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edandstede · 3 months

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DID THEY KISS LIKE THIS? DID THEY???

RELEASE THE TAKE WHERE THEY KISS LIKE THIS ‼️

#screaming crying #samba leak the footage i know you have it #ofmd #ofmd bts #ed x stede #quill to paper

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hsr-texts · 8 months

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This.

i'm not exactly a vox akuma fan since i don't watch vtubers much but i do see why people would make this comparison.

that being said, the leaked character isn't really my type XD

maybe that'll change once we get his official backstory and voicelines

#quill #♡ sugo speaks .ᐟ [ ✦ ]#spoilers #hsr leaks

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quillsinkwell · 2 years

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Everyone else: *talking about the Mario movie poster, trailer, and leak*

Me: *holding a gun to Miyamoto's head* tell me what the fuck you did to luigi

#nintendo #mario and luigi #mario movie #luigi mario #mario movie leak #mario movie trailer #poster #no but seriously #if they fucked up My Boi #i'm burning down Illumination and Nintendo headquarters #quill talks

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autismcreature7 · 7 months

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Cringetober days 24-26

B@/ck +0 p0$+!ng cr!ng3+0b3r$! F0r +43 M1P 0n3, ! dr3w m7 c0mf0r+ c4@/r@/c+3r$ @/$ p0n!3$, @ $3r!@/1 k!113r, @ b!b1!c@/1 c4@/r@/c+3r, @/nd @ $cr3@/m!ng 13m0n. +ru17 gr3@/+ c0mf0r+ c4@/r@/c+3r$. @/1$0 4um@/n J@/k3!

translation: Back to posting Cringetobers! For the MLP one, I drew my comfort characters as ponies, a serial killer, a biblical character, and a screaming lemon. Truly great comfort characters. Also human Jake!

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sleyu · 10 months

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DATING JAMES POTTER INCLUDES . . .

PAIRING: JAMES POTTER X READER

GENRE: FLUFF & SMUT

If anyone is boyfriend coded, it's James.

James is so desperate for your attention. It’s fully up to you how you would react to the stunts he’d pull and all the nonsense he’d say for you to spare just a mere glance at him, but as soon as you do, he’s not shutting up for days. So much so, you’d find Remus on his hands and knees, begging to give James a chance so that he could finally study in peace.

When James falls in love, the person he is infatuated with and the things in relation to them is the only thing that remains in his mind.

‘Ugh,’ he thinks, ‘Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop is an eye sore.’ But wait, ‘Y/n loves pink. I ought to bring her here next time.’ He thinks.

James, contrary to what he makes himself out to be in front of his friends before meeting you, abandons any sense of his pride and ego when it comes to his girl.

Before falling in love with you, James would scoff and snicker at couples around Hogwarts, at people holding hands, cheeks flushed and eyes starry-eyed, as they’d walk together in Hogsmeade.

Meeting you, falling in love with you—finally making you his—made him love every corny, cheesy aspect of being with someone, completely endeared and left sheepish by their every breath and movement.

During ’ O.W.L.S. or any test for that matter, one could steal a glance at James, only to see him absentmindedly writing down your initials with a heart right beside them on his parchment, looking almost bored at his otherwise empty paper.

Anytime he would find himself stuck on a question, he would sigh happily, putting his quill down and all his focus on you, trying to find you sitting in the exam hall, smiling in amusement at the look of determination on your face.

James being in love means him attempting to look for your face during every quidditch match, upon every win, and during every loss, trying his best to search for your reaction. All he wants is for you to see him in his glory, and no amounts of pats on his back or the cheers he receives from crowds compare to the feeling of your thumb caressing his cheek, or your hands softly patting him on the head, telling him how proud you are of him and how you couldn’t take his eyes off him.

James finds it tough to admit and often struggles to communicate it, but he needs your praise. He needs you to tell him that he did good, that he looks handsome, that he’s brilliant for his latest prank, and that no one else compares to him. Of course, it’s an ego boost for him, but behind his egotistic front is a vulnerable, questioning man who doubts himself often, wanting nothing more than to prove himself to you.

‘Did I do good, love?’ he’d ask, desperation seeping from his honey-like voice, as though he’s unable to wait for your answer, fearing the possibility of your displeasure. ‘Please tell me I did.’

Of course, this manifests in your sex life. James needs praise always and rarely ever incorporates degradation into his lovemaking. He not only tells you how pretty you look for him, how good you feel wrapped around his leaking cock, but also begs you to be vocal, to communicate your pleasure and to tell him that you only belong to him and that no one else could make you feel as good as him.

‘Need you to tell me, baby—fuck! Wanna make you feel good—wanna make my good girl feel good—god.’

‘Tell me—tell me you love me. Say it again—need to hear it again,’

James begs that you leave a kiss mark on his cheek for ‘Good luck,’ right before a quidditch game.

The mandatory uniform for Gryffindor Quidditch matches is James’ jersey. Nothing fuels his pride and his absolute enamour for you more than seeing his last name plastered across your chest and back, proudly and visibly displaying your support for him and only him.

After a big win, you can expect to be fucked in the jersey. James swears he’s never cum faster than he has when he took you from behind and watched as your back arched; the name, ‘Potter,’ printed upon your trembling body as though it was a mark of ownership and loyalty.

Dating James means that he’s treating you as though you’re made of glass. Gentle touches and grips to your waist as the two of you walk in the school corridors, and adoring coos when he sees you slump against him, tired from a long day.

‘My poor angel. Always working so hard, yeah? C’mon, I’ll take care of you.’

He’d rather die than hear you call him by his name. To James, calling him by his name means that you’re treating him as though he were any other person when he isn’t. He needs to hear the affection laced in your words. The soft, gentle mumble of ‘baby, darling, Jamie, honey,’ is all he seeks to hear from you and he practically crumbles against the gentle caress of your hand on his cheek when you refer to him by a pet name.

‘James,’ you sigh, exasperated. Your boyfriend furrows his eyebrows, ‘That’s baby to you!’

During the summer, he’d insist you attach a photo of you with every letter you send him, whether it’s you on vacation or simply in your room, he has to get his fill of you.

He’d spend so much money on little trinkets for you, little items he would pick up from the sneaky Marauders Hogsmeade trips.

