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simp4konig · 1 day ago

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nggghmhh... been thinking about Nikto getting into a fight and Reader fussing over him and cleaning up the blood on his knuckles and bandaging his hand as he watches them with hearts in his eyes... 🥺💞

It wasn't that nasty of an injury, really. Really.

You were simply fussing over him too much, as per usual.

His knuckles were split after punching someone in the face perhaps a tad too hard. Just a little. Just hard enough to knock out a few molars, maybe... or a row.

"This will sting," you murmur — though, mostly to yourself, as Nikto isn't particularly talkative, and usually only replies in grunts.

Eventhough Nikto could have gone to medical to have his injuries treated by a more qualified individual, he went straight to you instead: maybe you applied too much pressure on accident when disinfecting the wound with antiseptic and his skin would sting; maybe the bandages were never tight enough and always on the loose side; and maybe your handiwork wasn't as precise or skillful, but Nikto found that simply being around you was enough to heal him.

Yes, it does sting. A lot.

Or it should. Nikto has become desensitised to pain, and it doesn't register like it used to. What should be excruciating agony feels like a dull throb in the background, or the aftershocks felt from a body that didn't belong to him, yet does. Not to mention that he dissociates a lot, so he can make active pain... passive.

So yes, it does sting. It just doesn't hurt.

Nikto lets you do as you please, watching with silent attention the entire time. He keeps his hand limp, letting you hold it however you want...

...Just as long as you're holding it.

The size difference is stark, his large fingers easily encircling your wrist almost in its entirety. He’s big and built, scars and old wounds littered across his pale skin, pink and raw in the places that he was burned. You? You are small and... soft.

Your biceps aren't as big as his. Your muscles aren't as defined as his. Your build isn't as solid, strong, and stout as his is.

Instead, you are… delicate. Like a porcelain doll. And as pretty as one, too. Especially when your eyes are as glassy as they are now, and catch the light at such an angle that it makes them sparkle like rare gems to be treasured and cherished. Nikto's treasure.

Delicate to him, at least; because, no matter how much you insist that you are not petite, not tiny, and not fragile, it further solidifies in his mind how he ought to protect you. Which was annoying as fuck, since you weren't a child that had to be coddled and protected, but it was what it was. It was almost... adorable?

"Is it alright?" You ask, antsy with anticipation, absentmindedly chewing on the inside of your cheek without realising. "Maybe... try flexing your hand?"

He does, surveying your handiwork, twisting his hand this way and that, clenching his fingers into as tight of a fist as he can make it.

"Or... is it, erm... too tight? I-I can wrap it again, if it's uncomfortable—”

“—No.”

Truth of the matter was, it could have been better — any nurse would have been appalled, and hastily bandaged Nikto's hand again for themselves.

But, since it was you that treated him, it was the best treatment which he could have ever asked for.

And it was not "alright", but immaculate, thank you.

With a sigh, you release his hand, and miss how Nikto instantly tenses, missing the intimacy, as subtle and fleeting as it was.

“You get into too many fights," you say, eyebrows furrowed slightly over your eyes in unconcealed disapproval.

A shrug. “Too many people provoke me," Nikto puts bluntly.

“Provoke you how, exactly? By breathing? Existing?"

For a long moment, Nikto was quiet. You were on edge — your sarcasm did not bode well with Nikto sometimes, and it probably came across as malicious and accusatory...

Fuck. Fuuuck...

However, through gritted teeth, Nikto utters: “They… were saying bad things about you.”

Instantly your demeanour changes, and although you attempt to disguise it with a stern expression and cold tone, your features soften considerably, and the furrowed brows and the wrinkles in your forehead smoothen, like ice melting.

“Nikto…”

Nikto, defending your honour? He, punching not just recruits, but other operators, and threatening the commanders with death lest they mess with you? Hurt you? Merely talk badly about you?

Oh fuck... your heart aches, and stubbornly clenches with affection eventhough you ought to scold him, to tell him to stop, to behave rationally... despite not particularly wanting to.

Since the idea of being defended by Nikto is... nice.

Still.

“Nikto... please don't fight people on my behalf.”

Immediately, he becomes defensive, and gruffly grunts a harsh: “Why not?”

You bite your lip. “Because… I don't want you to get hurt. Okay?"

“I don't care if I get hurt. All I care about is you. You're all that matters."

“And I care about you. I care if you get hurt. Because it matters to me. So… don't, okay?"

"...Hmph."

"...Please," you whisper, pleading nonverbally with your eyes. "...For me?"

For you? He would do anything...

...not get hurt, that is.

Next time a person insulted you or made a snarky remark about you in any way, he would hurl a chair at them. Or plot the most inconspicuous murder.

Just as long as he wouldn't get hurt, yes?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

@blackinkniko @arrozyfrijoles23 @wil-xyz @revnatheshadow @feelya @liminal-chickenskin @zoloftwithdrawalnausea @soupiiiie @lizzy019

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/Ns

One Nikto wip done... 12+ more to go!!!!!, 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

.....i will only pass away peacefully if i finish these .....

..... then and ONLY then im going to bash my head against a wall so i am in a coma 😇 (JOKE)

Going to miss my anons:(((... Im verysad to have closed my inbox but it was necessary for me 😟...

Anyways, my closed inbox gives me motivation to write as fast as possible so I can interact with them (you!!! <333) again ☺️💞💞💞

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betweenstorms · 2 days ago

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Part Seven of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

The rest of November slipped by in a sombre hush, days folding into one another like pages of an old book left in the rain.

Except for that one day.

