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qwimchii · 1 year

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𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘱𝘵 3) — 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘙𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘤𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯!𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘤 — 2.2k

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 —𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘺 & 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 <3, 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘴…

note: this is a little preface before pt 1 and before Simon went radio silent for like 2 months…

pt 1, pt 2

the only thing that scared Simon Riley was sleep.

he hated waking up in the middle of the night in an empty apartment more than anything, tangled awkwardly in the bedsheets and mind firing after a nightmare. he’d scramble for the knife in the drawer of his nightstand before realizing, the cool grip of the handle in his fingers, he was home.

home. he slowly put down the knife and ran his fingers through his hair. this didn’t feel like home.

he’d leave the cramped bedroom space to slide into the kitchen, too small for his big stature, as he threw a kettle on the stove to heat up some water. he’d do it to keep his mind busy, to distant himself from the distorted images in his nightmares, but the only thing that’d help was slurping down a scalding mug of tea even if it burnt his tongue.

even then, it didn’t really help. his tongue was numb to the pain anyways.

sometimes, he didn’t see anything in his sleep. just a pitch black, wracking silence and a choking sense of dread in his throat when he jolted awake. pure dread.

that’s all it was, he told himself, moving to the living room and past the front door. past the front door.

his eyes flitted to it from the couch, a worn burgundy red and flecked with chips in the wood.

there was always a second option to quelling the burning hours after nightmares.

his neighbor.

he swallowed down the chamomile tea, practically slamming the empty mug onto the glass coffee table that rattled in protest. he leaned his elbows against his knees, pitching forward as he rubbed at his eyes. tired. he was so tired, and all he could think of was his neighbor’s pretty eyes. and that pretty, short dress that hung off the curve of her tight ass.

he screwed his eyes shut. the thoughts of his nightmares drifted further from him as he imagined what it’d be like to just reach out and grip the back of your thigh, snagging the hem of your dress so it was tight against your ass, so he could just stare at the flesh of it while you bent over to put a batch of cookies in the oven.

“fuck,” he whispered, rubbing over the stubble of his jaw.

he could imagine the surprised look you’d give him over your shoulder, wide and innocent as he fondled your ass. adorable.

it was the same look you had given him when you dropped your cardboard box of things in the hallway, cheeks flushed a pink as you scrambled to throw everything back in. he’d had stayed stock still in the elevator, watching you all embarrassed and flustered and hushed little apologies leaving your lips. beneath the mask, he had almost smiled when he crouched down to help you.

it was bad enough to have these sorts of thoughts. his eyes flitted to the door again. it was bad enough that he was corralling you to the bar every other weekend, a low mumbled excuse it was some sort of payment after he had repaired the plumbing in your bathroom. it was bad enough that he was pretending to be your boyfriend, staving off the way you curled into his side when another man approached you, his hand at your waist, squeezing the plush flesh there.

worst of all, he couldn’t see himself stopping any time in the foreseeable future. he trained his eyes on the door.

fuck.

in a swift movement, he stood, snatching a mask from the box of them he kept handy beside the front door and snapping it over his ears before he twisted the front door of his apartment open. he strode down the hallway to a familiar door, pausing when he smelt something on the other side.

he hadn’t expected you to be awake. knocking, he barely had to wait a heartbeat before you cracked the door open, brows raising when you realized it was him. then, there was a shy smile on your face, and his breath went shallow.

he couldn’t help himself when his eyes flitted down to the threadbare shorts and the plush skin of your thighs, then up to the old tshirt that hugged your tits perfectly.

all for him, he decided selfishly, giving you a barebones grumbled explanation that he was hungry when you let him into your apartment. the smell was stronger now—wafting towards him and thick with the familiar scent of something sweet baking.

“how often you bake?” he asked, nonchalant as you led him into the kitchen. it wasn’t the first time he had materialized at your door on a random night. he knew this wouldn’t be the last either.

“whenever i can’t sleep,” you said softly, yawning on queue as if to prove a point as you moved towards metal trays of parchment dotted with balls of sticky cookie dough on the kitchen counter.

he doesn’t remember what he had said after that—just remembers that he had accepted the glass of water you handed him and your demand for him to sit at the little kitchen table that he dwarfed, watching you with a heavy gaze. watching the bare skin on the back of your thighs and the way your tits strained against your shirt when you twisted around to look at him with that pretty smile to say something sweet.

you shouldn’t be so happy to see him, he thought as he shifted in the chair, fixing his pants around the swelling cock in his sweatpants. you shouldn’t trust him so easily either, he thought dreamily, observing how relaxed you were in his presence. comfortable.

he wondered how easy it would be to entice you into your bedroom, muffling any confused noises with his palm pressed to your mouth as he pat your ass into the direction of the bedroom. how sweet and pliable you would be for him if he coaxed you through it—he knew that you would be.

by the time you brought over the freshly baked batch of cookies, still steaming and sizzling on its iron tray, he was sporting a full, throbbing erection. the first couple of bites always tasted bitter with shame, his eyes trained on the cookie in his hand and avoiding the bubbly glimmer in your eyes before the sweetness of it melted any hesitation from his mind and he finished it in two bites. then a second cookie in three bites.

you would always smile at him over the table, leaning on your elbow and propping up your chin over your palm, tracing the flower designs of the table cloth as you spoke softly about anything and everything. he hung onto every word, grimacing at another burst of sweetness in his mouth with a big bite.

he didn’t even really like sweets, but when your knee brushed against his under the table, he found himself picking up another cookie to prolong it all. once he’d finished the entire first batch of cookies, feeling sick and too full and satiated, you had rushed to bake another batch.

watching you quickly shape some more balls of dough in your hands, he realized with a twinge of shock that maybe you wanted to prolong it too.

by the time you had both eaten one more tray of cookies, and he was standing at the entrance of your door in the hallway, the pretty smile on your face looked forced. maybe sad, even, as he tilted his head down at you to observe the glossy sheen to your eyes. he didn’t want you crying because you were sad—wanted it for a different reason.

in a moment of impulse, he reached up to brush any flecks of misplaced hair from your messy updo, relishing the way you craned into his touch, lashes fluttering as your eyes drooped. fuck.

his thumb traced down your cheek to hold your chin, your lips parting sweetly and warm breath fanning over him.

the twitch of his cock was enough to force him to take a step back. “‘night.”

he was so curt that it was almost rude when he ripped himself away from your apartment door, not taking a second to look back because his resolve waned to something small and pathetic as he walked mechanically to his own apartment. he tore the mask from his face, balling it in his fist before tossing it in the trash can, stripping himself of his shirt as he made his way to the bathroom.

immediately, he turned the knob of the shower all the way cold, the water icy cold under his touch when he tested the water. he shucked down his pants and stepped into the water, smothering a sound of discomfort as he tipped his head into the water, abdomen clenched tight as the water ran down his front and trickled off his swollen cock.

he waited one minute, then two, with his hands braced against the wall, waiting for his dick to go down. when it didn’t, he felt like breaking something, a cold fury in him as he crept a hand over his cock and squeezed tight.

he hated the throaty groan that flew from his lips, cock twitching in his grasp, relieved from the ounce of friction. easing his grip, he tugged a loose clutch of his fingers over the swollen appendage, amazed at the way it was so hot to the touch under the icy cold water.

bracing his forearm against the tile wall, he fucked into his own hand, rolling his hips and twisting his hand at the flushed head of his cock, water running down his back a heady mix of confusing sensations that pushed him further towards a chasmic edge.

it wasn’t long before his thoughts were circling you again, your soft words and soft lips in his mind. soft skin, too, as he imagined what it’d be like to slide his cock between the plush of your breasts, sandwiching the head of his cock nicely as pearly liquid ran down his length. fuck, he could imagine you sticking out your tongue to lap at the slit with every thrust, big eyes doe eyes so innocent as you looked up at him.

he was so pent up. so pent up about you.

then, he was trying to imagine how tight your cunt would be around his cock, thrusting so deep that he hit your cervix before he would pull out, tapping the head of it against your sensitive clit, watching the way your squirmed and mewled in the sheets with a giddy feeling in his chest before burying himself to the hilt again. tight, hot, warm, wet, sucking him in perfectly.

would you beg him with that pretty voice of yours? a soft lilt to your words even when his hand was squeezing around your throat as he fucked you at a brutal pace? every wet smack of his pelvis against yours forcing more glittery tears out your eyes and wanton moans from your lips?

“please Simon,” you moaned, voice thick from the tears running down your cheeks, “feels so good—”

“shh, m’gonna let ya—” he choked around his words, “want you to come, pretty girl.”

“close,” you slurred, eyes half-lidded as you looked down where his cock was stretching your pussy wide, sucking him in and clenching him in pulsing waves in time with the slam of his hips.

“let go f’me,” he commanded, eyes honed in on the swollen pearl between your folds and rubbing his thumb over it, fast and hard and loving the way your back arched with a sweet keen on your lips.

he watched with a fervor as you came with cute little shakes and shivers, face pinched and flushed with effort.

“tha’s it, sweet thing,” he groaned aloud, eyes rolling back into their sockets when the head of his cock brushed against the icy cold tile wall. “m’gonna come in that pretty, tight cunt—”

with a low groan, he came in ropes down the tile wall, abdominal muscles clenched tight as he rutted into his hand a couple more times before almost collapsing against the wall. panting, his stomach sank as he watched his cum slide down the surface of the wall, washed down into the drain between his feet.

it was barely a release—barely satiated the thrumming desire still sitting heavy in his stomach. ugly and thick and whispering your name.