Sirius would huff as James pulled him into a stationary shop, ‘James, can we please stop making pit stops? We have 30 minutes left.’ James shook his head, grinning to himself as he picked up several pretty pens he reckons you’d love, ‘Need to supply the missus with gifts, Pads.’

James would be so happy once you begin warming up to the Marauders. His favourite people loving his favourite person? It’s his dream come true and as soon as he sees you bickering with Sirius, having long and insightful discussions with Remus, and casually hanging around Peter, he knows he’s going to be with you for a very, very long time. He’ll make sure of it, he decides then.

James would most certainly carry your bag as he drops you off to class. The first time he attempted in doing it, the two of you were tugging your bag for five minutes, arguing with each other about who would carry the pound of weight on your shoulders. He won, much to your dismay, but a surge of warmth bursts through him the first time you hand your bag over to him mindlessly, without him asking or fighting you for it, as though you had expected him to do it. He treasures these moments in your relationship where he begins to realize that habits between the two of you are beginning to grow and that you both are becoming used to being such an integral part of each other's lives.

He constantly tells you that you’re his everything and that all he does is for you and only you.

Study dates with him are entirely pointless as they never lead to actual studying as James cannot survive five minutes without your undivided attention on him. What do you mean you have to read a textbook for an hour? No periodic breaks to kiss your boyfriend or to coo at him? The only way actual studying will get done is if you promise him a kiss for every correct answer he gets—but we all know where that’s leading to.

He was the first one to say, ‘I love you,’ in the relationship. He would probably say it very quickly as he had known he loved you before the two of you dated, but he’s entirely fine with you wanting to take your time in dissecting your feelings for him.

Until you say it back, with every night and morning kiss, every departure before class, he’d whisper a giddy, ‘I love you, darling,’ to which you’d smile bashfully. Once you do say it back, he’s smiling like an idiot for two weeks straight. He would be almost annoying about it, like a child on Christmas Day. He’d tell you that he loves you repeatedly only to hear you say his four favourite words: ‘I love you too.’

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spockiguess · 1 year

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Drunk On You || Peter Quill x Reader

A/N: So this is just a random, short oneshot. I really cannot explain myself.

Warnings: Smut, Overstimulation

Pairing: Peter Quill x Reader

God, you loved Peter’s curls. You didn’t know how, but they were so soft and bouncy under your greedy hands. Currently, you were running said hands through Peter’s hair, tugging on his copper locks as his tongue explored your dripping cunt while his thick fingers fucked your aching hole.

Because of your grabby hands, Peter moaned into your sensitive pussy, sending shockwaves throughout your live-wire body. As he lapped at you, your wetness began to drip from Peter’s chin and onto the floor in shiny puddles, but Peter didn’t mind, he loved getting messy.

So he sucked at your clit while you practically screamed his name, your fingers lightly scratching at his scalp. Peter kept going and going until he could feel your body physically vibrate from the amount of pleasure he was giving you.

Moaning, you tried to warn Peter of your incoming orgasm, but Peter didn’t even flinch. He just thrust another finger into you and pressed against your g-spot until you were seeing stars, your toes curling and thighs tightening around Peter’s head.

You came on Peter’s tongue and he lapped all of it up, he was so pussy-drunk, he didn’t know what else to do other than eat you out. So even though you were squirming beneath his hungry mouth, Peter’s strong arms held you down and kept your shaking thighs wide open for him.

“Fuck, Peter, I can’t–” You tried pushing Peter’s face away, too raw from overstimulation, but Peter just looked up at you with his big doe eyes and kissed the insides of your legs.

“C’mon, baby, just one more.” Peter’s words were so slurred, you could barely understand him, but with that single look, you obliged with a nod.

Peter dove back in immediately, pressing his fingers against your clit while he thrust his tongue into your weeping cunt. You couldn’t handle the mix of pleasure and pain, your brain literally beginning to scatter.

Still, Peter held out and fucked you silly on his tongue. The air felt so hot and cold at the same time, your body didn’t know how to react. But, once again, he was able to pull a mind-shattering orgasm from you as you bucked wildly on his face.

Coming down from your high, you noticed with an alarming speed that Peter was still eating you out, and not slowing down one bit. You screamed his name and yanked at his curls which just caused him to moan and for another set of vibrations to ripple through your body.

Your breathing quickened again and your third orgasm was steadily approaching, much faster than the other two.

Your body almost couldn’t take the stimulation, but when Peter mumbled, “You taste so fucking good, I love you so much,” against your pussy, you were done for.

A third orgasm tore through you like a tsunami, scrambling your brain and causing drool to leak from the sides of your mouth. It was too much, and finally, you pushed Peter away, whining from the overstimulation.

Peter rested his head against your thigh and looked up at you, a drunken smile spreading across his face, “Sorry, baby. I couldn’t resist.” You watched as your slick dripped from his mouth and shined under the low lighting of the Benatar.

With a heaving breath, you collapsed against the table Peter had you sitting on the edge of while Peter kept his place between your legs, just waiting until you were ready for another round.

#peter quill #peter quill x reader #peter quill fanfiction #peter quill fanfic #smut #fanfic #fanfiction #gotg #gotg3 #gotg fanfiction

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lunargrapejuice · 1 year

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thigh riding

diluc ragnvindr x fem!reader | 18+ MINORS DNI

it started out so innocent, as it almost always does; being invited to sit on his lap while he works as a means to simply be close when he had to spend so much of his time away from you; a scooch closer, lifting your head from his shoulder to place a chaste kiss to his defined jaw, take in his handsome visage. and maybe you should have known, should have always known, how utterly irresistible diluc ragnvindr was, how weak you were to your beloved, your one and only but no acknowledgement of it would make it any easier to not indulge in him every moment you could.

one kiss turns to two. a third that draws him from his work, gloved fingers finding themselves gripping your thighs instead of the quill, the hand that’s been resting at your back this entire time slowly collecting your dress in its clench. a fifth that meets the edge of his lips and has him drawing you ever closer, until you’re nearly on top of him, not that either of you mind, not when he had to taste your lips on his own after feeling them so soft, so loving, against his neck.

did you know just how irresistable you were to him as well?

after that, with his tongue tangled with your own, hot and devouring yet so needy and full of adoration, it was only a matter of time before your dress and underswear were discarded while he remaind clothed and you were rocking your hips against his thigh at a quickened pace. his large hands were still gloved you could feel how hot he was through the fabric, gripped your hips and helping guide you across his thigh muscles covered by dark paints now stained with your essesance.

it was hard to catch your breath, hard to think about anything but diluc with your hands lost in his hair, the deep scent of oak barrels, sweet wine and bergamot enveloping you, with the way you passionately kiss one another and how quickly he had built that tightness behind your stomach with just his lips and thighs. the whole world around you was that captivating crimson in the form of glistening ruby orbs, messy locks of hair falling from it’s normal confines, a lovely blush on the tips of his ears when he hears you whimper his name as he presses down on your hips and uses his strength to drag your soaked cunt along his thigh. feeling his cock throb in his slacks at the melody of your tone so desperate for him.

he speeds up his pace, completely and utterly in control of your movements against him and fuck he knew just how to work you, what it took for crystalline tears to cling to your lashes because it’s somehow too much and not enough, on the edge but still felt so far from going to celestia.