A gunfight rang out near Aimsley Street, slicing through the murmur of the city. It left London tense and shaken, paralyzed for days as subways shut down, and those who could, travelled by car, turning the streets into a grid of motionless headlights.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as lethal as the terror attack at Piccadilly in 2019, but still, the unease seeped in, threading through the city’s veins, casting shadows across familiar places. And just like that, November quickly disappeared, pulling its curtain of solitude and waiting, leaving the world stripped bare, exposed to the bites of winter’s approach.

December draped itself over London like a heavy, threadbare blanket, stifling and colourless, the kind of oppressive atmosphere that made everything feel lifeless. The cold settled in, not the crisp, biting chill of clear winter mornings, but a damp, penetrating coldness that seeped into your very bones and made you wonder if you’d ever feel warm again. The streets looked as though they’d been stripped bare, left open and exposed to the heavy, overcast skies above. Most days, a dull mist hung over the pavements, giving the buildings a washed-out, ghostly quality, like a city caught between sleep and waking.

The days bled into one another, each more bleak than the last, with early mornings arriving in murky shades of grey and fading too soon into evenings that swallowed the world whole in their darkness. People moved with that characteristic urgency that winter brings. You joined them begrudgingly, always tugging your coat closer, cursing yourself for always forgetting a scarf, or for the thin boots that always seemed to soak up icy puddles like a bloody sponge.

On especially cold nights, you could almost convince yourself that this was normal, that this was simply the way things were and had always been. But it was quite difficult to ignore the feeling that something was missing, that the hollow silence that lingered in the empty spaces between your days wasn’t just the eerie stillness of winter, but the absence of something, or rather, someone, you had grown painfully fond of.

Simon hadn’t been back since early November.

He had texted once or twice, short, clipped messages that somehow still made your heart flip, each one like a handful of pebbles tossed your way. “Busy these days,” and, later, “Might be back in a month. Can’t promise.” And with each message, you felt the quiet ache of hope and disappointment, an unsettling mixture that left you feeling more and more lonely with each passing week.

You’d taken to clutching your phone a little more often, your heart flickering with every buzz, only to sink again as other, mundane notifications filtered through.

It was a strange kind of torture, missing someone who was never truly yours to miss, whose life was a map marked with destinations and duties far beyond your reach. However, even knowing this, even acknowledging the distance he kept, you felt his absence like a stone lodged deep within you, heavy and unmoving.

You found yourself reaching for the phone countless times, fingers hovering over his name, wondering if a simple call or text would bridge the painful emptiness he’d left in his absence.

But something held you back, understanding that Simon would likely meet your words with a silence that would hurt more than any reply. He’d drawn his line between his work and his personal life, between the world that demanded his professionalism and the connection he somehow allowed to happen with you.

He’d made it clear, he wouldn’t let those worlds collide, wouldn’t risk them merging into something unpredictable, something neither of you could control. And you respected that boundary, even as it tore at you.

However, the days felt endless without him, each hour stretching into another shadowed ache that you couldn’t quiet, no matter how hard you tried. Your heart felt like an open wound, raw and unhealing, each sore beat a reminder of his absence, each moment a slow, silent bleed of longing. You wondered if he felt it too, the quiet fracture of separation that neither of you could mend, a wound that only his return could begin to close.

December pressed on, relentless in its gloom.

Your world shrank, folding in on itself as you huddled in your flat, wrapped in oversized jumpers, your hands perpetually curled around a mug of tea to chase away the chill that lingered in your bones.

You fell into a sort of rhythm, almost like a ritual, as if by carrying out these small and mundane acts, you could keep the loneliness at bay. Mornings were spent buried under blankets, moving only reluctantly to start your day, while evenings were spent wrapped up on the sofa, the dim glow of a lamp casting a pale light across the room as you read, watched, and waited.

Your birthday and Christmas arrived, as dull as the winter sky outside. There was little joy in the chill, in the frozen ground that spread across Wimbledon, turning every cobbled street and brick house into an icy, unyielding facade. But you did find some comfort in being back with your parents, tucked into the warmth of their home, where the smell of spices and evergreen filled the air. Your mother, delighted to have you home, fussed over meals, bustling in and out of the kitchen with a determined cheerfulness that belied the weariness around her eyes. Your father sat by, his once-broad frame softened with age, but his gaze was still as sharp as ever.

You gave them the plane tickets to Thailand over Christmas dinner.

Your mum’s face lit up, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that was rare to see in the last few years.

You knew how long she’d wanted to return, how she’d looked at old photos of their honeymoon with a wistful smile, memories of a warmth and beauty worlds away from London’s dull cold. She held the tickets with reverence, tracing the letters with her finger as though they were a magical doorway back to her youth, when her husband’s sickness was just like a bad dream. Your father, whose health, thank God, had held up well in recent months despite some close calls, smiled, a look of contentment softening his face.

“Thailand,” your mother murmured, eyes distant. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s been so long.” She gave your dad a nudge, eyes twinkling. “Been on about it for ages, haven’t I?”

He hummed and squeezed her hand. “You’ve been a right menace about it, that’s true.”

When you took them to the airport a week after Christmas, the terminal was filled with that strange, buzzing excitement that only comes with travel. People hugged each other, voices mixing with the static announcements overhead, foreign families pulling along suitcases, kids clutching stuffed animals and couples leading each other by each other’s hand.

You embraced your parents tightly, your mum’s hair smelling faintly of lavender and your father’s coat thick against you. You watched with a smile as they made their way through security, disappearing into the throng of travellers until they were out of sight.

And then, you were alone again.

