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puracatt · 13 days ago

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ok reverse the TROPE !!!!!! sugar-mommy!f!reader x retired!simon <333 (18+)

he got discharged on a medical injury. his knee flares up now, phantom pains that shoot up his leg and pinch his spine. he feels like a failure--a lieutenant in his prime, and now he has to acclimate to civilian life and grit his teeth instead of drown the voices in his head out with gunfire.

he's been deployed as much as he could be just to stay away from this kind of place. so he didn't have to get on a train, or take the tube. so he didn't have to think about looking over his shoulder in the shops or learn how to pay a wifi bill. he hates going to the doctor's office, and he hates learning how to properly open his bank account, just to learn that there's nearly nothing in it.

the numbers just dwindle before his very eyes. the rent is too high, even in his shitty studio. when did cable cost that much? why can't he go to the pub for just a few pounds anymore? where is the compensation for giving more than a decade of his life in service of his country just to have to wait in fucking lines to get his medication and argue over the phone about where all his fucking money went.

maybe he never had any. maybe it's all lost somewhere. he'd ask his former captain, but he's halfway across the world, and over his dead body would he hold a hand out and ask for charity when he's 36 years old.

"don't get that one."

simon turns his head, a snarl caught in his throat. there's a pretty thing standing beside him, also staring at the array of ramen packages in focus. you take the orange package out of his hand and put it back on the shelf before reaching for a different package. it's got japanese characters on it, so he can't read the label, but you smile up at him.

"this one is way better. good price for it, too."

"'s more expensive."

"yeah, but you get eight packets in this one. that one only gives you five."

at the till, you notice him subtly counting the notes in his wallet. you pretend not to notice, rocking back and forth on your heels, but just as he picks up his bag to leave, you speak up.

"you wanna get a drink? on me."

and fuck, he could use a bourbon. on the first one, he thought your presence was pleasantly tolerable. by the fourth, he's staring down your shirt, dark eyes mapping out what the curves of your breasts might look like in the palm of his big hand. by the sixth, you're pressed up against a sticky bathroom wall and holding on for dear life as he pounds into you from behind, knickers in his back pocket, manicured nails digging slits into his tattooed forearm.

you sink those claws in that night; and you do not let go.

the third night you ask him out, he sees your flat for the first time. in a nice building downtown, doorman holding the door open for you. the elevator ride is long enough for him to see the tops of buildings, and when you step inside your flat, he swallows hard when he realizes you are way out of his league.

gorgeous leather seats and couch. large tv with surround sound. a french kitchen with a gas stove. your flat is filled with knickknacks and candles, low yellow lights and wonderful collections of art and little glass vases and sculptures. your home is filled with warmth, and you don't belong with him.

just as he thinks about backing out of the place, you turn and grip the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer. you touch your nose to his over his mask, smiling, and you push the door closed behind him and press him up against it.

"so, which room do you wanna christen first? i thought we could start in the kitchen."

you're a woman that knows what she wants, he'll give you that; and he doesn't have it in him to say no.

the sun wakes him up in the morning. he doesn't remember falling asleep--he doesn't like to make staying over a habit. when he sits up on his elbows, he takes a deep breath, realizing his back hurts a lot less. the mattress of your bed is wonderful, much more supportive than the flat mess he has on the floor in his own place, and he blinks himself awake when you come out of the bathroom.

you're freshly dressed, makeup on, and you're putting on your jewelry when you see him. you smile at him, coming towards the bed, and you bend down to kiss where his mouth would be under the mask.

"good morning, simon. sleep well?"

"mmm..."

you take that as a yes, cupping his jaw, and you kiss him over his mask again before going to get some shoes from your closet. he doesn't comment on the fact that when you open it, he realizes the closet there is only for shoes...

"you hungry, baby? want some breakfast?"

"i--oh..." simon lays back down when his back tweaks, and you reach for him when you see him fall back in the mirror. you smooth a hand down the side of his body, frowning.

"why don't you stay in bed? i'll have my assistant bring you something."

"no, tha's--"

"i'm not asking, simon, i'm telling you," you coo. you pick up one of his hands and trace one of his scars with your finger. you have long, almond-shaped nails. there's pretty chrome nail art over the wine red color you wear, and he focuses on it as you kiss his knuckles gently. "will you wait for me to come home?"

"where y'goin'?"

"gotta work, honey," you wink down at him. "and i want you to be here when i get back."

"tha' so?"