“‘luc..” you mewl, needy and breathless. your hands move from his hair to his shoulders and he feels your legs shaking around his. he’s so addicted to the reactions you give him, knowing only he could do this to you and it makes him want to give you more.. more.. “ah~!” you cry out feeling his fingers holding you so tightly there were sure to be bruises later but it wasn’t just their touch that had you losing your composure, it was the way his thigh flexed and bounced to add to your pleasure, the way your clit rubbed directly against his pants and he praised you through it all.

“you’re doing so good for me angel,” diluc coos, deep and vibrating throughout his chest. you look into his eyes, blissful and heavy with lust, feeling your heart burst at the sight of a disheveled master diluc. he kisses you softly, a complete contrast to the way he moved your hips and finally brought you to your high, your walls clenching around nothing, the mark of your juices on dilucs slacks growing and seeping through to wet the skin beneath. “my good girl,” he groans, feeling his cock twitch, leaking precum but still he was focused on you and the way you break in his arms, sensitive and on shaking limbs but still bucking your hips against him.

genshin impact masterlist | main masterlist

#diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #diluc ragnvindr smut #genshin impact smut #diluc smut #genshin smut #🌙moonlight.stories

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anantaru · 2 years

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𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟏𝟒 — 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

✦ kinktober day 14 — breeding feat. heizou : kazuha : albedo : tighnari x fem! reader | kinktober masterlist.

✦ warnings: nsfw : multiple mentions of pregnancy

✦ 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐔

"just look how beautiful you are." heizou's eyes darted in between your bodies, his cock deep inside of you with oozes of cum coating his shaft. "you're so full already." he's purring at you, your stomach bouncing up in a ticklish fashion, turning into a flustered mess as your cheeks quilled up with warmth.

in all honesty, heizou waited for this moment all day. To have you underneath his figure, legs spread with a desire to be fucked silly by him. He had the urge to caress every nook and cranny of your skin and not to mention, fill your tight cunt with his thick seed. Maybe you'll get pregnant, the thought alone of a swelled belly in front of him made it hard for heizou to breathe nor think about something else.

his sudden snap back to reality was to be thanked by your whines and mewls, the continues stretch of his girth was hard on you, feeling overstimulation approach your body as your trembled around his hips. "aw my precious baby." he's mumbling at you, heizou's pace was increasing at the lewd sight right in front of him, the desire to fill your cute little cunt full increases with every thrust forward. He was smoothening his fingers over your skin before resting his forehead on yours, intimacy filling the room.

✦ 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀

kazuha's pace was skilled, yet ruthless, thrusting quickly into your sobbing cunt. You're arching your body into his, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer into a kiss, mumbling soft chants in between. Previous releases were already spilling outside, leaking onto the bedsheets as his play continued, faster than before.

"i want you." he rams back into you, motivated by your moans which would ring around his ears. "just marking you with hickies isn't enough anymore." your body was shivering in delight upon hearing said sentence roll off his tongue in ecstasy. Your walls were grabbing his cock further, squeezing him as he throbbed inside of you, surprised by the increased amount of sensitivity.

yet kazuha was craving more, his blood burning through his veins as he pressed you harsher into the mattress. His thoughts were spiraling, what if he had to leave for a while after this? more importantly what if he'd come back only to find you pregnant with his child, belly swelled up and big and it's his doing alone! Kazuha was licking his lips, fuck, why was it so hot right now? his belly was rumbling, signaling him that he was indeed, close again as he moaned out loudly, pumping his seed deep into your cunt to maybe, make his wish come true after all.

✦ 𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐎

you could feel albedo's warm breath on your neck, your skin welcoming the faint amount of goosebumps. He was shifting his position a bit, taking your legs to put them on top of his shoulders and moving closer, his cock splitting you open and reaching areas you never thought were be able to be reached.

"are you comfortable?" albedo asked in between hisses, biting down on his lower lip upon feeling your cunt squeeze him, pull him in and keeping him there. You're nodding, it being the only possible way for you to respond with. Your muscles were tensing up, he was getting quicker with his pace. Albedo's arms were caging you in, the bed an utter mess from previous releases as the sinful squelching noises greeted you. His cock was twitching again, feeling how your walls were tighter around his girth as his orgasm approached him.

albedo let go of his climax with a strangled moan, spilling his cum into you until he was completely emptied out. You cried, it felt so warm inside of you, familiar and comfortable, your legs shivering while he pulled out. Albedo's eyes were fixated on your cunt, watching his seed ooze out of your hole before tracing a finger right above it, suddenly pushing it in to finger fuck it back into you. "I hate seeing it leave you." his words were lewd, sinful, yet in the end being able to somehow turn you on further.