New Year’s Eve crept up like a thief in the night, bringing with it a strange melancholy, like watching the embers of a once-bright fire slowly burn to ash. There was a hollowness in the air, a sensation that even the bright lights and the laughter of strangers couldn’t fill.

You’d been roped into joining your colleagues at a bar near the office. It seemed like a dreadful idea, but sitting alone in your flat, watching the hours crawl by, felt worse. You donned your best smile, the one that looked good enough in the mirror to fool even yourself, and you went, desperate for any mindless chatter that would at least keep your mind occupied.

But the bar was thick with heat and noise, the heavy bass of music thumping under the clatter of glass and the rise and fall of laughter. You found yourself swept into a circle of colleagues, all chattering about their plans for the new year, raising toasts, and making idle promises that would likely dissolve by February. They laughed easily, voices drifting over you in waves, and yet it all felt distant, like you were submerged in water, hearing only the echo of sound.

Then a young man from finance cornered you.

You only blinked at him, barely listening, caught in the comedic rhythm of his bouncing curls as he nodded along to his own words.

He launched into a passionate speech about the bloody sanctity of traditional gender roles. His words blurred together, his voice almost muted by the weight of your thoughts. Occasionally, you threw in a polite nod or a mumbled a barely audible “I see,” but your mind was far from this harrowing event. Then he leaned closer, mistaking your silence for interest, his voice picking up with enthusiasm as he rambled about his mother’s perfect domesticity.

He was going on about how his parents’ marriage thrived on ‘proper’ roles, his mum content at home, his father in the workplace, as if time hadn’t moved on.

Instead of focusing on the man in front of you, whose name you didn't even know, your mind drifted back to Simon, as it always did, caught in the same endless orbit around him.

It was a quiet tragedy, really—how he occupied every corner of your thoughts, each waking hour, and even seeped into your dreams.

Last night, you dreamt of him again. You were back in Manchester, in the schoolyard where your lives had first touched, sitting side by side, sharing a slice of cake with the casual intimacy of old friends. Yet, in the dream, you were adults, marked by the years that had carved distance and longing between you.

You couldn’t help but wonder where he might be.

What distant place held him at this very moment? Did he feel the same biting loneliness that haunted you, or did the distance barely register for him? Did he notice the empty spaces you left behind, the echo of your absence? Did he miss you in that quiet, aching way you missed him, as though without him, the world felt hollow, missing something essential?

The evening dragged on, your drink untouched on the table, its amber hue glinting in the dim light of the bar.

Suddenly, the noise around you became too much so you left without a word. The countdown spilled out of the bar, each passing number a drumbeat reminding you of how misplaced you felt. The voices grew louder, almost drowning out the thoughts you clung to so desperately, but there was no shaking Simon’s image from your mind. You excused yourself to the blur of faces, slipping out into the cold just as the crowd reached “Three… two…” and a cheer erupted inside, muffled by the heavy door that closed behind you.

The cold air bit at your cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but there was a strange relief in it. The chill worked its way through your coat, wrapping around your limbs, but you barely felt it.

Your mind was still somewhere else—wandering across continents, or maybe just a few miles away, lingering wherever Simon might be, wherever he was spending this strange moment of resumption. You tried to imagine him in his world, far from the lights and laughter, caught in some clandestine mission, navigating the edges of danger.

It felt wrong to picture him anywhere else but beside you.

You walked down the street slowly, trembling hands shoved deep in your pockets, blurry eyes trained on the pavement.

A fine layer of frost glistened under the dim streetlights, turning the world silver. It felt surreal, almost like you were moving through a dream. The faint sound of fireworks echoed in the distance, colours bursting against the night sky, their light reflecting in fragmented patterns on the layer of ice below your feet.

You looked up absentmindedly, the fireworks dying behind your eyes, feeling more alone in that moment than you had in years.

Perhaps loving him in silence was no longer possible.

The feelings had slipped beyond your control, as if they had a life of their own—spilling over like water from a crack in glass, flooding every part of you, soaking into your bones. The walls you’d so carefully built around your bleeding heart felt like little more than tissue now, flimsy barriers against the torrent that pressed and surged within. There was no holding back, no silencing the quiet ache that had become a steady, insistent pulse beneath your skin, a longing that refused to remain hidden, that sought him out even in the hollow silence.

No, you needed to love Simon Riley openly—

—without shadows or restraint.

You needed to bring this love into the light, where it could finally catch its first breath, where it could be heard and be seen, where it could thrive unhidden, unafraid. You needed him—not in fragments or stolen moments, not as a quiet ache buried in your chest, but wholly, fiercely, as something alive and unshackled.

You had wasted so much time.

So many precious years that now felt like mere flickers in the dark, small glimpses of life that slipped through your grasp before you’d even had a chance to hold them, like a newborn. The weight of it settled heavily upon you, like the slow realisation of a loss so deep it seemed to stretch back through all the years you’d been alive.

You could feel it in the pit of your chest, that dull ache of regret, as you thought of all the things you had left unobserved, the fleeting moments you had let drift by without truly seeing them for what they were.

You should have taken the time to appreciate your mum’s rose bush in full bloom. You should have sat with her in the garden, asking her all kinds of questions about those roses and why she loved them, about her own dreams and what she longed for.

You should have lingered a little bit longer in conversation with Mrs. Riley when she waved at you from her porch after school. She had been there every day, asking after your mum or commenting on the weather, hoping for a second of connection. But you had always been too absorbed in your own world, too eager to rush home, and now, those lost conversations seemed like small, precious jewels you’d tossed aside without even realising their worth.