"mhm," you smile. "right here. in my bed--" you lift the covers a little and peek, giggling as you put it back down after getting a glimpse at his cock resting against his lower stomach. "just like this, simon."

he doesn't remember if he ever goes back to his flat. he thinks he went one more time, to grab a few bottles of his medication, but the tick in his knee hadn't been so bad with the great physical therapy you started paying for and the warm massages you gave him every night.

and his back--your bed always contours perfectly against the muscles of his back, and he finds himself sleeping a full seven hours every single night.

not to mention his new work outs. simon hadn't been to the gym much since coming home, but he knows he must be burning hundreds of calories with you. you test his limits. as soon as you're home, you jump on him, and the stress relief your pussy brings him is just what he needs to get the edge off. you're a fiend, especially after a rough day, and the way you bounce on his cock in every room of your flat keeps him up at night sometimes with the most glorious wet dreams.

you're up late that night. you're curled up on the couch in one of simon's shirts and a glass of red wine, and there's a mountain of papers around you that you're focusing on reading. you have a huge presentation tomorrow, and everything needs to be perfect. simon comes into the living room, shirtless, and you smile when you see him standing there. he's wearing the new sweats you got him, but you can't focus on that too much when you're staring at his pudgy, toned stomach and his nice pecs. you bite your lip, taking a long sip of your wine, and simon hikes up his mask to take a bite out of his bowl of ice cream.

"gonna be up late tonight?" he asks, and you nod. "want me to sit with ya?" you nod again, lifting up your legs, and when he takes a seat next to you, you drape them across his lap. you lean over to give his scarred cheek a kiss, and when you turn back to your paperwork, a thought comes across your mind.

"we should get married," you say softly, circling a note over something. simon keeps eating, as if what you said doesn't phase him.

"why's tha', love?"

"tax benefits."

"mmm..." simon drops one of his hands and thumbs against your ankle. the flat is warm. his stomach is full. his body hurts less, and his heart aches with something nice. "olright then."

you smile.

"good. cause i already bought the ring."

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puracatt · 13 days ago

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puracatt · 20 days ago

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sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane.

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally.

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

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puracatt · 28 days ago

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evening bump <3

Need König and Nikto to fuck nasty thank you

!! MDNI, 18+ RESPONSIBLE FOR CONSUMPTION !!

1% nasty and,, 99% yearn-y. my staple,, i rewrote this like 3 times and scrapped almost 500 words

nikto could hardly see straight. the noisy street and flickering lamp lights were nothing more than a blur. they meant nothing in the face of könig, all soft-eyed and whiny when buried in him.

it all happened so quickly.

a little over a week ago, their squad left for a long mission, and came back hollering their success. nikto was relieved to be back at base. he didn't want to go drinking with the others and preferred to sip on his flask in the sanctity of his room. könig didn't want to go either, and nikto didn't mind just a little bit of company. a few drinks in, everything was funny and light and it was desperately hot in the room--

könig has nikto on his back so he can stare at him. he doesn't know why. nikto hasn't ever been much to look at.

their face coverings are off-- nikto doesn't mind displaying his face, not really-- it's too muggy to keep them on. nikto couldn't take him seriously if he they did; könig looks ridiculous in that bike helmet and shirt mask.

(his face is… pleasing to look at. a long, hooked nose and crooked canines that make him look young. mellow blue eyes. recruits who don't really know könig will bat their lashes at him. it's because he's tall and strong, that's all. and maybe nikto isn't much better because when it's just the two of them, away from the squad, nikto stares at him and turns his brain off.)

könig is soft with him. softer than nikto deserves. his rough hands reach down and grasp his hard-on. he glides over it with gentle ease, something unbecoming of a man who pushes guns for a living. his thumb ghosts across his tip, and sneaks toward the underside. his thighs tense and squeeze, but there's nowhere for him to run. all it does is feed könig's inflated ego.

there's a sweet haze to their sex. nikto knows it's the alcohol, but he can't stop himself from relishing in it. he loves how everything is just a little fuzzier, a little better. it isn't often that he lets himself indulge.

"aufhören zu denken."

könig's hands move to grasp his waist and he thrusts. he slides deep in him, deep enough to press that needy spot in him. the world goes quiet for a moment as it registers in his head. it's enough to snap the tension band in his head.

nikto turns his head to moan into the pillow beneath him. he must look crazy. he feels crazy like könig is grabbing his brain and turning it into sludge with his talented fingers.

his mean hips fuck nikto steadfast. there's no sign of him ever giving out, not when könig is red in the face and making little noises just short of whimpers as he fucks him.

words spill out faster than nikto can snuff them out-- little whines and soft-tongued pleas flow freely from his weak mouth. his face is hot and his skin clammy, like he's been laying out in the sun.

könig's mean hips give in at last. they press into the very depths of him, threatening to break him--

"so schön," könig whines. "ich hatte recht."

just before nikto can cry out, the man above him relents and relaxes on top of him. his heavy body presses nikto further into the bed.

gentle silence hangs between them. there's no need to fill the quiet air. what more is there to say?

nikto doesn't know what to think. (he hardly ever does.) he knows it felt right, like something slotting into place. sex hardly ever feels that close, like they're touching hearts. it has to be the alcohol. he hopes it's the alcohol. (nikto still misses it.)

könig… what does he think?

maybe nikto would've asked in the morning. probably not.

könig didn't give him a chance-- he was gone without a trace when nikto roused.