✦ 𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈

"just one more." tighnari's request was demanding, pumping himself back and forth your sobbing cunt as you cried out his name. Your inner thighs were a mess, a combination of his cum and your juices staining the soft flesh and making it a bit uncomfortable for you, yet the pleasure you felt on your aching core was turning your whole attention towards tighnari. The sensation of him reaching so deep inside of you was amazing, otherworldly, his tip brushing over your sweet spot with every thrust, never missing.

you could barely comprehend anything, wrapping your arms around his neck to somehow gain at least a little bit support as his pace increased. Tighnari was merciless, hungry for pleasure as he leaned forward to engage you into a kiss. Your chest was rising, his cock pulsing deep inside as you arched your spine into him, bodies melting into one another. "fuck." the simple curses that fell from tighnari's mouth were a sign that he was close again, the gaps in between his releases gradually becoming smaller.

yet archons, he couldn't restrain himself any longer, even if he wanted to, the mere thought of your belly expanding from his doings alone were so fucking hot in his eyes, cock twitching while spilling shockwaves into your walls. It didn't take him long to release afterwards, his cock paining your insides with thick spurts of white again, the familiar warmth radiating through your body as you cried out, knowing very well he wasn't done with you yet.

kinktober masterlist.

do not! share, copy or repost my work. ✎ ©ANANTARU 2022

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swayziiwriter · 7 months

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Yours | Jude Bellingham

summary: heart racing, Jude was fresh off his EURO qualifying eager to make his girlfriend sweat and plead for his body

WARNING: 18+, sexual content

NOTE: a little something until I get my more detailed chapters out

Jude was in an outright wild state. The main sounds bouncing off the walls of your bedroom were his hips snapping into yours in a fierce speed and noisy constant cries pouring from your slobbering mouth. iIt was excessively suggestive, so salacious, and grimy that he wishes he can consume right now in his cerebrum to store and replay.

For the absence of better words, he was unable to get enough of it, so focused on how his cock fits so cozily in your throbbing walls, it seemed like he was beyond happy exclusively due to the hold your drenched pussy has on him. He was unable to try and pull away from you in the event that he needed to, just being sucked in at whatever point his hips move back. Jude was wanting to endeavor from ever eliminating himself from you in any case, he could become mixed up in this sensation forever and that is precisely the exact thing he wanted.

That wasn't even the main thing that had him in this strangle hold, his eyes couldn't quit focusing in on your lovely highlights responding to each haul of his cock, eyes screwed shut and temples scrunching in pleasure. You looked frantically entrancing under him, completely destroyed and unfit to contain your despicable groans with your nails diving into his arms. There was sweat that began to dot onto every last trace of your delicate skin hosing the sheets, that as well as your mind getting away from the truth was quite noticeable and he was going haywire from everything.

His eyes blurred over with desire at the sight and his eagerness defeated him. It lighted something so licentious in his very being that his pushes became more earnestly, sloppier, battering your inner parts determined to spill a heap to paint your walls white.

"I’m gonna-fuck!" You cry. He snorts out, blood humming when you press around him so immovably, "Jude-Jude please give it to me” you begged, arms grabbing at anything. “is that right? you'd like that wouldn’t you?” He teased, hand’s coming up to squeeze your breasts. “Make you mine huh? I think you’d like if I’d fill that pretty pussy up with my cum. He's proclaiming careless words, gasping shakily from the responsiveness, balls going tight.

"All mine." He groans, you both apparently couldn't regulate a solitary reasonable idea. just focusing on attempting to arrive at your climaxes. "yes--ah, all yours Jude only you” that was enough for him to overturn the edge, spilling his cum within you with a short of breath heave. It was so quick and abrupt that it left him stunned and puzzled.

You accomplished your own climax upon the sensation of the warm fluid spraying somewhere down in your center, you clasp down and writhe around him, draining him for everything he has. A clear white ring paints the foundation of his length when he bucks gradually to quiet down both of your highs.

Yet again he shivers at the consequential convulsions in weariness yet when he sees you totally screwed out-his cock blends, jerking and turning out to be hard once more. He flickers once. twice. Taking into account over his best course of action. You were unable to try and answer when your body moves no sweat, as though you weighed only a quill. His solid veiny hands takes tightly to your waist to put you on all fours preceding pushing your head down onto the messy bed, holding your scruff with one palm to keep you set up.

With your butt in the air, the cum begins to leak out of your pussy-spilling down to your clit. Quickly, he gets the liquid with his tip and hauls it to your opening once more, diving his full length into you to screw the cum back inside, making you kick your feet in shock. The rich pillows impeccably quieting your shouts.

"Can't waste any of it baby, need to give you more. make you brimming with it." He's not even irritated by the overstimulation consuming the fat top of his dick, you had him at your mercy without a doubt, and he was unable to be more satisfied.

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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i'm begging you for some Keegan angst🙏🏼 like perhaps he and his s/o get split up during an ambush; their s/o goes MIA and when they're finally found, they're badly injured,,, something like that. maybe some fluff/comfort at the end

happy holidays!🎊

Laughing Poets

Pairing: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader

Synopsis: It was poetic the way the bullet ripped through your flesh – the spray of blood that exploded from you with high velocity. How will Keegan react when he realizes that he has to leave you behind?

Word Count: 10.8k

Warning: Angst, fluff, blood & gore, torture, Keegan calls you 'Kid' a lot, happy ending

A/N: This was supposed to be done about two days ago but I decided I hated it so I re-wrote the last half (might have switched a few things around). Enjoy, Anon, and thanks for the request. Also, not quite sure on the exact characterization of Keegan yet but I'm getting there. Slowly.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

It was poetic the way the bullet ripped through your flesh – the spray of blood that exploded from you with high velocity; so much so that it splattered the far wall of the decrepit house. At that moment, as you felt all the air being expelled from your lungs in a shuttering gasp, you could see poets from the long-gone Romantic Era scratching at thin paper with an ink-stained quill, laughing. Their charcoal-stained fingers would twitch as they write out your life with a furrowed brow, bathed in candlelight, and would smile as they slashed their signature at the bottom.

Would the poem of your life end so quickly?

Your head slams to the ground, white light erupting from behind your eyes as you try and suck back enough air just enough to be able to scream in agony. Molten heat is tearing you apart, peeling back nerves; breaking bone, and slashing past muscle with an inexhaustible surety. Dropping the modified AX-50 from your grip, the black and grey metal slams to the ground with a defining clatter as your ears ring with lightning. In the back of your mind, you hear the glass of its Thermal Duel Power Scope shatter into a million tiny pieces.

Shit, you had just gotten that from Kick a week ago.

It was strange – the repercussions of your actions were happening all around you, but it felt like it was a world away as realization set in. You’d gotten shot? How? You got shot?!

You wished your pitiful existence was worthy of a poem, truth be told; that it was worth more than the crimson that leaks from your left shoulder to the old, cracked, wooden ground. But that was never the case.

Your body writhes and you wail out, head jerking back and forth in a primal display.

You had chosen this life, whether by your own need for revenge or the sense of duty…you knew not. And now you would pay for it.