There was that joyful summer in Sicily, too, when you’d stood on the shore with friends, the Mediterranean sun turning the sea into shimmering glass. You’d laughed, feeling invincible, the salt breeze tangling your hair and the waves lapping at your feet. But you were always thinking ahead, already planning the next thrill, and you never truly let yourself savour the gentle kiss of the sea or the warmth of those friendships, believing, foolishly, that there would always be more summers like that one.

Now, those days felt like faded photographs, captured and stowed away, a version of you that felt impossibly distant, almost unreal.

And all those dreams you’d held so tightly in your youth—they felt almost absurd and foolish now. Those grand plans, the visions of who you’d become, had seemed so important once, so urgent. However, life had drifted by, filled with pathetic attempts, with moments you passed over for the promise of a future that never quite materialised. All the dreams you’d clung to now seemed like toys left in a forgotten corner, things that once shimmered brightly but now only reminded you of all you hadn’t achieved, all you hadn’t dared to reach for.

And Simon.

God, you should have kept in touch.

All those years stretched between you like an untraveled road, a distance marked by silence and missed chances. You’d shared so much as children and somehow, as life tugged you in different directions, you’d let him slip away, thinking perhaps that time would wait, that there would always be a someday to reconnect.

But that day never came.

How could you have let all those years pass without him in your life?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

And so, your resolve sharpened as the final traces of colourful fireworks flickered in the sky, fading like smiles, leaving you alone on that empty street. Heart pounding, you reached into your bag, fingers trembling as they closed around your phone. The reality of what you were about to do seized you, filling you with a giddy sense of reckless abandon. You needed to tell him—to reach across this vast, impossible distance and let him know what he meant to you.

You couldn’t wait for another moment to slip by, couldn’t let another chance vanish into the empty air of this cold evening.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, heart hammering as you stared at his name, the contact you’d saved so long ago but had so rarely dared to use. It felt monumental, like all the words you’d swallowed down like bitter pills, all the years of quiet yearning and repressed emotions were resting in a single message.

Happy New Year, Si.

You paused, staring at those three words.

It felt too simple, too unremarkable, yet somehow too much at the same time. However, you weren’t done. No, you couldn’t just wish him a happy New Year and leave it at that, not with everything you felt pressing on your chest, a weight so heavy it felt as though it might crush you. The words were there, bubbling up, desperate to spill out. Your thumbs lingered on the keyboard, hesitating, heart thundering as you finally, almost timidly, typed:

I love you.

Three more words.

They settled perfectly beneath the first message, as if they had always belonged there, tucked away beneath the safety of the New Year’s greeting. Somehow, the two messages fit together, one nestled beneath the other like layers of meaning, entwined, as though love was just a natural extension of your wish to start another year with him.

And, in a way, it was.

Two minutes passed. Then another two. And another two. But those words flew into the void, a confession to the ether, carrying with them every unspoken feeling you’d harboured, every quiet longing and desperate hope you had clung to through those long, empty days. However, it was fitting because love was never too loud between you and Simon. It was quiet, patient, a silent constant that filled the spaces between words. And yet, in this moment, as you stared at the screen, it felt too small. Because God, how you wished he were here beside you.

You wished, with a quiet ache, that he was here, that you could say these words to him aloud, that he might look at you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his and hear them for what they were—an offering, small but true, from your heart to his.

You checked your phone obsessively, but there was no reply, only the empty screen reflecting your own hesitance back at you. Each second felt like an eternity, stretching on, thick and heavy with doubt. Had he seen it? Was he even awake? Or worse, had he simply chosen to ignore it, to leave your confession to languish in the unknown, unacknowledged?

You tucked your phone back into your pocket, hoping to put some distance between yourself and the gnawing anxiety blooming in your chest.

The street was easeful, your only company the faint sound of revellers in the distance, their laughter drifting away like smoke on the wind. And there you stood, small and solitary, your message carried away into the silence of the night. You’d given a piece of yourself away, a part you could never take back, and the ache of that realisation settled within you, but there was no regret. You couldn’t live in the shadow of regret anymore. You could feel your pitiful heart thud painfully, a rhythm of yearning, wondering if you’d gone too far, if you’d crossed a line that could never be mended.

For a moment, you let yourself imagine his reaction—his gaze lowering to his phone, those unreadable hazel eyes flickering with some emotion he’d keep hidden behind his stoic mask. Would he read it? Would he feel the weight of those words? Or would he look away, placing your soft confession with all the other things he couldn’t face? A thousand questions swirled within you, each one carrying the potential of hope or heartbreak, yet none held an answer.

New Year’s slipped by, leaving you alone in your small, silent flat.

The cheers, the drinks, the fireworks, your coworkers—they all felt like shards of a broken life happening elsewhere, a distant world removed from your solitude. You made some mint tea and curled up on your sofa, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, letting the muted glow of a mindless romcom you’d seen a hundred times fill the room. Every now and then, your eyes flicked toward your phone, longing for a reply that never came. Even though the screen remained dark, indifferent, you held onto the hope that it might light up with his name, with a message that would close the distance, however briefly, between your heart and his.

But days turned into weeks.

London slipped back into its own rhythm, its pulse steady and unchanging, as if the new year had come and gone without so much as a murmur. You, too, fell into the cadence of it all, returning to the apologetic rituals that had once felt like anchors but now seemed more like weights, pulling you through the days with a muted inevitability. There was work, with its familiar faces and deadlines, the cold commute, where breath rose like ghosts in the air, and the small tasks you clung to—brewing your morning tea, buttoning your coat, watching the frost glisten on your windowsill. Each small motion, each quiet routine, tethered you to the present, even as part of you remained lost somewhere else.