(nikto misses the sweat-slick sheets and hot pillows. quietly.)

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puracatt · 28 days ago

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Need König and Nikto to fuck nasty thank you

!! MDNI, 18+ RESPONSIBLE FOR CONSUMPTION !!

1% nasty and,, 99% yearn-y. my staple,, i rewrote this like 3 times and scrapped almost 500 words

nikto could hardly see straight. the noisy street and flickering lamp lights were nothing more than a blur. they meant nothing in the face of könig, all soft-eyed and whiny when buried in him.

it all happened so quickly.

könig has nikto on his back so he can stare at him. he doesn't know why. nikto hasn't ever been much to look at.

"aufhören zu denken."

nikto turns his head to moan into the pillow beneath him. he must look crazy. he feels crazy like könig is grabbing his brain and turning it into sludge with his talented fingers.

his mean hips fuck nikto steadfast. there's no sign of him ever giving out, not when könig is red in the face and making little noises just short of whimpers as he fucks him.

words spill out faster than nikto can snuff them out-- little whines and soft-tongued pleas flow freely from his weak mouth. his face is hot and his skin clammy, like he's been laying out in the sun.

könig's mean hips give in at last. they press into the very depths of him, threatening to break him--

"so schön," könig whines. "ich hatte recht."

just before nikto can cry out, the man above him relents and relaxes on top of him. his heavy body presses nikto further into the bed.

gentle silence hangs between them. there's no need to fill the quiet air. what more is there to say?

könig… what does he think?

maybe nikto would've asked in the morning. probably not.

könig didn't give him a chance-- he was gone without a trace when nikto roused.

(nikto misses the sweat-slick sheets and hot pillows. quietly.)

#call of duty #cod fic #cod mwii #cod #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #nikto #nikto cod #konig smut #cod konig #konig cod #konig mw2 #call of duty mw2 #nikto call of duty #call of duty nikto #cod nikto #mwii nikto #nikto x konig

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puracatt · 1 month ago

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Nsfw

Oh yeah also Nikto gets off being someone's pillar, aka if u come to him crying and asking him to hold you. He will, but he's trying so hard not to moan when you murmur thank you's into his skin.

Pulling back a earthy whine when you bury your head into his now sensitive neck, hiding the boner thats very much leaking and making a fucking mess on his shorts. Holding you close to his side ever so silently while he lets you sob it out. Just making sure you latch onto him first before he latches onto you.

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puracatt · 1 month ago

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sorry guys i. have bronchitis :[ and a bf?? randomly but he's p awesome/.

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puracatt · 1 month ago

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oh em gee!!

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puracatt · 2 months ago

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He can’t talk right now, he’s doing hot girl shit

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puracatt · 3 months ago

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Cat and dog boyfriends

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puracatt · 3 months ago

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Can I interest you in some silly sex with Simon? 🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️

18+

Word count: 1k.

CW: nothing really. Just silly sex. Just giggling sex. Just I-need-to-give-this-man-some-humanity sex. Simon is ticklish and you find out, that's the plot.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

You look delectable straddling his hips.

Naked and soft, plump tits sitting prettily in his hands. His thumbs swipe idly around your perked nipples as you ride him slowly, early morning sun peeking through the curtains and lapping at your skin. What a way to wake up, what a sight.

He stares at your lips and how they part for him—something he still has to get used to, though he probably never truly will. How dulcet does his name sound if it’s your voice whispering it, how beautiful your eyes when they take in his face.

Soft hands are pressed on his chest for leverage, and you’re treating him with a view he keeps pinned to the forefront of his brain—gliding your cunt until you’re chock-full of him, stroking yourself until you’re shivering.

He likes it when he’s on top, sure. He’s used to taking the lead and orchestrating every detail, in and out of the job.

But when you allow him to sit back and take it? Hell, sign him up. He’d do it every day. Especially when it’s this lazy sex here, in which you’re canting your hips to cum before he does, giving him the blissful chance of feeling you clench around him when he's still hard.

Goosebumps rise under your nails as they graze down his chest and brush his stomach. Your hands wander blindly on his belly, then his sides, as you clock his eyes with your heavy ones, panting softly, idly—my beautiful, beautiful girl.

But then you inadvertently brush his ribs, and he stiffens—even squirms, and your movements come to a halt.