“shit,” he panted, swallowing down the thick feeling in his throat as he rubbed over his face.

it was bad. worse than he thought it could be, as more images of your pretty face bloomed in his mind, swirling around and rooting there. rotting there.

it wouldn’t last long, he decided, washing up before stepping out the shower and tugging on his sweatpants again. looking at the mirror, he stared into his own eyes, finding a face of something strange and foreign staring back. he brushed his fingers over the scar on his upper lip, feeling over the divot in his flesh with a numbing coldness spreading through his chest.

he’d be gone soon, and so would his ugly, muddled feelings once he left for work.

taglist: @ivybeeloved @babygirl-riley

#simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost smut #ghost angst #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost fluff #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst

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clairdelunelove · 1 year

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around the clock

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

genre: fluff! (working drabble!)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, handyman!ghost

synopsis: ghost finds comfort in always being busy, whether that'd be completing household maintenance or chores but what does he do when there's nothing else to fix? well, it's simple, he goes over to your place–

a.n. hi lovelies! life's been picking up BUT it's finally spooky season! 🕷 pls take handyman!ghost to compensate for the fact that I dropped off the face of the earth for a bit <3

ghost would definitely have the characteristics of being a handyman– specifically, yours.

paid leave was a valuable but rare benefit that many military personnel took advantage of. traveling, relaxing, or staying with family were typically on the itinerary for most. to catch up on lost time. to ground and comfort them with the humanity that they might’ve forgotten about while on the battlefield. a solace for their minds, souls, and hearts to rest. service members could request leave at any time, fortunately, but ghost never had a reason to. he found comfort in being constantly busy. proved to be less on the mind. an escape from the pain that frequents him whenever he opens his eyes and follows him into his sleepless nights. he recalls price mentioning his unhealthy coping mechanism– the word ‘escapism’ leaving his lips in a sympathetic grimace. a sensitive emotion that reached the captain’s eyes and caused ghost to uncomfortably shuffle on his feet. he wouldn’t label it as ‘escapism,’ per se, just favors his hectic life. so when he chooses is forced to take his paid leave, ghost keeps himself active; repairing his plumbing system, fixing broken light fixtures, or testing any of his home appliances to ensure they’re working properly. he’s continually restless. likes strenuous and taxing work. makes it easier to fall asleep at the end of the day. and, by the off chance there’s absolutely nothing left to maintain in his compact flat (because a couple bare rooms, small porch, and no backyard is hardly a feat to clean), he’ll sit on his threadbare couch. might tap his fingers against his thigh while the living room clock obnoxiously ticks. the silence is deafening, ironically. his heavy-set eyes float to glance at the time and upon noticing this is the predicament he’ll be in for a couple more weeks, he abruptly gets up, pockets his keys, and makes his way to you.

ghost who stiffly stands at your front door when you answer the familiar knock. frankly, you’ve noticed the way he knocks on your door is strikingly different than how he does on missions. a strong rap but not powerful enough to scare you. it’s a sign that’s irrevocably him. served as an indication of his presence. it was up to you whether you wished to entertain his trivial inquiries. you peep your head out first, not quite believing the sight before you, and he raises a brow at your widened eyes. “simon?” you ask incredulously. his plain balaclava shifts when he catches how you intuitively open the door wider for him. to make room for him in your home. “remembered you asked about patchin’ and paintin’ your walls,” he explains like it’s ordinary to recall a conversation from weeks ago. astonishingly, he was right. you had, offhandedly, mentioned that you nailed picture frames to the wall which created noticeable holes that you didn’t know how to fix. you reminisce at how he held back an amused scoff when you emphasized that it was an honest mistake on your part. didn’t entirely think it likely that he’d personally fix it. “oh,” you glance at the rather large toolbox in his hand as your voice trails off, “like, you want to fix it right now?” he offers a singular nod as a response.

ghost who’s a second away from packing up his home repair tools/gadgets and heading back home when you glance behind you to stare at your place in contemplation. your lower lip caught in-between your teeth. he hesitates. isn’t accustomed to the sensation even when he has a weapon in his grasp. his mind whirs. the green-eyed monster of jealousy bleeding its way into his heart. “unless,” he dreads the words before they leave his lips, “you have a bloke to help ya with it?” his words are stiff. ghost shifts to lean against your doorframe in an attempt to ease off the bitterness in his voice. drawn to the movement, you can’t help but become aware of how he fills the entire entryway with his physique. your cheeks burn. a quick shake of your head followed by a resounding, “no, I don’t and I haven’t called a handyman either.” and it’s the perfect remedy to quell his discontent. his rigid posture loosens with the answer. while you step to the side to welcome him in, you hurriedly clarify with an awkward laugh, “had to think for a bit because I didn’t want you to see how much of a slob I am,” and hope that the joke lands. the universally polite comment to excuse the untidiness. ghost isn’t focused on the clutter, however. he’s basking in the fact that you’re not seeing anyone. offhandedly throws in a murmur of, “not a problem, sweetheart,” when he eases by you. and the way it borders raspy satisfaction reduces you to a puddle.

ghost who allows his gaze to wander to your decorated walls and dainty furniture while you explain where the tactless gaps in the walls were at. picture frames encasing friends and family were thoughtfully tacked onto the walls. trinkets lined the shelves to serve as memoirs. he stops himself from reaching up and picking one up for closer inspection. wouldn’t be fair if he did. truth be told, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d put up a photograph in his own flat. his loved ones and comrades stayed etched in his mind. recurrent and persistent. your place, on the other hand, seems well-inhabited, lived-in, and loved. he could almost spot the glow that you managed to sprinkle everywhere you went regardless of the situation. a feature that endlessly puzzled him. the addictive familiarity that accompanied you and made every place feel like home. ghost likes it. it’s comfy and cozy– you. and his mind slips into the possibility of adding a few pieces of him in your home. his work boots at the front door. his toothbrush residing beside yours in the bathroom. his shirt in your closet. “need any tools to help fix the damage I made?” your witticism forces him out of his train of thought. halts the delusion from straying too far. he’s quick to recover, however, and murmurs, “got everythin’ I need here,” while his eyes are solely fixed on you. a declaration that’s spoken as profound as a pass of thunder. and you wait with bated breath, mind whirring to reciprocate the sentiment but ghost is already trekking past you. he gets to work almost immediately by using a putty knife and a joint compound to patch up the holes in the walls. but goodness– his eyes. the raw dedication that manifests and bleeds out when he glances over to you. his words are a certainty that he grasps onto.

ghost who, unsurprisingly, fixes the blunders in the walls with ease. it’s a minor task that’s covered with a gentle hand and some paint. nothing that he can’t fix. but truthfully, the afternoon passes far quicker than usual. with fleeting smiles and stolen glances whenever his focus shifted to you. it was spotting your figure, halfway hidden behind the kitchen entryway, from the corner of his eyes. it was finding you tampering with his tools whenever his back was turned and hearing your soft laughter when he halfheartedly chided your roaming hands. a serenity disguised as a luxury that ghost could never afford. “want to hear a construction joke?” your voice fills the house; he prefers it that way. yet, your inquiry falls flat because he’s short-circuiting. with a hand on his shoulder, you lean forward to inspect the spot that he’s working on. forces the two of you closer. your breath is a hot puff against the shell of his ear and he visibly pauses. you’re warm. he turns his head sideways, purposefully staring ahead, and decides to indulge you, “sure.” “hm,” you hum and the pleasant noise goes straight through him, “I’m still working on it.” and when you’re rewarded with an amused huff from his lips due to the punchline, a grin stretches across your face. it’s a meager detail that he imagines as he trudged back (with heavy feet) to his bare flat later that evening. yet, it’s the only solace that allows him to sleep a little easier that night.

ghost who questions his rationale when he’s hauling his lawnmower and other tools onto the back of his pickup truck just for you. well, he supposes you never did ask him to mow your lawn but your front yard is in need of his care. his personal touch. afterall there were various benefits of keeping a lawn clean and tidy. encourages new grass growth and deters pests– or so he justifies. surely it’s not due to the appreciative smile you throw him when you tug your curtains back to find him trimming the edge of the grass. he hears the click of the window opening before your voice calls out to him, “you didn’t need to, si!” but ghost has never given half an effort to seek your favor. lives his life in extremes. so he spares you a glance while genuine words leak from his mouth that he attempts to mask in his surly voice, “jus’ wanted to.” and hastily wretches the starter cord on the lawnmower so it roars to life. pretends not to catch onto your longing stares when the sun’s rays are scorching and he’s compelled to shed a couple layers off. sure, you had tasks at hand rather than blatantly gawking but it could wait. and he didn’t particularly mind the attention. especially when you’re seated by the window so prettily with your face perched atop your hand. admiration pooling in your wide eyes. you watch with bated breath as he one-handedly tugs off his bulky sweater to reveal a fitted black shirt and dirty jeans. a combination that has you visibly gulping as he continues pushing the machine across the lawn. he’s a tantalizing brew of brawn and power. a darkness that you wish to traverse upon. satiates you with a knowing look when he stretches and the fabric of his shirt is pulled taunt across his broad chest. and he huffs in delight when you hurriedly reach out to yank the curtains closed.

ghost who picks you flowers (weeds) but doesn’t know the difference. he ends up discovering a clump of golden dandelions growing near the edge of your fence and decided to pluck them. pinches the stems in between his fingers until it breaks. ends up harvesting a handful of them. the question is: what does he do with them? he saunters over to your front door, raps his knuckles against it, and patiently waits for you to answer. of course. then, he hands the dandelions to you, unblinking but brimming with good intentions. because he’s not aware that dandelions are the most notorious weeds that many desire to get rid of. just acknowledges that they’re pretty and you’re pretty– so it only makes sense. another gift for you. anything for you. he watches as you absentmindedly twirl the stems in your grasp, speechless. and, without warning, he’s flushed for a reason far beyond just the weather. a terrible queasiness that was unlike any he’s experienced. his mannerisms are fidgety, mind itching to leave, and save him the humiliation of offering you weeds. but then your lips break into a wide smile. a dazzling one. knocks the breath out of his lungs. you’re uttering repeated ‘thank you’s’ though, clearly too distracted to notice his predicament, before scurrying into your kitchen. he’s left stunned while you call out, “how did you know I have a pretty vase to match with these?”

ghost who’s knocking at your door in the early mornings, greets you with a gruff, “mornin’,” and slinks past you into your home. doesn’t even pause despite the fact that it’s barely the crack of dawn and the sky is still hazy from the remnants of last night. the birds are barely tweeting out to each other, still testing to find a harmony to start the day. you’re as bright as the sun, however, when he offers a glance to you. an expression of stupor and excitement conveyed on your face due to his arrival. he’s stopped by a couple times now yet the warm buzz never dims: if anything, it flourishes like the row of flowers he planted on your front porch. vibrant and all-consuming. “still finding stuff to fix, si?” you joke while tilting your head. you stop him by the kitchen counter just as he’s about to state that everything looks maintained for now. “‘course,” he rumbles as his gaze sweeps to you, “soon you won’t need me though.” his statement is heavier than he expected and he opens his mouth to thwart the abrupt negativity but you beat him to it. the words tumble from your lips, “pretty sure I can always find something here that needs to be fixed.” your voice is soft as you add, “just as long as you want to stay.” he watches as your eyes flicker to the floor but it’s too late. ghost has already seen the tenderness that belongs wholly to him. your vulnerability that he wishes to cradle in his grasp. his hands clasp and unclasp by his sides before he finally mentions, “your fence needs fixin’ today. don’t want the strays comin’ in and fuckin tramplin’ on everything.”