The ache in your chest persisted, a constant, unyielding reminder of your confession hanging in the silence. You busied yourself with distractions, trying to smother the gnawing ache of unreciprocated love, but it lingered, like a wound you couldn’t heal, as early January passed in a blur of frozen mornings and grey afternoons.

Another week began, still with no sign of Simon.

It was strange, feeling his absence so acutely, even after so many years of silence. You found yourself slipping into daydreams, remembering those late nights in his flat, the smoke curling between you as he listened quietly to your ramblings, his presence steady and grounding. You missed the glint in his eyes when he teased you, the rare moments when his hard exterior softened, revealing the person beneath. You missed the comfort of his company, the sense of being truly seen and being heard, of sharing space with someone who, despite his walls, had let you glimpse parts of him no one else had.

But the silence stretched on, longer than you ever thought you could bear, each empty day settling like dust over your heart. Slowly, painfully, you began to accept the truth that lay beneath that silence—that this time, he might not return.

It was a dull ache, this acceptance, not a sharp, searing pain but a slow, sinking sorrow that settled into your bones, filling the spaces where hope had once lingered. It wasn’t defeat; it was a kind of surrender, yielding to a reality you had tried to keep at bay. You felt it weigh on you with a familiar heaviness, pressing down in a way that made everything seem just a little bit dimmer, a little more distant, as if the world itself had taken on his absence and softened to match the ache in your chest. You carried on, each day a quiet testament to the resilience of the heart, even as it broke under the strain of loss.

Then one evening, weeks after you’d given up on a reply, your phone vibrated.

The screen glowed softly, casting a dim, ethereal light over the shadows of your bedroom. It was a quiet, almost fragile glow, as though the device itself knew the weight of what it held, the significance of that single name illuminating the dark. You blinked, your eyes adjusting to the light, your mind reeling in disbelief. Oh, his name was there, clear and unmistakable, like something conjured from a dream, a figment you’d imagined in those long, empty hours.

And yet, it was real.

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t move, your hands hovering just above the screen, frozen by a mixture of hope and fear. It felt surreal, the kind of moment you’d only dared to imagine. But there it was, right in front of you. So you reached for the phone, fingers trembling, the screen warm under your touch, grounding you in this unexpected, almost magical reality. You felt it thrum in your ears, in your fingertips, in your whole body, as though every cell in your body was attuned to this moment, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting.

Took me far too long to catch on.

Fucking clueless sod I am.

Even with half a world between us, you were always there. Never met anyone like you, not once. Guess I was just being a fucking coward. Probably should’ve said all this sooner, but fuck it. I’ll be in London in a few days. Got hell more to say than I know what to do with.

Right. And sorry about all the swearing.

Just a little filler chapter before the big finale! hope everyone’s still excited, because I know I am!

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the-palelady · 2 days ago

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I love that u gave crime wife!reader a butterfly obsession like deep down she’s secretly super nerdy but her shitty husband doesn’t let her indulge in those things anymore.

Personally feel like Ghost would swoon at seeing her get all excited over seeing a certain butterfly or moth, especially ones she rarely gets to see.

I hope u write more of them in the future!!!

not but seriously he would fall to his knees seeing a woman like her, someone kept hidden from the outside world, get this sparkle in her eyes when she sees something she adores.

ghost, much like his name, ceases to exist when your husband is home. at first, you thought maybe him being there at all was just a figment of your imagination; your mind conjuring up some fake entity so you'd feel less lonely in the prison you were supposed to call your home.

as it turns out though, ghost was not a hallucination. in fact, he was a very real man who came around more and more as time went on. he knew your husbands routine, knew when he would leave the house for extended periods of time, and that's when he would make his appearance.

in the beginning, you never spoke, and ghost never pushed you to. you had grown accustomed to the silence between you and your husband, only ever speaking if he was scolding you or flatly informing you that'd he'd be gone for a few days.

ghost simply watched you water your flowers, sitting beside you on the plaid grey and white blanket you always brought out to sit on while you read. he spoke here and there, asking questions about the flowers you grew, what it was you were reading, or what you ate for dinner the previous night. admittedly, you found his awkwardness…reassuring?

it was like talking to others was unfamiliar territory for him as well.

you felt bad that you gave him little to work with. he was coming from a good place after all, keeping you company all through the afternoon and even late into the evenings while your husband was away. the least you could do was meet him in the middle.

but the more you thought about it the more you doubted yourself. you hadn’t talked to anyone besides your husband in so long. what if you sounded stupid? what if your topic of conversation was dull to ghost? you had been your husband’s little secret for so long, shut off from society, that you didn’t know much about current events, what was popular, what would be interesting. so you kept yourself shut out, continuing to only meet his questions with simple nods and shakes of your head.

until one warm summer afternoon when you sat on a gardening chair, looking over a gardening magazine that you’d read god only knows how many times.

ghost was situated in front of you, eyeing the magazine as well, not exactly interested but you supposed he was looking for something, anything to say. that was his usual way of driving the conversation and you didn’t mind it.

you flipped the page and he noticed a flower that looked awfully similar to a bed of flowers you had planted near the back door, to which he pointed at the page, and looked up at you.