You blink as conscience returns to you slowly, and the room sinks into tense silence. His cock twitches inside of you when you tilt your head inquisitively, squinting your eyes.

Experimentally, you brush your fingertips against his ribs again, and his biceps flatten to his sides, trapping your hands.

Your eyes widen, and his do the same.

“Don’t.”

You gasp, “Oh my God.”

“Darling, no.” He warns, but you’ve clearly made up your mind already.

Your lips are curled in a smile that promises mischief, and he can only give up, sit back, and count his losses.

“Darling, yes.”

Simon feels your fingers wiggle under the tight press of his arms, but no matter his strength, they're seemingly useless against that playful resolve you're displaying.

His cock is still embarrassingly hard inside you, and Simon reckons it won't soften any time soon. You don’t seem eager to get off him either, thus prolonging the torture with each tiny movement you make.

He inhales sharply and fights tooth and nail to school his expression into neutrality. His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is locked tight. The only thing giving him away is the flush of his cheeks, getting pinker by the second because he refuses to open his mouth to breathe a much-needed lungful of air. Knowing that if he would, he'd bark a laugh that would proclaim you as the winner of this fight.

He would never.

You roll your hips, then—cheap trick. He unravels with a shaky breath, and his biceps give out enough for you to slip your hands away.

And then, he knows he's done for.

“Cut it out.” He barks, trying to sound stern and miserably failing. He knows because you're laughing even harder.

Your fingers feel like tiny bugs crawling up his sides, and they make his breath catch in his throat.

“Never.” You say, with a grin that scrunches your nose. A smile that would normally make his heart throb, but right now just makes him wish he were a lesser man so he could throttle you.

“Fuckin’-“

You chuckle.

You evil little cunt.

Resistance lasts a few more seconds before he bursts.

It’s not a full laugh that leaves him; more of a wheeze that makes you chortle like a wicked witch. His chest heaves as your fingers frantically tickle his sides. Tries to get you off him by shaking his hips, but that only makes the two of you falter and moan, and then chuckle and catch your breaths.

His shoulders shake in a breathless, choking laugh that pitches upward as you continue with your assault (yes, assault—he is not being dramatic), eyes veiled with tears of frustration and mirth. He shrieks when your hands travel under his armpits—the sound makes you giggle in a way that would have him melt.

“That laugh’s lovely, baby.” You say with a smarmy grin he wishes he could wipe with a kiss, hands unrelenting against his sides. “Sound like a kettle whistling.”

He tries to glower and push you off, but you’re surprisingly strong when you’re focused. Right now, your only goal is to apparently make him hate you—he'd rather be held at gunpoint than being forced to hold in a laugh that makes his stomach hurt.

Simon now looks shockingly harmless, with his cheeks flushed bright red and his voice an octave too high—wouldn't look dangerous if he tried.

“Tea ready, yet?” You add, batting your lashes, because why not rub salt into the already embarrassing wound marring his pride.

It’s that unfathomably stupid joke that finally makes Simon crack. He barks out a laugh that bubbles up his throat, rippling through his stomach so suddenly that you bounce above him. Your own laugh follows soon after, because each time you manage to steal one from him, your heart vibrates with loving triumph.

But still—he is Simon Riley, isn’t he? Member of Task Force 141. Lieutenant in the UK Special Forces, SAS. The Ghost. There is some pride in there, one he'd like to keep intact.

He tries to recollect his breath, sniffling, and his arms shoot out to wrap around your waist. He rolls onto his side, taking you with him.

It’s then that you find yourself in a position of utter disadvantage, on your back with your big brute of a boyfriend holding you down. You’re wide-eyed and still smiling with barely contained giggles, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn't make his heart soar.

Sure, he’s panting, still proper flushed and apple-cheeked, with shivers wrecking his spine and unshed tears in his eyes—but he takes great pride in having won yet another fight (again, not overreacting at all, if you ask him).

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

You fix him with a look. “Simon, no.”

Before you can add more to your complaint, he rams his cock into you until your chest stutters, your lips mouthing around a shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

He fucks you into the mattress, then—once, twice, until the remnants of laughter vanish from your face and you’re trembling in bliss, eyes rolled back under heavy eyelids.

He places a sloppy kiss down to your collarbone.

“Simon, yes.”

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puracatt · 3 months ago

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hey guys!!

im going to start blocking people who follow w/o their age in their bio to be safe. by tomorrow, please have some indicator that you are 18+ !! :]

#day bump

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puracatt · 3 months ago

Text

hey guys!!

im going to start blocking people who follow w/o their age in their bio to be safe. by tomorrow, please have some indicator that you are 18+ !! :]

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puracatt · 3 months 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.

#beautiful!!!#nikto #nikto cod

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