ghost who’s true to his word and tirelessly works to replace your fence posts even in the scorching heat. scratches the back of his neck while muttering something about how they’re rotted on the bottom. and it’s almost hypnotizing to observe how he works. methodically checking each panel’s angle to see how severe it is. he detaches the surrounding pickets and stringers from each post in order to pull the wooden planks out. it’s demanding manual labor, more exhausting than his previous projects, which is why he requests your help. “just need ya to hold these up for me and I’ll straighten out the rest. can you do that for me, pup?” he explains as he hands you a singular fence post. and you try– you really do since he asked so nicely– but the wood is coarse against your fingertips and the sweltering sun hits the nape of your neck too harshly. you huff, voice bordering a whine, “I can’t do this anymore, si.” and ghost, the saint he secretly is, just raises his head to peer up at you. he’s currently on his knees, denim jeans caked in dirt, and dripping with enough sweat that the edges of balaclava curl at the edges to expose slivers of pale skin. “be good for me, will ya?” an inquiry that sounds more like a command due to his thick accent. his dark eyes search for yours, squinting in the sun’s rays, before he goes back to digging around the base of the fence post. however, when even the rare sight of his bare skin does little to serve as a reward against the extreme heat, you’re pouting again, “can’t we do this another day–” “oi,” he interrupts you when his large hand blindly reaches back to clamp over your knee. his thumb moves to caress the inner portion of your knee and you can vaguely discern how each of his fingers press against your skin. featherlight touches that sear your skin. his gaze snaps to yours, a dark brow arching at your unwillingness to move. the next demand leaves his lips in a low, tempting voice, “behave.”

ghost who’s a sucker for your large, beseeching eyes and only shakes his head when you prance back into your house. you’re humming a light tune when you skip up the steps, away from the harsh weather, and leaving him to continue angling fence posts alone. it’d be a crime for him to deny your wish. and it’s not like he bends to your every whim. sometimes. he huffs, half in amusement and half in disbelief, before hauling another slab of wood. it’s not like the task was terribly difficult. he’s proficient– a machine that rather enjoys ruthless duties. just assumes that teamwork would lessen the strenuous work. and having your company was always pleasant. he’s in the act of lifting another fence post when he spots you bounding towards him, a glass cup in your hands, and a radiant grin on your face. his heart flips. pounds against his chest like a sledgehammer beating against fragile wood. “made some lemonade,” you offer and raise the glass to him, “for the hard worker.” notices the hesitant tremble in your fingers and your sudden shyness compels him to inwardly crumble. like you weren’t already the cause of his peace. there’s a swirly straw and a decorative umbrella in the drink which catches his attention. calloused fingers skimming the edge of the vibrant garnish, he’s silent. has never gotten this treatment from another person. it's foreign to him but not unwanted. his eyes are unblinking, caught in a trance, before he’s murmuring honest appreciation for your generosity.

ghost who prods, a bit of humor in his voice, as he sips at the beverage, “a bit sweet, yeah?” coerces himself to ease the smirk that threatens to overtake his face when he recognizes how your eyes widen in alarm. recognizes the panic that spreads within you when you quickly suggest, “is it? let me try.” and he’s more than happy to comply. wordlessly edges the straw between your glossy lips so you can take a sip. half-lidded eyes trained on how your lips curl around the straw, an action that serves as his newest vice. one that he’s certain will take ages to treat. constant time that’d be spent with you. always you. “you’re right. it’s kinda too sweet,” you naively remark, flicking your eyes up at him. you’re so sweet to him– soft voice and all. he’s not looking at you, however. no, ghost lifts the straw to take another sip and as he pulls away, his tongue darts out to lick his lips. to chase after the taste of you. memorizing it. saccharine and gloss. a primal act that has you aching for more. “m’fault then,” his amused voice was snuffed by his blank expression as he gently gripped your jaw. you watch as he slowly blinks, blond lashes sweeping against his cheek, and lowly hums, “forgot I like sweet things.”

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon riley #call of duty x reader #call of duty #simon riley imagine #cod x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost cod #ghost x you #ghost x y/n

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transbookoftheday · 1 year

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Safe and Sound by Mercury Stardust

Don’t panic—Mercury Stardust, AKA The Trans Handy Ma’am is here to help!

For too many people, the simple act of contacting a plumber or repair person can feel like a game of chance. As a transwoman and a professional maintenance technician, Mercury Stardust has discovered (the hard way) that we live in a world with much to fear. If you've ever felt panicked about opening your home to strangers in order to fix a maintenance issue, this book is for you.

Renting a home can be a complex process—from finding a safe and affordable space, to hiring help for moving in and out, and of course, managing any repairs that come up during your stay.

You deserve to feel empowered to take matters into your own hands—and it’s not as hard as you might think. In this book, Mercury will show you how to tackle the projects that need improvement in your home—from how to properly fix a clog in your bathroom sink and safely hang things on your walls to patching small and medium drywall holes.

Safe and Sound includes:

Guidance for over 50 simple home maintenance projects, such as replacing your showerhead and troubleshooting a faulty garbage disposal.

Chapters covering basic and handy repairs for your plumbing, electrical, carpentry, and safety needs.

Advice tailored to renters to minimize permanent changes.

Helpful illustrations and QR code links to videos to help you on your journey.

Remember—a little bit of knowledge can go a long way toward making you feel more safe and in control of your own life.

#safe and sound #mercury stardust #transfem #trans book of the day #queer books #trans books #bookblr #booklr

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jadeleechsupportgroup · 4 months

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Closet Prison

“And those pitiable robes return once more to their closet prison.”

You get trapped in Malleus’s closet. Well done.

malleus x reader

cw: none

also on ao3

You are starting to wonder how many different job titles you have collected so far in your short tenure at Night Raven College. Even if you gathered several of them under the ‘Janitor’ heading that Crowley had so proudly bestowed upon you on the first day, there were enough now to make for one hell of a résumé: Glasswork Repair Technician, Antique Plumbing Specialist, Magestone Recovery Agent, not to mention every version of the word ‘therapist’ that existed. Now, you suppose, you could add Laundry Cleanliness Coordinator to the list.

“I demand to speak with someone at once! This is an outrage!”

Ah, yes. How could you forget Customer Service Punching Bag.

You peek out to the front reception area, hiding between hanging garment bags and swiping your over-steamed hair out of your face. You could have easily - and correctly - guessed at the owner of the voice for several reasons, primary among them 1. This happens every week and 2. Anyone would know that voice because no one ever gets to stop hearing it.

No one is coming to his rescue, even though you know you are not the only one on a shift today. But you are the closest one to the door. You balance your fingertips on the white paneling and close your eyes, steeling yourself for battle, your best and brightest fake smile serving as both armor and weapon. You tuck your lint brush into your back pocket in case you need something portable that won’t leave a mark.

“Why, Sebek, fancy seeing you here,” you say in a voice not your own. Your Customer Service Voice is a different person. You don’t know her. “You’re looking very well.”

“No, I am not!” he shouts, rattling the change in the tip jar on the counter behind you. Before you can have a chance to react, he shoves a garment bag with a paper receipt into your face. “You have made a grave error, and you must pay for it immediately!”

Your smile wanes, but you stay strong. “Me? In particular? Are you sure?”

“Who else would have committed such an unforgivable act, human?!”

You fold your arms patiently. “Perhaps you could enlighten me as to the error of my ways?”

Sebek flings down the garment bag in disgust. You catch it, somewhat, but its heft and size make for an awkward movement, something Sebek no doubt enjoys. “Since humans are of such feeble mind, I shall, as they say, ‘spell it out for you.’”

His chest heaves, and you brace yourself for the volume that’s about to assault you and anyone else within a three-mile radius.

“You have misplaced the ceremonial robes belonging to the great Malleus Draconia!”

The urge to beat him over the head with the tip jar strikes you abruptly, but you file it away. Inside, a very small part of you does panic - did Malleus bring some valuable, irreplaceable robes from home? But then you realize what Sebek means, and all you can do is wonder whether you could make assault with a deadly weapon look like self defense.

You put on your Voice again. “Like, his orientation robes? I didn’t even see those come in.”

“Of course not! And now they have landed in someone else’s filthy, unworthy hands!”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh.” You hang up the offending garment bag and check the receipt. Sure as shit, it has Malleus’s name on it. You refrain from suggesting this is all part of an elaborate prank. It would be funny, but you’ve heard enough of Sebek’s voice for one day. “I’ll get it sorted out.”

“See that you do! And that you prepare an apology for Lord Malleus at once!”

You force yourself to take a deep breath and hold it until he storms out the door. The tip jar lives to see another day.

You go over the books and cross-check a few numbers. A simple mistake - someone accidentally skipped a line on one side of the page, so now the entries are misaligned. You check the tag on the inside of the robes and find Leona’s name embroidered on the lining.

The prospect of hiking across campus with a heavy garment bag longer than you are tall is hardly enticing, but you don’t have much of a choice. The last thing you want is for Sebek to come back in ten minutes demanding to know why you haven’t fixed everything by now. You pull on your coat and head outside.

It’s cool and cloudy out - probably normal September weather for some, but you hail from somewhere hotter this time of year, and you’re already cold. The chill hastens your steps as you make your way across the stones and grassy pathways to the Hall of Mirrors. You wish you had a giant mug of hot cocoa or spiced apple cider. One of each, you decide as you step through the Savanaclaw mirror.

The jump still leaves you queasy, but the warm humidity of the pocket dimension embraces you and eliminates the cold clinging to your shoulders. You wander past groups of students, trying to catch glimpses of their faces while avoiding eye contact. You don’t recognize anyone, so with a sigh, you plod toward the main building.

A tall beast-eared student leans against the wall of the entryway like some kind of bouncer. You’re hoping he’ll ignore you, but he stands to his full height and blocks your path.

“You lost?” he asks gruffly.

“I need to give these to Leona,” you say evenly, losing some of the bravado that empowered you against Sebek earlier. “His robes got mixed up with someone else’s.”

He leans in and sniffs the air around you, prompting you to move away, bringing a satisfied glint to his eye. His ears twitch, but he finally backs off and resumes his post. “Go on.”

You find yourself breathing a little more deeply in a vain attempt to slow your heart rate. It would not do to pass out from a panic attack in the midst of all these predators. It occurs to you that you don’t know where to find Leona, but you really don’t want to ask any of these people for directions, so you start wandering. You’re up the stairs and halfway down the hall when a door opens and a familiar head of sandy brown hair ducks out of it.

“…last time I help that guy with anything,” he grumbles to himself. He glances up at you, and his dour expression lifts a bit. “Hey, what’re you doing here?”

“Hi, Ruggie,” you say, breathless from the stairs. “I have Leona’s robes.” You have to pause for one huge breath. “They got switched around at the cleaners.”

Ruggie cackles. “That explains a lot. I’ll swap ’em out - he just went back to sleep.”

“Thanks.” You hand him the garment bag. He disappears back into the room, then returns with a different bag. Unfortunately, it’s no less long or heavy. You decide to fold it in half, hoping it will be a little easier to carry. “Best of luck with…whatever he’s having you do this time.” You gesture vaguely at the closed door.

“Haha, yeah.”

You’re almost too warm from all this manual labor by the time you re-enter the Hall of Mirrors, but the shock of cold that smacks you full force on the other side of the Diasomnia mirror leaves you instantly shivering. Is it always this cold in here? How does anyone stand it? The fog curling around the clusters of thorns at your feet does not help. Unlike at Savanaclaw, you don’t see any students milling about here. Just a long, lonely stone walkway winding up through the mist to the castle.