Nobody knew you were hit, because you hadn’t told anyone through the comms, but there was also the fact that you were never meant to be this far out anyways. Merrick had fucking warned you this would happen if you stalked off on your own again, but as always, you had chosen the stubborn route. When you had seen this run-down shack of a house with a perfect vantage point, it made that predatory part of your brain sing with a need to hike to it – nestled right in between an outcropping of trees and overgrown vines atop a hill. With the threat of Federation soldiers in the war-torn town below, it was a God-send. You controlled it. You were master here.

Like a bird, Keegan would tell you, striding past, you just can’t resist a good perch, can you, Kid?

The thing is, your Ghost Team shouldn't know you’re injured out here, but soon enough as you frantically try and grasp at your decimated shoulder with burning tears in your eyes and a gaping mouth, a stiff voice wavers through the static of your radio. The blood pools from you like an overturned ink well and your face pulls back in a desperate snarl.

The sound of gunfire was still raging hundreds of miles down into the remains of what was once the outskirts of San Diego but is now known as No Man’s Land.

“Kid,” Keegan’s voice plays along your ears, but you’re too busy trying to force yourself up, blood hacked up from your mouth as you let out a strangled, no, “Where’d your scope go? Ajax needs cover fire two clicks to the west. Eyes up. No time for foolin’ around.”

Your skin is peeled back, and your flesh is infected with bits of your shirt and padded vest fabric inside the wound itself – like bugs crawling all over. You don’t want to think about the exit wound. The bullet had come from another sniper farther in the city, and, you knew, you were lucky you had survived the shot at all just on that fact alone. In your case, when you pulled the trigger, you rarely missed a killing blow.

That was probably why Elias Walker had approached you in the first place – your kill count for Federation soldiers was off the charts, even with how young you were. Not quite a Ghost in full, but something in the middle; nearly there but not quite. You had to earn the mask first. Ajax liked to call you Greenhorn, but Merrick was more prone to Rookie. Kick was rarely out of his lab, so he didn’t call you much of anything. But Keegan…

“Blue Jay?” Keegan’s voice once more wafts out into the burning air, “Sitrep. Now.”

“Keegan, push forward,” Merrick cuts through the channel and his heavy tone fills the house just as you begin to drag yourself across the floor. The echoes of the gun battle reverberate over the hills, “They’re boxing us in! Move, move, move!”

You collapse against an overturned and broken coffee table with shaking limbs and tear-stained cheeks, struggling to find a good enough hold to press down on the wound as crimson leaks from between your fingers. A lung-shuttering gasp exits the flesh of your lips right before a burning makes itself known in the back of your throat. Not able to stop yourself, bile is forced all the way from your stomach, making a trail up your esophagus and finally pooling in your mouth. Gagging, you reel forward onto one hand and release the contents of Keegan’s ration bar from lunch back into the earth, watching the liquid concoction pool onto the ground that has grass whisps sneaking in from between the floorboards. Seeing that, and barking out another wail as long ropes of crimson drip down from your limp arm, you throw up once more. Everything is on fire.

“When…when Ajax said getting shot felt like your skin was being flayed,” You groan, head starting to feel light-headed, “I thought he was just joking.”

The sound of your agony-drowned voice brought a sense of urgency into your rapidly fading psyche.

“Apply pressure,” Merrick’s imaginary voice in your head makes you straighten your spine – like he was a little angel on your shoulder hitting you with a newspaper. You call-back the memory of the Ghost as he was going over medical procedures a month back, “If your hand slips, you die, and I'm not carrying your limp body back to the Fort like a fucken’ sack of potatoes. No one can respond better than yourself in this type of high-risk situation, you understand? Panic is not an option in No Man's Land and if you think it is, you have no right being here...Make a tourniquet; tie it off, and wait for backup. Here, Rookie, practice on Keegan.”

Doing the best you can with only one functioning arm, your fingers twitch as you card them clumsily over the pouches on your chest. Finding the velcro of your medical bag, you whine as you rip it open, flesh so sensitive that even the rough fabric of your own property is grating to feel. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you tell yourself, you most likely would have already passed out.

Ripping out the roll of medical gauze and praying you had enough, your shaking hand travels to your right shoulder, not even noticing the hurried conversations and screaming orders over the comms.

Make a tourniquet, You think to yourself, grunting out into the air when you have to move your arm into position. The entire limb was stained red, liquid dripping off your nonresponsive fingers to the floor. What if you never regained the function of your arm again? Your thoughts were running. What if you could never shoot your rifle all because you felt the need to go too far on your own? To prove yourself?

The thoughts scared you more than you liked to admit. This life was everything to you – pushing back against the Federation, who had taken so much from you, and being alongside the Ghosts. It was what you had worked so hard for.

Then fight for it, You don’t know why Keegan’s smooth voice comes to you at that moment, but as you pull the gauze so tight around your open wound you scream and see stars; nearly keeling over as well, it brings forward a steely determination, Don’t expect everything on a silver platter, Kid. But then again, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know that.

“Fucking hell,” Face contorted with unmatched distress, you suck down breaths and let the gauze soak up your life; blood in deep puddles already seeping through, “I need to move – t-tell the others…”

“Blue Jay’s not responding,” Keegan speaks over the static of the comms channel, “I’m doubling back.”

Your functioning hand latches onto the radio, weak fingers slipping for a moment as your body sways forward. Struggling, you stumble to your feet and steady yourself on the termite-eaten wall near the window. You peak out and try to spot the enemy sniper with wheezing breath and a sweat-flooded forehead.

Pressing down on the radio to speak, you’re appalled by how hard the simple act was.

Am I dying?

“Don’t Keegan – in order to break the line you’ll need everyone to be there,” You have to blink away the blurriness of your eyes, “I’m spotting twelve tangos near the storage facility. Merrick, I’d suggest taking a left and circling the flank.”

Merrick responds, “Good eyes, Rookie. Ajax, on my six!”

Your vision swirls, forcing you to suck in a sharp breath and splay your legs shoulder length apart so you don’t fall forwards. You pointedly avoid look at your wound.

“You want to explain why you weren’t responding?” Keegan’s voice is stern, hiding an edge somewhere in its tone that you choose not to acknowledge, “This isn’t a game!” On a far-off building, you spy a glint, making your attention snap to it like a cat and a mouse—sniper scope.