“this where ya got the idea ta plant those?” he asked, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the pastel pink dahlia’s growing in the flower bed near the house. he looked over at the flowers, admiring the color of the petals and how well you had taken care of them until he noted how silent you had been. when he looked up, your eyes were practically bulging from your head, locked on something behind his shoulder.

however, when he made an attempt to turn around, your hands darted forward, keeping him in place before you placed your index finger over your lips, indicating for him to stay quiet.

ghost was beyond confused. even more so when you stood, shaking in your shoes as you tip toed to a large bush behind him.

“i can’t believe it…” a chill shot down his spine at the soft sound of your voice, a light rainfall trickling down during the spring.

he turned in his seat, being quiet like you had asked when his hooded whiskey eyes landed on you, hunched over, gazing at a butterfly that slowly flapped its wings together while it lay stationary on a leaf.

“wha’ is it?” he whispered back, and instead of answering with words, you beckoned him over. he didn’t hesitate to follow your command, a moth to a flame.

leaning forward, he consumed every last word you uttered to him, your voice music to his ears, a song he wanted to put on repeat.

“a purple emperor. i’ve never seen one before. they normally keep to the treetops in the woods. this one is probably a male, resting after his lunch.”

ghost felt his heart lurch forward at the sound of the giggle that left you, breathy and quiet, barely there, but there all the same.

“we should leave him be. i just couldn’t believe i got to see one. the purple on his wings was just too pretty to not want to get closer.”

when you turned to look at ghost, it took everything in him to keep himself from saying, “you’re too pretty.”

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7s3ven · 2 days ago

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Had my Y/N moment yesterday when a motorbike passed me 😻. I was walking to my bus stop bc I wanted to go to the library to study and I heard a motorcycle and I was like “ooh, motorbike” and I jokingly looked at the person as they passed me. Guys, it was a one second look from me AND THEN I SAW THEIR HELMET TURN AS THEY LOOKED AT ME BACK. I was so embarrassed that I hit my head with my hand then I heard their bike rev behind me.

So erm… imagine that with Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.

Imagine Ghost tatted up and riding a motorbike 😻. You’re like, a third year university student or something and you’re waiting for your bus so you can go to the library to study. You have a fascination with motorcycles (must’ve come from TikTok) and you hear the sound of a motorbike.

You look to your left to see a man with his sleeves rolled up, exposing his tattoos. He’s extremely muscled too. You don’t notice you’ve been staring long enough for him to notice. You can practically see your own reflection in his visor as he drives past, staring right back at you. Your eyes never leave him until he’s out of sight.

You’re extremely flustered after that interaction but you think nothing of it.

The next time you’re waiting at your bus stop, you hear the familiar sound of an engine revving. It’s the same man. Instead of simply driving past you like last time, he actually pulls over and stops.

His visor flies up to expose his eyes. “Noticed you staring yesterday, lovie.” He says, “You single?”

You can only silently nod.

He holds out his phone, “Type in ‘yer number, lovie. ‘M gonna take ya out sometime and you can do more than stare at my tattoos.”

You’re too busy fumbling with his phone to notice the grin on his face.

Ghost picks you up on his motorbike because he knows how much you like it. He polished it just for you. And bought a helmet just for you too.

“How ya doin’, lovie?” He’s sitting on his bike, watching your every move.

The words get stuck in your throat as he loops one finger around your belt to pull you closer. His hands rest on your hips as he stares up at you.

“Hop on and do your best not to fall off. Want my date in one piece.” He laughs at his own joke as you slip the helmet on and sling a leg over his bike. “Hold on, pretty.”

He finds amusement in the scream you let out as he drives off and how your arms tighten around his waist, face pressed against his back.

#ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost cod x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod x you #cod modern warfare #call of duty #call of duty x reader

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beloveds-embrace · 14 hours ago

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Chubby reader x monster!141…. Chubby reader where you are at all-time-low after your ex cheated on you with the woman you had always been insecure of (she was everything you were not), so now you are just done. Done with him, with her, with your terrible work that forced you to come in even while sick, done with life.

So you go to a bar, and intend to fully drink yourself and all your sorrows away. You don’t even care enough to ask any friends to accompany you- they knew. They fucking knew. Calling them friends anymore is just stupid- and you don’t care enough to look around at anyone; you know you aren’t anyone’s preference either.

When a man, big and burly, curling horns and two big ass wings (maybe one of those dragon shifters? You know harpies have feathers, but the rest of your brain is too muddled) sits down next to you, you just ignore him and continue nursing your drink, trying your best to bite back the tears in your eyes.

“That’s enough now, love,” he croons, and much to your confusion, he takes the glass away from you. His voice is rough and rumbling, like thunder. Too hazy, too drunk, you don’t even care enough to get angry at him. No, your eyes fill with tears instead. “No, no, calm down. Let’s get you out of here, alright, little love?”

Another man joins your other side, just as big and burly but shorter than the dragon man who is making you tear up by holding your drink, your source of solace tonight, hostage in his hand. This one is a werewolf, his ears flicking in your direction much like his grin and his tail eagerly thumping to and fro against your chair.

“Sweet lass,” he croons, your teary eyes flicking towards him. You can see his hands clench in the air. Why, why, why- you just wanted to drink away. They are both so handsome, such a shame they clearly don’t like you and are just bothering you for the sake of bothering you, a fat woman in a miserable corner. “Enough tears and enough alcohol, aye, hen? Yer aff yer heid!”

His words are so strange, your tears momentarily pause. “What…?” You wonder outloud, shivering when you feel a warm breath across your neck, warming your skin. The dragon. His hand settles on your lower back, nudging you to get off the chair with them, and you feel like crying again. He probably can feel all the fat there, how horrible-

“Careful there, little love.” Dragon steadies you with two hands when you get dizzy, and with weak hands you try to swat at him, try to move away, but the werewolf is at your other side and keeping you pressed between them.