You hope just a little that the doors will be locked and you’ll have to leave, but no luck. The massive wooden doors are propped open, though nobody is standing guard here. They probably assume (correctly) that no one would waltz in here without a reason.

You try not to make it too obvious that you’ve never been in Diasomnia before, but there are plenty of things to gawk at in the lavishly-appointed lounge. Fine leather seating, antique wood tables that look like the much nicer versions of the ones in your dorm, expensive imported rugs - yet even with all that, and the flickering green candle flames dotting the room, the whole space feels…vacant. Lacking. And cold. So cold you can smell the stone.

“H- hello?” you call out, losing what little courage you had remaining. You consider leaving the garment bag on the nearest chair and escaping to safety, but a set of footsteps catches your attention.

“Why, good afternoon,” says a sunny, cordial voice completely at odds with your surroundings. He smiles and tilts his head to one side. “What can I do for you?”

“Lilia, right?” you guess, and to your relief he nods in response. “I’m just returning these.” You set the garment bag down, suddenly aware of how badly you were scrunching it. “Malleus’s robes,” you add.

Lilia blinks his bright cerise eyes. “Oh, that must be where Sebek went in such a hurry.” He allows himself a light chuckle. “You didn’t need to come all this way just to bring these back.”

“Yeah? Sebek was ready to burn me at the stake for it, so…” You frown over the state of the garment bag. You didn’t mean to crumple it so badly, but it just got so freaking heavy after more than a few minutes. “Would it be alright if I brush these out before I go? They probably got wrinkled, and I’ve reached my quota of stake burnings for the month.”

“Of course!” Lilia seems a little overjoyed at the idea of a visitor, but at least he is polite and appreciative of your efforts. “Right this way.”

You have to endure another set of stairs, passing by an enormous bat-winged chair at the top that would be practically comical in any other situation. Lilia trots along merrily ahead of you, humming to himself as you study the iron latticework of the huge windows lining the hall. Outside, you catch glimpses here and there of the gargoyles that stand guard along the parapets. The green firelight casts shadows through the grating that appear to bring their carved stone faces to life.

“Do you like architecture?” Lilia asks, bringing you out of your musings.

“Yeah, I guess so. This is all…very different from what I’m used to.”

“Well, you are certainly free to stop by at any time. We love having visitors.”

Lilia stops at a set of double doors and tugs them open before leading you inside. He looks about to say something when his watch chirps at him. He checks it curiously. “Hm? Oh, of course. We have a club meeting - I nearly forgot.” He offers you another kind smile. “I’m afraid I must take my leave, but I trust you can find your way out?”

“Pretty sure.” You balance the garment bag on one arm while you try to open the closet doors with your other hand. There’s an absolutely frigid draft in here, strong enough to disturb the curtains, and you wonder if Malleus is one of those monstrous types that sleeps with the windows open. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and be careful with that door. It can stick a little.”

With that, he bounces out of the room.

You hook the hanger over the closet railing and unzip the bag. The damage is minimal, actually; the robes’ heavy brocade fabric is pretty resilient as long as it’s dry. But you spot a few dozen hairs that must belong to Leona. You’re glad you brought the lint brush now.

The cold draft of air spills over your shoulders and freezes your hands. This is getting downright ridiculous. You step back into the main room and go to close the windows, but they’re already closed. The breeze is just there. You grumble to yourself about having two hot cocoas and two apple ciders upon your return home and go back to your work.

Malleus’s entire room looks like it hardly receives any use at all. Whether due to his position as housewarden or his family name, his closet is larger than what you would expect for a dorm room, large enough to stand in comfortably. (Although, for him, you think, perhaps not, as his horns might brush the ceiling. That would be funny.).

You can hardly concentrate because it’s so damn cold. You finally get fed up with it and pull the closet door most of the way shut behind you, leaving just enough of a gap for light to enter. The relief is instantaneous.

You carefully brush and straighten the robes, ensuring all the stray hairs and lint fluffs are removed, trimming a stray thread here and there. You run your fingers over the specially tailored openings in the hood. They’ve been hand-sewn by an expert, even adorned with their own decorative embroidery. You appreciate the craftsmanship, knowing that few people would notice it, let alone care.

As if enraged by your attempts to thwart its presence, the draft of air returns with a vengeance and slams the closet door. You jump - at the noise, the sudden inky darkness, the freshly chilled breeze - and, feeling indignant about it, you push on the door.

Only, it doesn’t open.

You try again to no avail. Then you try pulling on the door, just in case, but it budges even less. You push against it with your shoulder, wondering if this is Sebek’s magical idea of a joke or a punishment, but you’re fairly certain he would rather die than leave you unattended in Malleus’s room. You listen carefully, but you hear no footsteps or voices. Lilia already said he was leaving.

Okay, calm down. Think. And keep throwing yourself into the door while you do it.

You can’t understand why it’s not working. Maybe there’s a magic seal on it. Or maybe you’re just weak. Weak and pathetic.

Frustration turns into a combination of anger and fear and sad. You hate that you’re not able to open the damn door. You hate that you’re getting so worked up over not being able to open the damn door. You hate that thinking about that isn’t enough to make you stop.

“Hello?” you try calling out, but there’s no response. You yell a few more times and knock on the wood for good measure. It changes nothing.

You slump down to the floor and try to breathe. It’s not the dark or the enclosed space that gets to you. Good thing, too, or orientation day would have been a lot more graphic for your audience. It’s just that the whole thing makes you feel…

…stupid.

Your eyes are adjusting to the dark, for all the good it does you, which is hardly any. And the cold breeze has now permeated the supposedly impenetrable barrier, so you’re shivering now, too. You reach up and feel the hem of the robes that caused you all this trouble.

Well, it hardly matters now.

You tug them off of the hanger and snuggle into them. A gentle, woodsy perfume wafts up from the depths of the silk lining, subtle but strong in the enclosed space. You press the fabric to your face and draw in a deep breath. The smell soothes your nerves - fallen leaves, pine needles, fresh rain, even a touch of mycelium.

You don’t have forests around where you’re from. You’ve been to them a few times, sure, on camping trips and one brief foray into the world of hiking, but none of them smelled quite like this.

You lie on your side and stare up in the general direction of the ceiling. The breeze hits your face, so you pull the hood down to shield yourself. You would laugh at how ridiculous this is, but you’re too worn out to care. You roll onto your side and let your eyes loll shut.

“-classes today?”

You mentally tell the voices to go away. You haven’t slept this well in ages.

“They were adequate. I shall go to the library later to acquire some other materials.”

You don’t want to get up. Even though you’re not really that comfortable…

“Excellent idea, my liege! I shall be honored to acquire all the necessary books for you!”

Your eyes shoot open. You’re not dreaming anymore.

The past few minutes - hours? - come back to you, and you scramble to sit up, fumbling with the robes you were using as a blanket. You’re about to try the door again when the voices come back.

“Do not trouble yourself on my behalf, Sebek. I am quite capable.”

“It’s no trouble, my liege!”

You sink back against the wall and try to control your breathing. You don’t even want to imagine what Sebek will say if he finds you like this. Whatever it is, it will cause permanent hearing loss.

You sit in the dark and wait.

“Very well, Sebek.”

“Thank you, Lord Malleus!”

You grit your teeth in annoyance and wish Sebek would go buy a personality since he doesn’t have his own. No wonder Malleus looks to be in such a dour mood all the time. He must have eternal patience to tolerate someone like that. You wouldn’t last ten minutes-

Light suddenly bursts in front of your eyes and blinds you. You squint and hold up one hand to shield your face against the brightness.

Malleus blinks down at you.

You wonder, briefly, what this must look like to his eyes. You, disheveled, wrapped in his ceremonial robes, on the floor of his closet. You are positive that every blood cell in your body is rushing to your face.

You don’t even have time to stand up.

Malleus steps inside and closes the door, plunging you into darkness once again.

“Wh-?”

“Shhh,” he whispers with hardly a breath of air. A rustle of fabric, and his hand locates yours without any of the blind searching you would have done. He helps you stand.

“Behold, Silver! I have been chosen to accompany Lord Malleus to the library!”

“Sure thing, Seb…”

You giggle before you can stop yourself, then clamp your hand over your mouth in a vain attempt to shut yourself up.

“S-sorry,” you stammer hopelessly. “I didn’t, um. It’s a long story.”

Heat soars to your face when Malleus closes his hand over your mouth.

“Shhh,” he says again. You can’t see a thing in the dark, but you can tell he’s listening. He must still faintly hear their voices. You have no idea. You can’t hear a thing over the fervent hammering of your blood against your bones.

You have no idea how long you both stay like that, unmoving, but eventually he pulls his hand away from your mouth. You take several panicked breaths even though you were breathing just fine.

He seems alarmed. “Have I injured you?”

“No, no. Sorry.” You give up and laugh, first from nerves, then relief. “I’ve just been stuck in here for…hours, I guess.”

A bulb of green firelight winks into existence and hovers above your head, where it casts sharp shadows over Malleus’s features. You think of the gargoyle statues. But rather than fierce and intimidating, he looks amused.

“Lilia mentioned that you dropped by to return my robes,” he says. “Did he not warn you about the door?”

You scoff. “He said it sticks a little. Not that I would need inhuman strength to open it.”

Malleus reaches forward and gently tugs the hood off of your head. You forgot you’re still wearing the robes and start to pull them off, but he stops you.

A smile seems to flit across his face, though it may be a trick of the light.

“They suit you,” he says with a low, delicate laugh that turns your heart upside down in your chest. “At least someone has found a use for them.”

“It was cold in here,” you reply lamely.

He leans in close enough that the heat from his breath dances across your nose. “And now?”

You are certain he can hear your pulse louder than you can. One hand is still holding yours, but the other he lifts to the side of your face, brushing the backs of his fingers over your cheek and ear before sweeping through your hair. You close your eyes and sigh into his mouth.

He holds you as though you are fragile, yet something he does not intend to let go. He mirrors your movements, letting you choose how deep or delicate the kiss, sliding his hand down your back to hold you closer. Everything shows that he wants to be careful with you.

Fireworks burst in your heart and under his hands. You reach up to his face, run your fingers through the liquid silk of his hair. Forest and rain and fresh earth overwhelm you, and you realize faintly that it’s not a cologne or anything artificial. It’s the smell of his skin.

You barely nudge the side of his horn with a fingertip. He laughs against your lips and has to pull away.

“Sorry,” you say breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to…”

Malleus brushes your fingers against his mouth, then cradles your hand to the side of his face. “You simply caught me by surprise. That is all.”

“You first.”

You catch sight of his grin before he snuffs out the green flame. “I only wish this had happened sooner,” he says, wrapping both arms around you. You do, too, though what he next murmurs against your ear suggests that his reasons differ slightly from your own. “What a marvelous hiding place.”

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfiction #twst fic #twst fanfic #malleus draconia #malleus x reader #rexii writes twst #rexii writes

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kleefkruid · 2 months

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Something interesting that I've noticed now that the majority of the people in my life know I'm learning to tattoo, is that my smalltalk treatment kinda has switched from 'artist' to 'tradesman?'

