushed hot at the memory, squirming in his hold. Your husband must’ve taken it as you wanting more food, so he prepared a rather large slice of buttered bread with salo and brought it to your lips. You took a hearty bite to cover up the last vestiges of your embarrassment. Maybe it was better to calm down. You had prepared one of his favorite meals at finding out his return this morning, and you were going to go all out for dinner. Also snuck in some…not-so-lingerie, but conceptually-lingerie lingerie, also known as a white simple cotton nightgown. That was lingerie to Nikto. The type that was all the way down to your ankles, and had no patterns or other colors, complete with no undies, no bra, and hair undone. Simple man. Kinda weird when you first found out, but you weren’t complaining, because you didn’t have the mental energy to truss yourself up like a turkey the whole night.

With the pre-dinner refreshment done, he leaned back and closed his eyes. You played with his hands while smoothing his brow. Whatever he did, wherever he was sent, must’ve been more of something than the usual. He had the usual patience to indulge you, ever so patient, but he was shorter with his words, and you could tell he needed a good sit and drink immediately. The two duffel bags full of euros raised some questions, though, along with a large case that most likely housed some type of firearm. Must be a new toy, the cash a bonus. Whatever. You don’t question him about these things.

“We will take you to Mykonos next month”, and then you felt a cool length slip around your neck with a click. You looked down. A cluster of emeralds on gold gleamed in the soft lamplight, immediately warming on your skin. What was a wife to do but pull her husband in for a slow kiss at the sight?

“That’s lovely, Honey, thank you.”

oOo

He left the nightgown on tonight. You’re not sure how he wasn’t buckling under your weight, but he was as solid as an oak tree the way his hands clamped onto your asscheeks so he could pound into you at will. There’s a tinge of frustration in his movements. He’s hurried in chasing his release, and you relent, cooing into his ear that you wanted it inside, thanking him for giving you three O’s beforehand. Whatever he wanted to give, whatever he wanted to get out, you’d take it all, all too willingly.

The slight bite on his earlobe is what does it. With a hoarse grunt, he burrowed his face into your neck and came. Hips stuttering. Eyes closed with labored breaths. You dug your fingers into the large, raised scars in his back with a squeal, met with a sudden climax of your own when he suddenly supported your entire body with one hand to rub at your clit. With the last few twitches of your body, he pressed you close so he could gently set you on the bed. He took exactly eight of your gazillion pillows off of the setee and rearranged them the way you always liked, and you grinned tiredly as he repositioned you and pulled the comforter over your body.

With a slight brush of his cheek against yours, he left to go to the balcony after pulling on a pair of sweats. Normally, one would take offense at their partner leaving, but with Nikto, it was different. You didn’t need to look to know he went out for a smoke, and the haze outside left with you a smug countenance. He must’ve liked, no, loved, the whole nine yards tonight, no matter what thorn was poking at him. When the day culminated relatively well, with good food and good sex, it was a habit for your husband to go out and light one up. Not the greatest fix to have, and it was a work in progress to get him to quit, but you let him have his vice as long as he chose herbals or menthols when he was with you. Out on the field, there was probably no guarantee. Then again, when a man was constantly faces with the bite of bullets and blood to support himself and his woman, you weren’t going to nitpick.

Menthols tonight, it seemed. He came back a few minutes later while you lightly dozed and got under the covers. Not a moment later, his arm extended out as an invite to snuggle, and you gladly took the offer, pressing your body again his own, feeling the consistent thrum of his heart. The hand that rested on his chest was open for the taking, so you interlaced your fingers with his to rest his simple gold band next to your diamond-encrusted one. Perfect. The bitter Russian cold outside was daunting, but here, inside, cuddled next to your man, everything was perfect.

“Zhena.”

It’s a hushed whisper, but you heard it. Felt it. Knew it. Outwardly muted, but within his embrace, it was loud and clear. Not a plea, not a demand, not an insistence, not an immutable role that was an expectation. But a call. Reverence. You canted your head up to look into his eyes and you knew.

“Muzh.”

Your husband kissed his wife.