There’s that Bastard, Your fingers twitch with hatred, glossy and tear-clogged eyes narrowing. If you had the ability to shoot right now…

A bullet nearly takes your head off, splintering the frame of the window before lodging into the floor.

“Shit!” You yell, reeling back; forgetting for a moment you were on the open channel.

“Greenhorn, what’s going on over there?” Ajax finally graces the line, “You doing something stupid again?” You don’t know why you hesitate…why you’re so cautious to reveal to them that–

“That’s it,” Keegan snarls, “I’m going to your position.”

You shake your head, your mind so jostled that you don’t say anything for a moment until you realize that no one can see you.

“I took a bullet to my right shoulder.” You concede, voice low with self-hatred, “Clean through, nothing to worry about, just won’t be able to cover anyone…C-can’t feel my arm.”

The line goes dark for a moment, and as you listen to your own ragged breathing that leaves you more hunched over the longer you stand up, it suddenly explodes. A cold shiver travels down your spine; sweat drips from your nose. Your eyelashes flutter.

“What the hell do you mean you got hit!?”

“Son of a Bitch, Rookie, give us your position, now. We’re pulling back.”

“No!” You yell, growling, and shaking your head, “This is a key location to taking back San Diego – there are vantage points, cover, hell, even weapons caches left over from before the war in one of the military bases. We need to secure this town. I’m fine!” But they weren’t listening, even if everything you were saying made sense.

They can’t ruin the operation over one person, You told yourself, heart pumping a mile-a-minute, No one I’ve worked with has ever done that before and the Ghosts sure as Hell shouldn’t be the first. These guys were Special Operations before ODIN destroyed half the US – they know better.

But you were forgetting one critical detail. The Ghosts aren’t just any other team; they care about their own perhaps even more than the missions they get sent on.

But I’m not one of them, You grunt to yourself, letting your eyes close and knocking your head back into the wall behind you. The fact makes you want to cry, but you’re forced to acknowledge the sore spot later.

God, your arm felt like it was being burned to a crisp. You grunt and grit your teeth as another wave goes through you.

“How long ago did you get hit!?” Keegan barks and the sound of shouting from below your perch momentarily increases.

“I..” You try and think. How long had it been? More than seven minutes couldn’t have passed.

“Answer me!”

“F-fuck, I don’t know! Four-five minutes ago!” Yelling makes your head throb, a deep booming that echoes like a drum in your consciousness.

The door to the house squeaks as it opens.

Eyes snapping to the wall that separates the living room from the foyer, your voice cuts out immediately. Keegan was fast – lethally fast – but the town below your perch was at least a few miles, this was because your AX-50 was specialized at long-distance shots. It would be no good in the heat of an ongoing ground battle. I mean, hell, it only held seven shots; even with the modifications you had added on by yourself.

The person who had opened the door wasn’t a Ghost.

And that meant they were your enemy.

Doing the best you can to move stealthily, you unclip the combat knife from your belt and listen with bated breath as you slink over to the doorway. You hate the way your hand shakes as it holds the hilt but revel in the fact that your left arm is numb enough to not cause you to bellow out. Holding your breath, you lean against the barrier on your good shoulder and bring the blade up near your chin.

There are hesitant footsteps that shake the fragile frame of the building, and you feel the reverberations travel up your feet and make your skin shiver. Goosebumps form along your arms.

Creeeek, crack-clack

The floorboards squeal like a stuck pig, the old boards splintering off as an unseen assailant’s feet cautiously move through the house. The sound of heavy breathing comes closer, nearing the doorway to the room you say stone-still in.

Your radio flares to life.

“Rookie–” It only takes a moment, but Merrick’s voice is the signature at the end of your poem; whatever you would have heard from the man was lost.

A Federation soldier dressed in camo and grasping a shotgun rampages around the corner.

—

Keegan knows he’s too late when he sees the run-down visage of the shack with its front door open.

I taught her never to leave the doors behind her ajar.

The Ghost had been training you for months – taking you somewhat under his wing, albeit reluctantly. Elias was clear when he gathered everyone together, train her to be like us. And they had all done just that, Keegan more harshly than anyone, but that wasn’t to say you were untalented.

The stoic Ghost had yet to see a more talented sniper than himself, but you came in as a close second. You were the perfect asset, able to stay back when everyone else went in. You were the cover, the master behind the curtain that clears a path with a pull of a trigger. The Ghosts owed many missed nicks and scrapes to you and your calls. So when Keegan had heard you stop answering over the comms; not responding to Ajax’s hurried quips…

Keegan’s heart hammers as he ascends the front steps overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, the Honey Badger Assault Rifle held white-knuckled in his grip. As if on autopilot, the man switches the safety off and enters, face behind the fabric of his balaclava. The contorted visage of the white paint over the front created quite the nightmare and paired with the black eyepaint Keegan could only be compared to a beast.

The slight clinking of the rope hook tied to his waist and the metallic bit and bobs in his vest was the only sounds he made, the years upon years of perfection ingrained into the way he breathed; the press of his feet to the floor. Keegan would only allow someone to hear him if he wanted them to, even if he was the size of a boar.

His cerulean eyes flicker down the hallway, but nothing moved beside the stale wind – smelling only dirt and…

Blood, Keegan’s nose twitches, eyes narrowing. The man tries to ignore the way his heart picks up pace.

Had he really grown so attached to you that he would forsake his teammates to come and check on your situation? Perhaps the stupidest thing he could do to himself was begin to enjoy your presence. But that didn’t change the fact that you were his responsibility, and in the back of his mind there was a nagging concern.

He had grown to care for you, and that was unexceptable.

Keegan enters the living room with his rifle held ahead of him, scanning the room for tangos before he lowers it. Empty.

And then he sees the remnants of a struggle. Head going back and forth the Ghost follows a trail of gore along the floor, an explosion of crimson over the wall behind him, and feels his chest rumble in a growl over the image of a broken AX-50. His breath stills.

The metal was dented, and the scope shattered, leaving glass over the ground like marbles. Keegan felt a dangerous heat enter his blood, eyes flashing; a specific type of rage growing in his gut and twisting his intestines.

“Where are you, Kid?” He mutters, fingers flexing over the trigger of his weapon. Where did you go? His throat tightens, lips thin. Merrick’s voice comes over the radio with a hard edge.