Everyone knows the kind of small talk questions you get as artists, people have low expectations of your financial prospects (and to be fair generally they're right lmao) and generally they don't really know what to say even if they're supportive.

But with tattooing, I realise I'm becoming 'a guy'. When someone you know goes into plumbing you'll generally say something like "Oh, good to know, next time I have an issue I know who to call!" He becomes your 'guy' for that specific thing. And when I tell people I'm getting into tattooing, I also get the "Oh good, when I want my next tattoo I'll know where to find you!"

I come from a very working class family where a lot of them worked their way up to become a one-man buissiness in their trade, and we had a family gathering yesterday and it's never been so easy to catch up with everyone, I got to 'talk shop' with uncles. It's all very interchangeable as a concept. "I'm doing an apprenticeship." "I've invested in some (insert tools of the trade)." "Did you hear Danny became co-owner of the shop he works out of?"

I had an entire conversation with my cousin who is a crane operator about how I'm learning to work with coil machines bc they give more feedback and are easier to repair yourself while new machines are less bulky and cheaper and easier to set-up but when they break they break etc etc and he was with me the entire time because every job has machines that fall into both categories.

idk for me it is lovely because I love art and don't mind getting really deep into art philosophy and the high brow shit for time to time but I'm also really solidly with my boots on the ground. I got a printmaking degree instead of a more conceptual art degree for a reason, I do have a love for machinery and daily application of art. And it feels really nice to be able to finally bring what I've learned back home. It's not even about approval but just wanting to connect and now I finally found a way to make it click and I love it.

Also it's just really great to finally be relieved of the "and what kind of job can you get with that" art school kid curse lmaooo

#daily life #tattooing

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is-this-yuri · 3 months

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once upon a time i worked for a total of three and a half (3.5 entire) weeks at a metalworking facility where i used power tools to carve away at giant metal pieces. the metal pieces in question were pipes and plumbing of various types, to be used in sewer and water systems. so, for threeish weeks, i was part of the reason someone had running water and sewage. this is generally considered unskilled labor for some reason

anyway, the place didn't provide me the right sized gloves. i have freakishly small hands, so like, i didn't expect them to have a good pair for me right away, but they refused to get me a pair in the right size. so, since i didn't feel comfortable with my fingertips flopping all over the place, and they didnt just let not wear the gloves, i got my own.

i got vibration resistant gloves because i noticed even within the first day that my hand was getting numb in places from holding the tools. the gloves seemed to work great, but they quickly wore out and i had to take them home for difficult repairs every week.

i STILL got raynaud's syndrome. just working there for less than a month! with special gloves designed to help prevent it! i didn't realize until the next winter i spent homeless and my fingers went numb and turned white, so i never thought to pursue any compensation.

on top of this, the OSHA guidelines for average dust particles in the air was up on a board for me to read, but when i read it i wondered if they'd considered the fact that every single employee stops their work and sweeps their station at the same time every day, kicking up a visible cloud of metal dust particles. my boogers were constantly, always pitch black for the brief time i worked there. i have some pictures of me in that place and i literally look like a coal miner. no masks or respirators provided, i also bought my own of those.

this was also a teamsters company, and i was really excited to hear that at first because it was my first time working under a union. and most likely the union has made excellent progress in making that workplace safer than it otherwise would be, but i personally still didn't feel like my health was a priority.

so yeah, three weeks at that place was enough to know it wasnt for me. i didnt even mention the macho work culture i didnt fit into, which is also common at factories and warehouses. this wasn't my only attempt at this kind of job, but it was the shortest, because at that point i had enough self respect to leave when i knew it was bad.

the sad thing is, every job is like that in some way. your health is never a priority. the unions have gotten us to a point, but it's essentially bare minimum. and thats if you can even get unionized. you're going to have to reach into your own pocket to accomodate your needs at work, a pocket your boss's hand is already deep into.

so if youre feeling guilty, or lazy, or worthless because you can't stand your job, just know that almost no job is a hospitable enviornment.

#capitalism #anti capitalism #antiwork #storytime #long post

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creations-by-chaosfay · 7 days

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With Love For Dragon Age

When I say Dragon Age saved my life, I'm not exaggerating. It's not hyperbole. It's 100% factual. When I was at my lowest, I made a list in my head of things I would not be able to enjoy if I ended my life. This game was number one.

I won't be able to play the next Dragon Age game.

I won't be able to feel my husband's hugs.

I won't be able to hear my cat purring.

That was the order ever single time.

I haven't felt that way for about...four years now. When I got sick with covid in 2022, Dragon Age gave me more motivation to fight the disease (bed rest, lots of soup, neti pot, pneumonia breathing exercises), and I know it helped.

Between the three games, I have around 40k hours (or 4.56 years) of game time invested in it. I have all the books and graphic novels, the tarot deck, and more. This game is on a short list of things I'm well and truly passionate about.

Unfortunately, it looks like I won't be able to play until next year. Why?

Pay off Cacoa's vet bill from earlier this year - 50% there

Pay off at least half of another debt - $1619.20 left to pay on it right now, and it starts collecting interest in spring 2025.

Purchase a game console - XBox Series X, $500 - I have an XBox One, and it can't play this game.

Purchase the game - around $70, and I'm not pre-ordering.

With your assistance, I can reach those goals. Selling two of my original paintings would take care of both the first and second goals. I have quilt listings starting at $20. There's also the option to commission me for a quilt, become a monthly supporter, or make a donation. I'm rather fond of having space for making new things, and my space is very limited, and the shop has many listings with more added almost every week right now, when I'm not working on commissions.

If I'm able to play this year, I will be ecstatic. Ideally, playing as part of my celebration for have less debt. We have another debt to pay off after this, but it's collecting no interest. Selling everything in my shop, however, would pay off everything on this list, plus that debt, and enough left to make home repairs (like replacing the plumbing).

If I reach goals one and two, totaling nearly $2k with the two combined, by October 1st, I'm having a massive giveaway. One when I reach my current goal, one when I reach the next one, and as celebration for reaching both by October 1st, a third giveaway.

Listen, my love for Dragon Age runs deep as the marrow in my bones. It was one of the very things that kept me from ending my life during the darker times of my life. I will be genuinely upset if I'm unable to play when the game is released, but I will be happy just to be able to play this year. My love for Dragon Age is incentive enough to offer free quilts.

#words from the artist #mental health #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #DATV #when I'm able to play I'll be taking the break from sewing and quilting my body has been demanding from me for months now

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faerunsbest · 4 months

Note

Okay I have stumbled upon the two people living together trope but they are not in a romantic relationship but there is TENSION! And I read one with Zevlor and now I thirst for more!!!

Zevlor would be the perfect housemate to fall in love with. And I know for a fact he would keep that place so clean ❤️

Aww I can picture it!

Tav has a place in the gate and the open hand is overfull, so he overs to leave the temple and make room for more people. And tav happens to be there when he does.

"Oh I've got a little extra space. You can stay with me! "

Tav ignores the way he blusters about not wanting to be a burden. They drag him along to the less showy parts of town where the unlock an apadoor before elbowing it open

"Sorry it's a little sticky and I haven't had a chance to fix it."

The apartment is no more than four separate space, the wood floor damaged from furniture being dragged about. Shabby but warm, he looked around to see wads of paper crammed into cracks in the walls. The fireplace grubby from constant use. The loving room is its kitchen, off to the side is a small room with a washing tub and toilet. Oh good they have plumbing. Another door leads to a sparce room with a near nude bed. Off to the other side was a very small space like an office. Inside the space was a thin sofa with a guest. A very large brown cat sunning in the spaces window.

"One rule here, we do what mama tells us to!"

Tav thumbs over to the cat who looks at them for a moment.

The following day, tav almost tumbled into the place, they looked at the door confused. Zevlor fixed it.

Zevlor stands by the fireplace dusting off his hands on a rag.

" I wasn't able to find work yet, so I thought I'd do a few repairs."

"Oh wow, did you clean the fireplace??"

"Yes it should work much better now."

"You mean I can cook in there again?!"

"I hope it's helpful."

The following day, tav comes home happy as a lark when the door opens without a shove. When they look zevlor is sitting on a polished floor in front if the rumbling fireplace, looking a bit miffed.

"No luck today either huh?"

"Afraid not. I will not be a burden-"

"Don't worry about it besides I got us something!"

Tav raises a market bag of grocery and a new pot.

Another day and winter is beginning to creep in slowly. Zevlor searches all over town, so many people are still rebuilding and can't afford to hire new people. All the same he goes about doing whatever odd jobs he can find before coming back and fixing up something in the apartment. Today, however, when he comes home, he finds a box on his little sofa bed.

When he opens it up, it's new boots and a scarf. He can't help the big smile as he trues them on, especially please with the scarf. A silly thing he doesn't need at all, but a sweet gift.

A little more passes, and zev finds himself again sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace with tav laughing about nothing really. They sit a little closer these days, while soup bubbles in the fireplace. He blinks in surprise when he feels tav lay their head on his shoulder.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #zevlor #tiefling #this is the FLUFF!

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maryangelex · 1 year

Text

Dark But Sweet (Pt.2)

Maintenance Guy! Simon "Ghost" Riley x f! Reader

Part 1 here

Summary: Meeting Simon has left you wanting more, making any and every excuse to have his company once again. Until all your efforts finally prove effective.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, descriptive language, fluff at the beginning, smut, p in v sex, cowgirl, oral sex (male receiving), simon is shy but cheeky, dirty talking, pulling out, cumshots/cumming on belly.

A/N: this was so fun to write!! heavy on the smut so be warned!! once again let me extend a formal apology to the Brits reading this.

I know it's long, but let me know how you liked it!!!

Ever since Simon had visited your flat to make the repair, you had been finding every which way to see him again. You made it your mission almost every day to find an excuse to talk to him.

Thankfully, your flat was still in disarray; pieces of pesky IKEA furniture needed to be put together, shelves needed to be installed on your wall, and lightbulbs needed to be switched. The truth was that you could do most of these things, you weren't an idiot. But Simon didn't know that, as far as he was concerned you were just a girl incapable of repairing her own place.

So, you used your feigned incompetence to your advantage.

A few days after he fixed the plumbing, you woke up extra early that morning to bake a whole tray of biscuits and packed them neatly in your freshest Tupperware.

I'm in 1B if you need anythin' else.

And there you were, facing the bold metal digits on the worn wooden door of Simon's flat. You took a deep breath, biscuits in tow. You hesitantly raised your hand to the door, taking a second before you lightly tapped your knuckles to the wood.

Your face heated in anticipation, your heart solidifying into stone, and your throat went dry as if you had just done something malicious.

A few seconds passed and there was no movement, no sounds heard from inside. Maybe he didn't hear you, your knuckles had been light on the door. So you went for a second attempt, this time more confident and audible.