“S’op… stop callin’ me that,” you mumble. The tears roll down then. “Not- not funny, not at all-“

Two other hands on your back, a tail thumping against the back of your thighs, you are still led outside even as you babble about everything. Your size, your ex, the one your ex cheated, your work, your ex-

You want your damn drink back.

For their part, Price and Johnny didn’t think coming out for a drink tonight would lead to finding their last soulmate. The second they had entered the dinky bar, John had expected to need to puff out a deep, smoky breath to keep his nose clean from all the overwhelming smells and Johnny had prepared to to keep his nose happily pressed into John’s skin.

They hadn’t expected to smell you, something like the smell of stepping into a warm home after spending time out in winter, something like watching soft, golden sunlight stream into the nest room on a morning they spend sleeping in with Kyle and Simon. Like soulmate, like the last link of John’s hoarde and Johnny’s pack, and he has no doubt that you are Kyle’s nest and Simon’s. Simply his. A part of him just as you are a part of them.

Driven so wholly by instincts, seeing you drunk and crying pushing them even more into said instincts, they easily you herd along with them, back to their home. All explanations, everything else can wait until tomorrow. You are so soft to the touch, all tender and squishy, they already think you so perfect. In the back of the car, it doesn’t take seconds before you are dozing off and dead to the world, already so trusting.

By tomorrow morning, Simon would be easily able to track down where you live and get all your items. And also find that shitty ex of yours. John hasn’t yet decided if he wants to thank or beat him.

Watching the way Johnny holds you in his lap from the rearview mirror while he drives, hands squeezing your lovehandles with a low groan, mumbling about how much he already adores you, soft bonnie hen, all theirs- John decides he doesn’t give a single fuck about your ex at the moment. He needs to hold you between his arms and wings, in the comfort of his nest.

Fuck, he might end up breaking more than just a few speed limits.

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codnasties · 2 days ago

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old man price and his best friends sweet daughter :((

https://x.com/lustsuccubusx/status/1849183496046288906?s=46&t=Wd_-16JYGwtIjJaaGfxe-A

price and his best friends daughter 🚬 (🌽 link)

the first time he saw you, price knew he had to have you. the second his eyes laid upon his best friends daughter, sweet and innocent thing, pure and pretty, clad in the pretties dress ever. he had never seen you or heard about you, but that first-time meeting was all he needed.

he may be a bit older than you, but the idea of corrupting you has been clawing at his head. he knows it's wrong - he's quite literally friends with your father - but he somehow finds himself at night, hand wrapped tightly around his aching cock wishing it was your pussy or even your hand, thinking about all the thing he would do to you.

thinking about how he would kiss you all over, pinch your nipples and mouth your perky tits and have a taste of that delicious pussy before fucking you properly. after a few weeks of flirting with you behind your father's back and being met with the same kind of interest from you - because let's be real, you ain't turning down the oportunity to fuck a hot older man like john -, he finally gets to have some fun with you.

his fingers quicky rubbing your clit and getting covered with all your juices as he whispers right into your ear all the nasty things he's going to do to your 'innocent' self. might even ask to see how you pleasure yourself - or how you've been pleasuring yourself these weeks at the thought of him -.

y'all better hope that you don't get caught, because price may have to run for his life if his best friend gets to know about it.

#cod #cod smut #cod x reader #cod headcanons #cod x y/n #cod x you #p!link #price smut #cod price #john price #captain price #price #price x y/n #price x you #price x reader #john price smut #cod john price

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frogs-crackcorner · 1 day ago

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An Angel All My Own P-1

Simon Riley x reader

Cw: fluff, out of character moments, my ADHD really shines through, reader likes older men

Captain John Price has been a family friend for as long as you can remember. He was always a kind man. Ready to chase you around the garden when you were little or throw you into the pool as you got a bit older. He was practically your uncle and fun one at that. He was always coming over to your parents house for weekend dinners and birthday parties. So it only seemed fair to invite him to your house warming party.

You had finally saved up enough money for a modest home in the country. It was on a rather large piece of land, mostly forested with a big clearing around the house. It was a little unnerving at night so you were glad that you weren't too far away from town, only about 15 minutes or so. The house only has three bedrooms but that was plenty for you since you were living alone. It was a cute little house with a spacious kitchen and a wrap around porch. You had started renovations the day you got the keys. You painted the walls, polished the floors, and swept out the fireplace. You took down the old lights and added some rugs. You planned on turning into the perfect cottage.

With your house nearly done, you wanted to invite some friends and family over for a house warming party. You ran into Price as he was leaving your parents and invited him to come too.

"That's fantastic, lass. I don't suppose you mind if I bring my team along? We're shipping out that evening and will be together anyways," he grins.

"Of course not, the more the merrier. It was nice seeing you, John," you chirp back.

"You too, lass. And hey? I'm proud of you." He tips head to you before strolling off to his car.

------------------------------<>------------------------------

The day of the party soon arrived and you were a bit of a mess. You had spent the morning baking cookies and getting things set up. You had set up chairs outside near the fire pit. Fairy lights were strung around the porch. A table with toppings, chips, and drinks was set up near the grill and you had all the burgers prepped. Now all the was missing was the guests.

To your surprise, Price was the first to arrive. You were just setting the cookies on the table when you saw his truck coming down the long driveway. You walked over to greet them as he was parking the truck. John stepped out and gave you a quick hug. "Good to see you, lass. The house looks lovely," he greets. A young man comes around the truck, his skin gold in the light of the sunset. "This is Sargent Garrick," Price says, clapping him on the back, "we just call him Gaz tho."