“Keegan, sitrep. How’s our girl doing? Evac is on its way and we’re pulling back. Getn’ pretty hot over here.” Keegan takes a moment before rushing over to your signature weapon, letting his own fall against his chest and bounce off his vest. Grasping the gun you worshiped by the blue strap, his eyes go along its long body, spying the custom modifications and intricate detailing over the stock. Tiny Blue Jays are scratched and covered in crimson; the colors faded.

You had painted it yourself when Keegan had taken a liking to referring to you by the callsign, and he had never really had the chance to look at it until now. Staring at it for a moment longer, his thumb lightly swipes away a droplet of blood, letting one of the birds once more be visible. Keegan swings the rifle over his back and feels the heaviness of it – the weight of the customizations and the top-grade material. This was your pride and joy along his back, moving with every flex of his shoulders with the barrel hitting the back of his knee.

He carried it was a sort of reverence; a delicateness that was never connected to his name.

She’d never leave this behind without a fight.

Keegan’s tense fingers go to his radio, eyebrows pulling in and eyes emotionless. But the stubble shake of his hand makes him want to punch someone. Whoever had done this to you would pay.

“Blue Jay’s gone.” He states, monotone, “House is empty with signs of a struggle.”

The man turns back to the doorway, glass crunching under his feet, and walks back out into the hallway.

“What do you mean ‘gone,’ man?” Ajax butts in, and over the comms the sound of bullets hitting metal creates a ringing sound, “She’ll bleed out!”

“Move!” Merrick’s voice sizzles out as a grenade goes off, and the line cuts for a moment as Keegan nonchalantly comments,

“All good?”

“We’re taking heavy fire. Without the girl’s backup, we can’t stay here – Ajax and I are heading to the Evac point and’ll draw their attention into the woods. Find that damn kid, Sergeant.”

“On it, Sir.” Keegan releases the device on his vest and turns his hidden head. He sweeps the rest of the shack with a heavy weight on his shoulders, taking notice of a constant trail of blood throughout the hallway. With every moment passing the weight of the situation settles in his gut.

“C’mon Kid,” He whispers, voice gruff, until he finally goes to the busted-down back door and finds the body.

It was laying face down in a bed of wild grass, a thin breeze moving its shirt sleeves. A shotgun lays a few feet from the corpse, surrounded by old rubble and a small downed treetrunk; it was still smoking, dark metal caressed by dirt. Keegan rushes over, taking in the motionless branches of the forest and the knife still lodged in the Federation soldier’s head.

Tapping the man with his foot, the Ghost goes to grab the blade by the hilt and rip it out. Hearing the shink of metal separating from flesh and feeling the spray of blood over his tactical glove.

Just as he feared, the knife belonged to him. His body coils.

Keegan had given it to you after you lost your own on the last mission, the black blade a perfect match to the one currently sitting on his waist. He had wanted it back, but you had teased and asked what if I needed it in the future with a raised eyebrow and body leaning into Ajax who sat next to you. Begrudgingly, Keegan had deadpanned and said he expected you to return it after you found a replacement. But you had just smiled at him, lips pulling back into a bright display and wrinkled eyes. Your face had glowed in the daylight, shadows disappearing and the heavy bags everyone was sporting under their eyes vanishing on yours. Keegan had felt his chest hitch, even if outwardly he remained as stoic as always, and that was it.

The man had dropped the conversation and had never asked for the blade back. In fact, something had swirled in Keegan’s gut the next time he saw his knife strapped to your waist, the band holding the hilt tight against you and bunching your shirt up. It was pathetic, Keegan admitted when he had frozen at the sight at the time, legs jerking, but seeing something of his own on your body had made his heart go wild; eyes so obviously boring into you that your cheeks had gained a sheen of embarrassment that day. Keegan had stalked away, unable to admit to himself that something was going in inside of him that he had no control over.

That was the point of no return, he realized. The overturned inkwell onto the thin parchment.

You were the poet and him the words in your head, using him without a clue.

“Fuck,” He growls, gripping the knife so tightly it digs into his gloves and hurts the flesh inside. His head turns to the forest, burning eyes roving for any sign of you even as a strike of pride filters through him. Injured and disoriented, you had taken down a man two times your size with only his knife and your wits. Now that really got his blood pumping.

Besides a thin trail of blood drops over the grass, leading far into the tree line, you had all but disappeared. Keegan’s heart was pounding, ready to run in after you.

She couldn’t have gotten far, especially not with a wound like she described. I’ll catch up. I have to.

“Keegan we need you at the Evac point, ASAP!” Ajax screams, voice strained, “Else we’re going to be coming home in body bags, man!”

“I don’t have Blue Jay yet–”

“There’s no time,” Merrick yells out, and Keegan hears the whizz of bullets from over the line, “Federation soldiers are storming us – get here now! Or you’re getting left behind. That’s an order, Sergeant!”

She won’t survive, Keegan tells himself, forcing down the mucus in his throat, not by herself.

Ghosts don’t leave their own behind. Merrick undoubtedly planned to return when the heat was off them; send a recon force to the area to look for signs of life. Keegan clenched his fists, eyes dead as they stare off into the trees and expansive foliage. This area was notorious for its high cliffs and steep dropoffs – one wrong move and everything was over in an instant. The earthquakes were worse. Ever since ODIN was fired the tremors had been constant.

The odds weren’t in your favor even without adding in a possibly fatal wound.

Keegan takes a step forward, inching closer to the treeline unconsciously with firm feet.

“Keegan – do you trust her!?”

“What?” Merrick’s loud comment had shaken Keegan, making him freeze; eyes wide. He was only one step into the wild, perhaps only one step closer to finding you. Did he trust you? What kind of question was that? The woman who always fooled around with Ajax, pushed Marrick’s buttons to a point the man had begun to respect you? Blue Jay, who always made a point to bring Keegan into conversations and try to get him to smile at her – carrying herself with elegant confidence?

Did he trust you? How does one even describe trust? After everything that’s happened, could he place his trust in someone else other than his Ghost brothers? Keegan’s jaw clenches, head looking back and forth before slowly going to sneak a peak at the body behind him. His chest tightened.

He already had an answer, but found that he couldn’t say it aloud.

Apparently, the moment of silence gave his friends what they needed.