You shifted, clearing your throat and straightening your posture, readying yourself to face the man.

But once again, nothing.

You knitted your brows together, confusion and fear rising in you. Were you in the wrong flat? 1B, you remembered. What if he was busy with something? With someone? Your mind started racing as embarrassment crept on you.

"Need somethin', love?"

You jumped, your body jolting at the sudden sound of a deep voice breaking the deafening silence. A small gasp came from you as you turned around to see Simon standing behind you.

"Jesus!" you breathed, clutching at your chest. Your heart had skipped a beat when Simon spoke behind you.

You craned your head to look at the tall man. When your eyes caught up to his face, you saw the small smirk across his lips, and the look in his eyes was almost amused as he gazed down at you.

"Didn't mean to scare you, love." he said apologetically

Love, you were sure the man didn't even know your name, but you couldn't complain about having Simon calling you that.

"No worries! Sorry I, erm, I was just lookin' for you!" you stumbled over your words, a nervous chuckle exiting you.

You watched the man in front of you, your face and chest heating the more details you noticed. Evidently, he had just gone on a run. He was wearing short shorts, hugging his strong quads tightly. His shirt was tucked into the waistband of his shorts, draping like a towel. Making the upper half of his body completely exposed.

You gulped at the sight and realization that Simon, the man you were swooning over, was standing in front of you shirtless, with only a glossy layer of sweat dressing his upper body. His skin was bronzed from being exposed to the sun, and his tattoo sleeve was radiant from the sweat coating his toned arms. The muscles in his torso were tight and--

Shit, you were gawking at him again. Your eyes were devouring him and it couldn't be more obvious.

"Do you need help with somethin' else, love?" He quirked a sweaty brow at you.

"Y-Yes, actually! I just... I have a load of furniture that I, erm, I need to put it together and--"

"Not a problem, love" he interrupted your rambling, his voice soft, "I'll be up to put 'em together for you."

Your beaming eyes met his, a smile spreading wide across your red hot cheeks. You let out a small nervous giggle. Suddenly, you felt the weight and shape of the container nestled under your arm.

"Oh! These are for you," you extended your arms toward him, exhibiting the container full of enough biscuits to last him the whole year. Simon's eyes grew wide as he looked at it, his expression becoming flustered.

"I...can't accept that, really," he cleared his throat.

"Please, I made too many and can't eat them all by myself." you insisted, arms not faltering.

Simon made a noise that sounded like a grunt of appreciation as he took the container. He mumbled his gratitude. As much as he protested whenever you offered him or gifted him food, you loved seeing how flustered he got. It was no secret that the man had an appetite and that he genuinely liked and appreciated the meals.

You had decided that food would be your way into this man's heart.

That day Simon went up to your apartment after showering and changing into fresh clothes. You spent the afternoon on the floor of your apartment with him, putting together your furniture as if you were a newly moved-in couple. The whole time you were near him, you took in his scent and his appearance, as if he was a bouquet of flowers with an aroma that drew you in as much as its flowers' beauty did.

He smelled like a deep, manly cologne with a hint of vanilla; dark but sweet. Everything about him was like that. His voice, his scent, his demeanor. And you were enthralled, completely absorbed in his presence. When he finished and left, you felt a coldness in your flat once again. His company was warm, and every time he left you were left wanting more of him.

So for the next two weeks, you showed up at his door with a new recipe packed in a container and a new thing for him to help you fix. Each time he greeted you with a growing smile, getting less flustered with every meal you packed him, taking it more confidently and outwardly grateful; no more protesting from him.

One day you genuinely needed him, the damn shower wouldn't turn any other temperature besides freezing cold. So you showed up at his door with a meal, this time it was a salmon recipe you had found online, and were greeted by him like usual.

"Hey, Simon," you started, although he knew where you were going at this point. "The shower, it just won't get hot" You laughed lightly and he gave you a knowing smirk. He took the container as you extended it to him.

"I'll head upstairs, love," he said, his voice sultry and a deeper rumble than usual. "I had somethin' to ask you, actually."

You froze, your stomach doing a flip. Fuck, you thought, he's finally caught on and gotten tired of these little transactions.

"You're always bringin' me food," he began, "and I've been thinkin'..."

Your face bloomed beet red, a knot tying in your throat.

Shit, he's putting an end to it, the time finally fucking came!

"If it'd be alright if I could return the favor for you?"

You felt your heart clench like it had stopped beating. And you hadn't noticed, but your hands were clenched into tight fists, bracing yourself in anticipation. But his words made your tense body relax.

"Wha--How do you mean?" you babbled, puzzled by his question.

"I'm askin' you on a date, sweetheart" he clarified, a cocky grin curling his lips. "I'll cook for you if you let me."

You blinked, paralyzed by his invitation. You took a moment to breathe, not realizing you had been holding your breath all along.

“Well, I— Sure!” You finally said. Simon huffed, a mix of relief and amusement at your answer, your flustered and stuttered response.

“Good, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” His words were like a command.

“What will you cook for me?” You asked with a smirk of your own.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said as he stepped out of his flat, “dress nice for me.” He gave you a cheeky smile before closing the door behind him, tools in hand to head over to your flat.

For him, you repeated in your mind. On the way back to your flat with him you couldn’t help but ruminate over the fact that he asked you out. You were elated, the whole rest of the day and morning after all you did was anticipate your date with Simon.

When the moment finally came, you were at Simon’s door once again, wearing a brand new dress that you got just for him. Nothing too fancy but not casual either. You made the effort of putting on some makeup, even. The blush you had applied was amplified by the natural one that lightly heated your cheeks as you nervously waited for him to open the door. You fidgeted with the light fabric of your dress anxiously.

The sound of the door creaking open snapped you out of your nervous thoughts. You flashed Simon a bright smile, your lipstick accentuating it. He was standing beside the open door, his eyes trailing down your body, scanning you and making you feel exposed.

“Y’look pretty, love,” he said with a smirk. It made a fire light in you. You thanked him and you stepped inside with his hand signaling you to come in.

In all this time you had never been inside Simon’s flat until now. It was neat and clean, a fresh candle smell wafting in the air. Your eyes scanned it curiously.

His decor was modest and reserved, just like him. His furniture was simple yet cozy, and the color palette was muted; dark neutrals like grays and browns, some pops of navy. The lighting was moody and dimmed.

There were little personal details like a picture of him huddled with three other men. You took a few seconds longer to admire it, relishing the way he looked surrounded with what you deemed yo be his closest friends.

You suddenly felt Simon’s presence behind you, his body radiating a comforting warmth.

“May I?” His voice was soft, hands raised over your shoulders asking to help you remove your coat.

You nodded and gave him your approval with a polite smile as you shimmied the coat off your shoulders, letting him slide it off. His knuckles brushed against your skin and left goosebumps. You felt his gaze momentarily gracing the skin exposed by the straps of your dress.

He hung up your coat by the hooks near his entrance. You watched him head to the dining area to pull the chair out for you which you happily sat at.

“You’re quite the gentleman, Simon,” you said.

“Is it surprising?”

“Not at all,” you looked at him behind you, your eyes adoring.

You watched him as he shifted around his kitchen, preparing dishes and plating them expertly and delicately. As if he was preparing a masterpiece for you with the utmost effort. He was deeply concentrated in his cooking, and you were deeply concentrated in the ways he moved as you watched him from your seat. The way the muscles on his back shifted and bulged under his shirt, how his profile was chiseled and pointed.

He made his way back to you moments later with two plates that he placed on the table respectively. Then he poured a freshly opened bottle of wine into your cup followed by his. You took a sip as he watched you expectantly. You hummed at the taste approvingly and licked your lips, a movement that he watched closely. And with that he sat across from you, eyeing you as you tasted the food.

It melted in your tongue, eliciting a delighted moan from you. You caught him smirking as he asked if it was good. Good was not enough to describe it. All this time you had been cooking for him while his abilities were even beyond yours. He watched you eat, pleased with how much you were enjoying it, before he finished his own meal and wine.

The two of you chatted over your meal. You were a tipsy mess laughing at his dry humor. Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was just your massive crush that made him funny because the man said the strangest things. And you got a few laughs out of him, at least that’s what you thought the deep rumbling and huffing that came out of him was.

“Thank you, Simon,” you said, batting your lashes at him across the table. He was reclined in his chair, his blonde lashes fanning over his hooded eyes as he gave you a sultry look. You felt exposed under his gaze, your face flushed by a mix of the wine and his overwhelming gaze.

“No, thank you for the company, love,” he said in that pleasant, rough voice of his. It made your heart skip a beat.

You stood up from your chair and picked up the dishes to take to the sink. He moved a hand to stop you, but you insisted, “Let me thank you properly, Simon!”

It made him grunt in displeasure, but he let you.

As you stood over the sink, letting the water rinse the dishes, you felt his presence behind you again.

“There’s another way for you to thank me, if you’re interested,” his voice was low and you felt his hot breath near your ear, making you shiver and your movements freeze. The heat of his body was radiating towards you, he was centimeters away from you, you could almost feel the solid mass of him.

Your head turned over your shoulder as you watched his hands come up to your sides.

“I’m interested,” you said, biting your lip. The feeling of his hands was burning you as they rested on your waist, the front of his body now pressing against your back.

You pressed back towards him, feeling a stiffness against your rear. It made a small whine grow in your throat, and you heard Simon’s breath hitch at the motion; his hands gripped the flesh of your flanks tighter.

You felt the tip of his nose against your ear, then his lips gracing the shell.

“Come with me, then, love,” he said almost a whisper, “show me your gratitude.”

You turned around to face him, his body still close to you as his hands remained on your waist. He gently guided you to his living room, not leaving your proximity.

There, you gently placed a hand to his abdomen, lightly pushing him to direct him to sit down at the armchair behind him. He complied, reclining back on it with his broad thighs spread wide to make room for you, invitingly. You could see the outline of his member through the fabric of his pants, making your mouth water and the heat in your core flare up.

You sank down to kneel in front of him, nestled between his strong legs, and your hands lay flat on his thighs. You gave them a squeeze, more to ground yourself than to tease him, and you felt the bulks of solid muscle hidden under the fabric. His hands rested relaxed on the arms of the chair, letting you take your time.

Your hands slid up his thigh at a snail’s pace until you reached the waist of his pants. You trailed around the crotch of his pants, avoiding his stiffened member and watched as your teasing made his breath falter, his stomach sinking.

You watched his face as your hands caressed him. His lips were slightly parted, glossy with his spit, and his already dark eyes were black voids, glimmering as he watched you between his legs. His hands now tightened into anticipating fists.

Finally, your fingers made it to the button of his pants, undoing it; followed by his zipper, which you slowly dragged down. It made Simon lightly shift in his seat, giving you a chance to gently tug down his pants along with his boxers.

His cock sprang free and your eyes widened at the size of it. Simon gripped the base of it, giving it a few slow pumps in front of your face.