You hear more car doors slamming and two more men step out of the truck. "And these two muppets are Sargent Mactavish and Ghost," Price introduced. You look over to see a smiling Scotsman and what you can only assume is a mountain in tactical gear. "Mactavish, ma'am. Pleased to meet you. Just call me Soap," the Scot drawled through his thick accent.

"What was that?" Gaz exclaimed.

"Price said I 'ad to 'ave good behavior with the little lass," Soap shouted back. Gaz started to laugh. "And that's your best?," he chuckled, "Sorry bout him. He's used to being a flirt so he's off his game. Nice to meet you, I'm Gaz." He gave you a dazzling smile, shaking your hand. You could feel your cheeks start to heat up.

"Nice to meet you too. All of you," you said shyly. Price shot Gaz a pointed look and Gaz let go of your hand. It appears they had been given strict orders not to flirt with you. It was a little disappointing. They were gorgeous men and didn't seem much older than you. Well, two of them were gorgeous. You weren't entirely sure about the third. He had on a baseball cap and a black surgical mask. Deep brown eyes stared back at you, a little sunken in with dark circles around them. They seemed to pierce your very soul. You drop your gaze and turn back to the other men.

"Well you guys are the first ones here. Feel free to make yourselves at home. I've got everything set up on the side of the house. There are snacks and drinks if you'd like. I just need to grab a few more things from the kitchen," you say, leading them up to the house.

"Let us help," Price offers, "then you can give us a tour of the place."

"Do you guys want a tour?"

"Of course, bonnie. Want to see all the work you've done," Soap chimes in.

You open the front door and let them all inside. "Okay, well, this is the living room. I restored the wood floors, upstairs and downstairs. I took out the overhead lights and added wall lamps instead. Most of the decorations I found at a vintage market and I made the rest."

"Here in the kitchen, I redid the tile. The old tile was chipping for some reason. I took out the old white sink and installed this copper one. Oh, I completely redid the porch. A lot of the old wood was rotting. You can see the string lights I added," you say, pointing out the kitchen window. As you do, you notice two more cars coming down the driveway.

"The guest and master bedroom are upstairs. The office and bathroom are just down the hall to the right. I would show you the rest but more guests are arriving and I still have a few things to get done," you finish, picking up a bowl of salad from the counter.

"What can I do? Have you started up the grill?" Price asks.

"Not yet. Would you mind doing it?," you reply.

"Not at all. Gaz! Mactavish! Help the little lady take the rest of the food out," he calls, his voice commanding.

Soap and Gaz turn from their spot in the conjoining dining room.

"Right Captain. What would you like me to take?," Gaz asks.

"If you wouldn't mind taking the burgers and ribs out. And Soap if you could grab the napkins right there," you directed. "Oh I forgot about the ice." You begin shifting the items in your hands around to be able to grab the ice. Suddenly, wordlessly, Ghost is taking the bowl of salad from you and following the others out the kitchen door. His giant frame seemed out of place in your quaint home. His large black silhouette a stark contrast to the usual green and gold of the kitchen.

Although he was mountainous and rather intimidating, there seemed to be something else in his eyes. He almost looked lost. Sort of sad. He was calculating but not callous. He seemed to be on edge, not because he was inherently violent but because he was forced to be. You supposed it was all too common in their line of work. No one has ever told you details of what John Price and his team did for work but you knew they were military. You weren't a child anymore, you knew the horrors of this world. You couldnt even imagine the things these men must have seen.

You shook yourself out of your thoughts and went to greet the rest of the guests. Price has fired up the grill and was putting burgers on. The smell of smoke and summer grass hung heavy in the air. Guests milled around and chatted, several of them congratulating you on your new home. Your mother gave you a hug and told you how proud she was.

The night moved on without a hitch and soon most of the guests had gone home. You began throwing away the used cups and paper plates. "I got the grill all cleaned up for you lass," Price says, dusting off his hands.

"Thank you, you really didn't have to," you remarked.

"I know but it was the least I could do. We've got to get going, we have a plane to catch. Come on boys! Let's pack it out," he shouts.

"That's right! You're leaving. Hold on. Stay here," you urge, rushing into the house. You return with a brown box tied with twine. "Here. Thought you guys might want some treats for the trip," you offer. He takes the box from you.

"Thank you, lass. Though I don't expect these to last long, those muppets will have them eaten in the blink of an eye," Price smiles. Just then, Soap came running up.

"What's in the box then?," he asks.

"Nothing you can have right now. Get in the truck," Price chides. He's such a dad, you think to yourself. Soap slumps dramatically before giving you a cheeky grin.

"Lovely to meet you, bonnie. Hope to see you again soon," he smiles, kissing the top of your hand before jogging off to the truck. Price scowls at him as he disappears. Gaz and Ghost join you and price on the front lawn.

"Goodbye, love. It was wonderful to meet you," Gaz purred.

"You as well, Garrick," you tease. He gives you a quick wink before heading to the truck as well. Ghost goes to follow him before stopping and turning back to you. "Thank you," he mutters, his voice a deep rumble.

"Of course. You're welcome here anytime," you stutter.

As you watched them pile in and drive away, you had no idea how literally Ghost would take that offer.

(Let me know how you feel about the first part and any ideas you have, I'd love to hear your feedback)

#simon riley x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #johnny soap mactavish #kyle garrick #captain john price #cod fluff #cod x you #sharkyshitposts

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