#someone let me be his wife pls

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angelloverambles · 29 days ago

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angelloverambles · 1 month ago

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Alpha!Nikto who, after your last mission together, gets really clingy. Starts hanging out around you more. Trying to be your partner while sparring or just in the gym. He saw how you looked at him, you aren't sneaky.

The only other time his scent is mildly noticeable is during his rut. He sweats pretty heavy during his rut anyway but it only gets worse now that he's spending time with you. He's really not a fan of hanging out around base without being mostly covered, so the dark clothing and mask really keep that heat in.

You should help him, he'd really like that.

#nikto #andre nikto #cod nikto #nikto x reader #call of duty nikto #cod a/b/o #cod omegaverse

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angelloverambles · 1 month ago

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A deal

Masterlist

TW: smut

Nikto wouldn't dare to move - you already were way too generous when you let him in your life, granted him a permission to crawl into your beds in the most ungodly hours, lay next to you, drink in your warmth, listen to your deep breaths. He had much more than anyone in his position would dare to ask for - he had you.

"You can do better than me, you deserve better, Andre," you chanted on and on as he brought you from one peak to another, ravishing in your absolute treasure of a body. He didn't know, how to prove you wrong, how to make you feel what he felt, when you let him drown in the bliss of your lips. Nobody could do better, no one deserved you, the deity among people. And it became Niktos mission to prove you wrong.

One thought of your touch, of that incredibly soft skin on his, dragged Nikto back to reality despite his attempts to fall asleep next you. Two burning rings tightened around him: one made his throat run dry, the other one encircled the lower abdomen and now inexorably squeezed it, warming the body. Nikto rolled over onto his stomach and let out a long hiss.

Not now, for fuck's sake!

He held his breath and froze, counting the seconds. Sleeping next to you, next to his girl, his soft, most tender, so delicious girl… was unbearable sometimes. But he wouldn't dare to disturb your sleep. You let him sleep here, this should be enough as it is.

"Not anything is about fucking, you idiot!!" he grumbled into his pillow, burying his head deeper in order to muffle his own voice.

Yes, but if it's not about just fucking?

What if it is about her ragged breaths, her rushing heart, when we are close?

What if it is about a little tear rolling down her flushed cheek? Not because it hurts - because she likes how we manage to caress her everywhere.

What if it is about proving her wrong?

"We shouldn't-" he doesn't manage to finish his own thought. The inner discussion cuts off with Niktos unconscious hip thrust. The friction against the mattress is feather-light, but it's enough to make him bite his own pillow and groan dully.

And that's when you, his girl, his angel, his blessing, stretch your arms up and turn to him. Nikto freezes, praying to all the gods, that you don't wake up fully to discover him like that: painfully hard and desperate for you.

Weirdo.

Wanker.

Bloody pervert.

But your breath runs faster. Your hands reach out to him, caress Niktos ugly face, run over his scars, down his neck and chest to his waist.

"Come here," you try to pull him closer to you, but Nikto doesn't give in. So you open your eyes.

Nikto is embarrassed - his state of mind is obvious to you. He shoved you this part of him: darkened eyes, ragged breaths, lips bitten from inside to prevent himself from jumping on you. Must be a disgusting view...

"You need me, Andre?"

"I'm sorry. He's a creep! A pervert! I should go. Throw him out!" Nikto is so tense that his voices are spilling out of him, making his answer confusing.

"Sh-h-h-h, sh-h, it's ok," instead of pulling him closer, you move in his direction until you feel his hard hot shaft pressed against your thigh.

He keeps muttering something until you cup his face with one hand and cradle his length with the other.

"Andre. You need me?"

A nervous sigh leaves his lips, and he finally gives in, hides his face on the crook of your neck and whispers, warming your skin with his hot breath.

"Please..."

You make a first move, drawing a long low moan from him and smile. The man is desperate - he can't keep himself from meeting your moves, no matter how hard he tries.

"The next time you need me..."

He starts nodding even before you finish the sentence.

"...don't hesitate..."

With a deep growl, he turns you over onto your back, pressing you against the sheet with his weight.

"...just take me, ok?"

His scarred lips find yours in the same moment, when he drives himself all the way inside, making your back arch.

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