“Too much for you, love?” He said with a cocky smile, enjoying the look on your face. You shook your head and gulped the saliva flooding your mouth before you replaced his hand with yours. He removed his own, letting you take hold of it entirely. The feeling of your silky hands on his cock made him groan quietly.

You gave it a few painfully slow pumps, from base to tip, pressing your thumb to the red, leaky slit. Simon cursed under his breath.

He was well endowed, very well, actually. And as you pumped his cock slowly you pondered how it would even be possible for you to take him.

Your hand stilled at the base and you leaned forward, setting your lips with your tongue before brushing them over his tip. Simon held his breath, hands steady on the armrests.

You gave it an experimental kiss, eyeing him from between his legs. Then, you flattened your tongue against the head, licking a stripe over it, followed by another lick, this time along the shaft.

Simon reached his hand out to you, using a finger to tuck your hair behind your ear, then letting the hand rest against your cheek.

You looked up at him with doe eyes as you finally encapsulated the head of his cock with your mouth, giving it a light suck that made a “pop” sound. His lips parted further as he let out a breath he had been holding.

“Fuckin’ tease, baby,” he growled.

Baby, you liked that new one. You liked it a lot, actually.

You rewarded him by sliding your mouth down his shaft, taking him into your mouth inch by inch. Barely half way you were already gagging. You relaxed your throat to take him in forward.

Simon let out a sound, a long and quiet curse under his breath. His hand on your cheek moved further back into your hair, lightly grasping some of it.

The feeling of his fingers tightening into your hair made you moan, the vibration in your throat going straight to his cock, and the tight feeling going straight to your soaking cunt. You closed your thighs closed for some relief.

You took as much of him as you could before you retracted your head, sliding back up to the tip. You released him from your mouth and let out a sigh, saliva connecting your lips to his cock. It wasn’t even a second after that you took his cock back into your mouth, this time with more confidence.

Then you finally bobbed your head up and down on it, setting a steady pace. Your hands rested on Simon’s thighs and you felt his muscles tense under your touch. You heard his soft sounds as he basked in the feeling of you sucking his cock.

Your eyes fell closed for a moment before you felt his grip on your hair tighten.

“Uh-uh, look at me, sweetheart, up here.” He cooed, and you obeyed when your eyes snapped up to meet his. He watched you attentively under his long lashes, and you looked up at him with wide, blown pupils as your head bobbed up and down on his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he groaned. His other hand reached into your hair as he used both of them to style your hair into a ponytail. His touch was gentle and careful, and he gripped the hair with one of his fists. This allowed him to direct your pace now, making your head move up and down quickly.

It made another moan rumble in your throat, making his hips buck at the sound and sensation. His grip on your hair was tight and demanding and you'd be lying if you said you weren't loving it. You loved the fact that you were making Simon feel good with your mouth wrapped around his cock; evident by the way he tensed under you, how his hand guided your performance, the low growls that brewed in his chest along with the faint curses that came from his gritted teeth.

Your saliva soaked and dripped down his shaft, down to the base of his cock where it met his pelvis, the hair slightly dampening with a mix of it and with his sweat. Your pace was quicker, especially now that Simon started thrusting his hips up, fucking into your mouth.

With a commanding tug of your hair, he pulled you off his cock. The sudden release made you whine loudly, your spit coating your lips and dripping down your chin. You looked at him, cockdrunk and disheveled. You gave him a puzzled look as to why he stopped.

Then, Simon leaned forward, his fist not letting go of your hair as he crashed his lips against yours. You melted into it, savoring how buttery they were, their plumpness, as you audibly moaned into it. His tongue slipped into your mouth and he tasted the mix of you and himself in it.

He pulled away and whispered against your lips, his tone commanding, "Stand up, love."

He let go of your hair as you complied and stood up in front of him. He sat up on the chair, his hands on your waist now as he looked up at you. You looked back down at him, his pupils were swallowing you whole with a hungry gaze. You felt his hands smooth up and down your body, his touch heavy on you as if he was molding you like a piece of clay, learning the curves of your body and the tenderness of your flesh. You whimpered at the feeling of him touching you, something you had longed for the moment you met him.

His hands slipped under the hem of your dress, running up your bare skin.

"Been wantin' to feel you since the day I saw you," he purred, "so soft n' pretty."

The mix of his words and touch gave you goosebumps. He's been wanting you just as much as you have, you thought.

His fingers hooked onto the waist of your lacy panties, tugging them down lightly, not breaking eye contact with you as he watched you bite your lower lip, your cheeks flustered. Your hands rested on his shoulders as you let him. His knuckles ghosted against the skin of your legs as he took the panties off. You complacently stepped out of the garment.

"Good girl, lettin' me take these pretty wet panties off you." He bunched them in his fist, bringing the crotch up to his mouth, his eyes glued to yours as he stuck his tongue out to taste them before setting them aside. The sight made your pussy flutter, you were practically dripping down your thigh.

He hummed at the taste of you, then took hold of the back of your thigh with one hand and the other on the small of your back, guiding you to straddle him on the chair as he reclined back. You were now sitting on top of him, legs spread on each side of him with his thighs supporting you over him. Your face was impossibly red.

Your hands trailed down his chest, feeling the hardened muscles you had memorized the day you saw him shirtless and sweaty. Then down to his abdomen and v-line. The images he had teased you with on your previous meetings flashed in your memory. And now here he was, under you; you sitting on top of him with a sopping wet cunt that begged for him to touch it.

It was like he read your mind when his hand snaked under your dress once again, two of his fingers sliding between your slick folds, making you wince when they brushed over your swollen clit.

"Simon," you begged. It made him chuckle to see you so eager for him to touch you, and he rewarded you with a finger sliding into your entrance. Your mouth fell agape as you whined at the intrusion, your hand clasping around the fabric of his shirt.

"Feels good, love?" his finger slid in and out of you.

"M-More, please," your voice was soft and pleading.

"So needy," he teased before inserting a second finger, "You ask so nicely, baby."

The pressure of his two thick digits inside you made a moan fall from your lips, your walls clasping around them. You heard a satisfied hum from Simon as he felt your tightness.

"This pretty pussy's so tight, love. Y'get this wet from sucking my cock?" His voice was husky and gentle. His fingers alternated between curling inside you and pumping in and out at a slow and steady pace.

You nodded shamelessly in response, unable to form even the simplest answers, all you could muster were whimpers and moans. The pace of his fingers quickened, and you were seeing starts; a loud moan escaped you.

"Ahh, Simon!" your back arched, your hips involuntarily rolling. His hand on the small of your back was splayed out, supporting you as he held you closer to him. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the exposed skin of your chest, your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

"Love hearin' you say my name, love," he purred against your skin before planting another kiss on it with those plush lips of his.

Your hands flew to the back of his neck, your fingers entwining in the hair there as you held him close to you. His fingers curled inside of you as you rolled your hips and fucked yourself on his digits.

"Want you to make yourself cum on my fingers, baby."

And you obliged, chasing your high as you rode his fingers, grinding your clit against his palm while he buried his fingers in you.

Your orgasm grew within you, you were at the cusp of it. Your hips were sloppy, you threw your head back with your eyes screwed shut as Simon fingered you to your climax. It hit you like a strike of lightning when you came, convulsing against Simon's hold and letting out choaked-out moans along with his name like a prayer.

"That's it, pretty girl," he soothed, letting you ride it out on his hand before he removed it from you. His other hand came up to your jaw, angling it to his face so he could press his lips against yours again.

You panted, lips lax against Simon's as he kissed you tenderly. You were out of it, coming down from your high. Then you realized the man under you was still painfully hard, his cock swollen and balls full; you hadn't achieved your goal of thanking him yet.

"Simon, I..." you started, biting your lip. The rest of the sentence felt too filthy to sound out, despite your recent shameless actions; so you brought your hand to his manhood, pumping it slowly and lightly. He understood what you meant, giving you a small chuckle.

"Wanna take care of me, sweetheart?" He cooed against your lips before giving you a chaste kiss. You nodded, reciprocating the kiss.

He hiked the hem of your dress up, exposing your lower half, and took hold of your hips to lift them up for access. You took his thick member in one of your hands, using the other hand on his shoulder for leverage as you angled his cock and sank down on it.

A long, breathy moan escaped the two of you in unison as the feeling of his large, thick dick entered your sensitive cunt.

"That's it, takin' me so well, sweet girl," he groaned as he bottomed out inside you, his pelvis flush against you. He remained still for a moment, basking in the sensation of your walls around his cock. It made you clench around him, trying to find a way to ease the burn of his cock stretching you out, and trying to find a release for your aching desire.

"Please, Simon," you begged.

"Use your words, darling."

"Please, fuck me, Simon." Your eyes were wide as you looked down at him, pleading him to move.

"Good girl," he praised, the grip on your hips tightened again as he lifted them up and sank them back down ever so slowly, finally moving. You whined in relief as he finally began fucking you, giving you what you had been pining for this whole time.

Simon bounced you up and down on his cock slowly at first, then picked up the pace and maintained it. His hands migrated to firmly grasp the plump flesh of your ass. You were sure you'd have the imprint of his large hands the next day.

Your arms were wrapped over his shoulders, supporting yourself as you were lifted up and down. Your legs spread as far as they could, letting him enter with as much ease as possible, making as much room for him to fill you up and fuck into you.

Simon's face was buried in the crook of your neck, huffing breaths against your skin. He lifted and planted you on his cock, over and over, at a relentless pace, making you a mess of moans all over again, him also becoming desperate to reach his climax.

His hips began thrusting up into you, making the head of his cock hit your back wall. You let out a loud moan at the feeling of him bullying his cock against your cervix, the feeling made you clench around him tightly

"Fuck...fuck, baby, your pussy's so good...huggin' my cock so tight. Y'like how I fuck you, pretty girl?"

"Yes!" You cried, tears welling in your eyes as Simon fucked up into you mercilessly, bouncing yourself in tandem with his thrusts. "Fuckin' me so good, Simon!" your words were slurred.

Simon groaned. He pressed a hand against the center of your abdomen, making you lean back on his cock, reaching a new angle that made his cock hit that sweet spot perfectly. The pressure making your vision hazy. Your hands reached behind you, supporting yourself on Simon's knees as he took hold of your hips and slammed you against his cock.

He cursed under his breath, his eyes rolling to the back of his head for a moment, then fixing them on your vulnerable form, watching as your tits jiggled under your dress from the force of his thrusts. He was getting sloppy, on the edge of his climax.

But you came first, walls fluttering around his cock, hips faltering and shaking from your orgasm. Your mouth fell open into an o-shape as you let out a string of lewd moans and chants of Simon's name.

He was close behind, closer than ever, "That's it, that's it, baby... 'm close, so fuckin' close."

You whimpered, watching his needy face; jaw clenched, those feathery blonde brows knitted together.

"Wanna make me cum, pretty girl? That how y'wanna thank me?"

You nodded fervently, "Wanna make you, cum Simon, please, please please."

You let him use you to reach his climax. He rolled your dress up higher, exposing your tummy to him. And he immediately released his cock from the confines of your pussy, strings of cum splattering over your exposed belly and cunt. His lips fell open as he let out a breathy moan. The sight of his cock painting you with his cum made you bite your lip to suppress a whine.

The two of you sat there catching your breath. Simon reclined back on the chair, his hands holding you up by your ribs when you could barely sit up straight. You were both covered in a film of sweat, cheeks flushed, looking disheveled, and you had a mess of cum over you.

"Fuck, 'm sorry, love," he took a handful of tissues from the side table next to the chair and cleaned you up diligently and carefully. You hummed, giving him a tipsy smile.

" 's okay," was all you could enunciate. Simon chuckled at your fucked-out demeanor, tossing aside the tissues as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on your cheek.

"Guess we're even now," you said, placing a hand on his cheek, pressing a thumb against his lower lip.

"You won't be needin' my services anymore?" he said cockily.

You smiled at him, "I think I'll be needing them more after this."

Taglist (everyone that commented in part 1! thank you!): @hexxxsstuff @valkyriekill @ghostlythots @tumblinginoz @chocolatetakoyakis @cumikering @yvng97

#call of duty mwii #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #ghost riley #simon ghost riley #fanfic #simon ghost x reader #cod fanfic #headcanon #cod au #call of duty au #maintenance guy au #simon riley au #ghost riley au

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manorpunk · 5 months

Text

3️⃣

History only makes sense in retrospect.

Take, for example, the decade-long period of the French Revolution, or the decades between World War I and World War II. A decade is like a blip to the casual historian, a mere moment, so short it was nearly one-dimensional, like a line separating the before from the after. Those who lived through it, however, must have spent years wondering each morning whether their current government and/or life would still exist by lunchtime, and even when the dust finally settles, that’s not really a feeling that one can easily forget. People can only draw neat, dispassionate little lines around such events when they no longer live in its shadow, and the shadow of the Polycrisis still loomed menacingly over the American League.

There were some who were eager to move on, who would say that progress is always disruptive - the old must be dismantled to make way for the new. Others would say that it was one thing to have a controlled demolition, and an entirely separate thing to wake up one day to find that your electricity and plumbing were no longer working, and the government was not going to help you because its existence was tenuous at best, and all of the sub-contracted third-party subsidiaries who actually did the work of repairing power grids refused to take responsibility with your piddly little suburb because they were too busy trying to keep the lights on in places that ‘actually mattered.’

The causes of the Polycrisis were many and varied, hence the name, but a certain pattern had emerged in retrospect - climate change caused natural disasters, natural disasters destroyed infrastructure, destroyed infrastructure caused economic collapse, economic collapse caused political collapse. Casual historians might note how that pattern echoed the fall of most empires going back to the fall of Rome. But it was never supposed to happen to America. The blessed antipodes were not supposed to be like everywhere else. They were supposed to be where the lights always stayed on. Always.

Well, sometimes.

As the US federal government shrank, retreated, and finally collapsed, new states sprang up soon after. New England, Tidewater, and the Free Imperial New York drew their lines along the east coast; Cascadia created itself and formed a personal union with the Californian Commonwealth on the west coast after the Jefferson Rebellion was put down; and the Texaplex Megapole asserted its authority over Texas and neighboring states promising protection against Norteño incursions. The Great Lakes Republic formed shortly and reluctantly afterwards, becoming a sprawling Germany-esque collection of mid-sized cities jockeying against one another.

The rest of America, its vast and abandoned plains, its hollowed-out mountains and sinking coasts, became ‘the manors,’ places where power had devolved down to the newest class of rural gentry: fast food franchisees, car dealerships, beverage distributors, and the like. They were small-business tyrants and petite-bourgeoise corporate middlemen who had spent their lives wishing for the government to hurry up and collapse already so that they could live out their fantasies of being petty kings, bandit chiefs, and lords of the manor (hence the name). They would not give up their fantasies without a bitter and bloody fight.

Also, Orlando had become the microstate of Disneystadt, the Founderist equivalent of Vatican City.

Also, the western side of Appalachia was now a khaganate.

Perhaps one day people would see it as something like the French Revolution or interwar period, as a goofy but brief period of liminal turmoil wedged between two separate worlds. Here is how some of her contemporaries saw it:

“They elected fucking Spongebob president,” said Cornelius Mammon, the pale and wraithlike governor of New England, seated at one end of a long semicircular table, lined with chairs along its curve, all facing a gigantic wall-mounted screen on the far end of the room. ‘Old money’ seemed inadequate to describe the austere and sunken appearance of Cornelius; he was more like undead money.

On the one hand, New England was populous, urbanized, relatively geographically sensible, united by a distinct and storied culture, and had been poised to shrug off the Polycrisis and carry on as normal. On the other hand, Boston and Philadelphia.

“Here I thought things were going to get back to normal,” Cornelius continued hoarily, “and now she’s going to rename the White House to ‘the Fun Zone.’ This is why democracy was a mistake.”

“Normal?” Young Oldman, governor of the Tidewater region, scoffed. He had a calculated plain appearance, revealing little about himself. Even his skin was a beige ‘off-white’ color that made people guess whether he was biracial or Middle Eastern or just a white guy with a tan. Ruling over the former head of the imperial American government and its intelligence apparatus, Young had learned to play it so close to the vest you’d need a seam ripper to get any answers out of him. He always kept his mouth shut.

Well, sometimes.

“Would that Sunny were some unwelcome intrusion of oddness into an otherwise august body. Have you seen the other nut bars we’ve been packed in here with?” Young jabbed a thumb at his neighbor, Vinny Vidivici, mayor of Free Imperial New York, who looked like a clogged shower drain that had gained sentience and put on a suit.

“You folks ever been to New York? We exchange money for goods and services there. Greatest fuckin city in the world baby,” Vinny said.

Young nodded and silently daydreamed about hunting him for sport.

“Personally, I think Sunny is just some GLN cabalist with a voice modulator,” said Johann van Gekkehuis, the pasty, gravelly-voiced, flannel-wearing governor of the Great Lakes Republic, with a bushy copper beard and a receding hairline, “have you ever seen her and Harold in the same room?”

“Yes,” said Young. Just because he played it close to the vest didn’t mean he couldn’t mess with people, and Johann was easy to mess with.

Johann had made his bones as a podcaster and had a natural talent for disguising all manner of conspiracy theories and ostensibly playful bigotry as good old-fashioned hard-nosed socialism. But being a conspiracy theorist wasn’t fun anymore. There was no point. The globalist puppet-masters didn’t hide in shadowy backrooms. They had HR departments, they had newsletters, they sent spam emails demonstrating the ways they controlled and surveilled every moment of your life, and that was so much more demoralizing than keeping it secret.

Behind Johann paced a meticulously handsome black man in a crisp navy blue suit, his eyes hidden behind a large pair of shades. He nodded to himself as he walked and talked into his headset. He was Michael McCoy, governor of the Piedmont region. Piedmont, encompassing the eastern half of Georgia and the Carolinas, was one of the newer states, and its constituents had carried the extra burden of rebuilding and reorienting themselves after the race war. They finished what the Northerners had started and then abandoned, two hundred years ago almost exactly, Northerners who decided they would let millions of black people linger as third-class citizens rather than hang even a few openly seditious gentlemen. But not Michael McCoy. Enough with being respectable, enough with being nonviolent, enough with taking the high road. Michael McCoy wanted blood.

That was a lie - Michael McCoy was an agricultural manager who rose to prominence shortly after the bloodshed had ended thanks to a series of excellent ad campaigns and his public image as a squeaky-clean family man. He simply enjoyed a victory lap as much as the next guy. And maybe wanted a little blood.

“Listen,” Michael said into his headpiece, “I’m not saying we need the change to be permanent. I just want it to be called ‘N[redacted]land’ for like a couple hours, then it can go back to being Piedmont. We don’t even have to tell anyone else about it.”

(Certain words have been redacted in the interest of not saying them. If you wish to see racial slurs, they can be unlocked by submitting proof of relevant ancestry to your local department of reclamation).

He listened through his earpiece, then scowled. “Why? I’ll tell you why - because then Sunny would have to say it on camera, and that would be fucking hilarious. See? You laughed, you get it. You want to know what would happen. It’s - listen, just - yeah - no - if - alright, alright, fine,” he sighed, “no name change. It’s staying as Piedmont. Y’all pussies.”

The atmosphere of general grumbling was interrupted by a choir of air horns blaring the opening bars to the Star Spangled Banner. The massive screen at the far end of the room turned itself on, revealing a towering Sunny Roosevelt with a long red dress and a thin, fuming smile.

“Hi! Wow. I heard all of that,” she said.

Michael McCoy took off his headset and looked up. “Miss Roosevelt, I have an urgent request-“

“No. Let’s get a few things straight here-” Sunny began.

“No, let’s you get something straight,” Cornelius fumed, jabbing a bony finger at her and half-standing up, “you have no power over us. You’re a fucking mascot, and we are the directors of-”

“Michael, slap him,” Sunny said.

Michael turned, grinned, and dutifully slapped Cornelius across the face in one smooth unhesitating motion. Cornelius was stunned into silence, looking between the two of them, not sure who to fume at. Young bit back a smile. Sunny pounced on the momentary silence.

“Okay, thing one - people actually like mascots. They do not like a bunch of rich old ghouls who are three minutes away from eating each other alive. Thing two - I’m so much more than a mascot. I’m a widely-beloved celebrity with millions of psycho-sexually obsessed followers hanging on my every word. So, what do you think that means for the next person who pisses me off?”

Nobody said a word, but as they pondered the threat of a weaponized legion of John Hinckleys, there was the sound of several sphincters involuntarily clenching (for the curious, it sounded a little like jumping on a rubber mat).

“That’s what I thought. You see this?” Sunny pointed at her own face, “this is Angry Sunny. You get Angry Sunny because you weren’t niceys to me. If you are niceys to me, you get Happy Sunny, and you want Happy Sunny. Happy Sunny will get you re-elected. Angry Sunny will kill you. Am I understood?”

There was a nervous, shifting silence as the east coast branch of Neo-Congress began to digest their new situation, except for Michael, who was hoping he would get to slap someone again.

“Am I understood?” she barked.

There were guilty, mumbled agreements. That would have to do for now. Sunny snapped her fingers. Her red dress became shorter and frillier. A blue collar lined with white stars appeared on her shoulders. Even the lines of her face became softer and more youthful. Happy Sunny clasped her hands together and smiled radiantly.

“That’s great! I’m so glad we got that little whoopsie-doodle figured out, and I’m sure it won’t happen again. I’m looking forward to working with all of you towards our common goal of making America… well, extant again.”

#manorpunk #heaven is falling #I am making myself post this instead of continuing to fiddle with it n more days #I have a doc now where I keep all the mini-scenes I trimmed and it is GROWING

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