“Then get your ass back here! The sooner we have a chance to regroup we’re comin’ back and gettin’ her. Rookie knows what she’s doing…we’ve given her every lesson we could. It’s up to her for a while.”

“Trust in her, Keegan” Ajax chimes, “Just as she trusts you.”

Keegan turns his back to the forest, hearing every step of his feet over the ground as they carry him away from you.

“Copy.”

The words are firm, but the ink of them bleeds.

—

You wake up chained to the ceiling, shoes gone, and socked feet dangling over the floor. Blood from a new gash on your head trails over your right eye and leaves the already flickering movement of your eyelashes more constant as the liquid dribbles to your tense jaw in a steady flow.

It had happened so fast – far faster than your already addled mind could have comprehended. A group of Federation soldiers had been camping out in the woods and had sent only one of their men into the shack you had deemed too far out of the way for any up-close confrontation; the rest had stayed and waited. The minute your back was too close to the tree line after you had lodged Keegan’s blade into the lone man’s skull, they had grabbed you.

Apparently, they dragged me back into town, too, You growled to yourself, how could I be so dumb?!

The only upside of this situation was that in order to question you they had to keep you alive long enough to get you to speak. Already the heavy padding over your numb left shoulder calls to you like a siren song; the dichotomy of the position you were in almost made you laugh. The Federation soldiers had you hooked up to the ceiling like a butchered pig but took the time to dress your wound so you wouldn’t bleed out.

You wiggle your fingers, the lack of circulation already leaving the top half of your body tingly. Next, your feet. In the back of your mind, you wonder if you’ve been drugged, because the words from your head seem to spill from your lips unprompted and the pain of your situation is dull; muted.

“Hell,” Your voice is loud, tone slurred, and rough. Oh yeah, definitely high off something, “If you wanted to tie me up you could have just asked me!”

Opening your eyes as full as you can, you look around weakly and lock onto rusted metal walls and a set of large warehouse doors.

“You brought me to the warehouse? How stupid could you be?” You say aloud, twisting your neck around before the clinking of chains stops you, “Isn’t this near the old logging company? This is close to the edge of the town! If I wanted to escape I’d be gone in five seconds.”

Your drugged snickering echoes off the walls, bouncing back at you mockingly. Soon enough footsteps sound off from beyond the closed door, many, many feet marching down an unseen hallway. You smile, thinking, finally, and hear the blood from your head drip to the floor every other second. The warehouse door slides open with a shriek and your vision blinks out, black momentary shrouding you before it filters back.

Three men enter the room, all dressed in the black and gray camo of the Federation – straps and combat vest so similar to your Ghosts that in your state you confuse the two. They even wore black balaclavas and the one in the middle is a similar build to your Sergeant, tall, and built like a damn bear.

“Keegan?” You whisper, head tilting to rest on your strained arms as your eyebrows pull in before sparks of pain fly. Was that…you have to shake your head, skull suddenly burning. No. There’s a thin moment of clarity before that haze re-settles.

This isn’t right. That is not my Keegan. Not my Ghosts.

The middle man leads the other two at his sides, nodding his head behind him and the door begins to close; the others peel off and go to guard the entrance, leaving you and the man to have a conversation semi-alone.

He stops a few feet from you, eyes a deep brown and boring into your body. Your lips pull back.

“There are more simple ways to question someone besides stringing them up, man.” Your sentence cracks halfway through, but you don’t notice.

The man just stares, tilting his head to the side. After a moment of eye contact, he speaks.

“You are not a Ghost.” His voice is accented – Spanish is most likely his first language.

“Yeah, trust me,” You groan, head once more pulsing. Your feet shimmy over the ground, toes lightly brushing the concrete, “No one’s more fucked up about that than I am. I train my ass off–”

A sold punch is landed to your gut, tossing your body back as the chains above you squeal. The air is expelled from your lungs in a series of deep coughs, lungs rattling as spittle flies from your lips, you feel your organs shake inside of you. It takes a few moments for you to catch your breath and dispel the sledgehammer blow, but already the man is talking when the bulk of your panting has barely slowed.

“You are going to tell me a way into Fort Santa Monica,” He pulls a knife from his waistband and takes a step forward, putting the blade directly on your right side. Your clothes crease where the tip presses and needle-like sparks fly from your flesh, “Or I will have to ring the answer from you like water in a rag.”

With a pounding heart, your mouth runs unprompted, “Ghosts don’t break, asshat. And I may not be one of them, but I certainly know that I won’t let my boys down.”

What the hell did they give you? Keegan had warned you to never say too much when captured. Don’t make ‘em angry unless you want a reminder of the power they have at that moment. But it wasn’t like you could help it anymore–

The blade sinks through hot flesh, and inside the warehouse, a high-pitched scream flows outside; scattering birds and beasts alike.

This continues for three long days.

—

Keegan was stone-still as Elias bend over the meeting table, a map of the town and surrounding forest where you had gone missing spread out. Everyone was silent, and Keegan has to shuffle his feet to reduce the tension in his thighs and shoulders; his hands tighten over his chest. Ajax is the first to speak over the tense air as Merrick repeatedly itches at the skin of his bald scalp from where he stands behind a chair.

“We have to move,” The Ghost growls, and when no one responds Ajax hits a closed fist to the table, “soon, Elias.”

The slam echoes over the room, bouncing off the walls.

“Ajax,” The man in question shakes his head, “What we need to do is think this through. Form a proper plan and carry it out with more intel.”

Elias pulls back to his full height but Keegan’s eyes stay locked on the map, flicking mutely over the marks and topography.

It’s been three days, He tells himself, She’s probably dead by now. The files already have her labeled as MIA.

Under his balaclava, his jaw clenches in feral denial. Why did the thought of that fact make him want to go out and search for you himself, regardless of Elias’s sound logic? You couldn’t be dead. Missing was better than that – missing meant he could find you.

Perhaps it was the same emotion that had given him a sinking feeling when, two days ago, the entire Ghost Team had gone back out to the forest under the cover of darkness to search for you. All Keegan had found was the footsteps of multiple Federation soldiers and signs of one of them dragging something heavy behind his back.

It was obvious what had happened, and as he had slowly turned his head down to the town lit up by spotlights, the only thing that had stopped him from tracking you down was Elias’s heavy hand on his shoulder. Keegan’s eyes were lit with a dangerous light, glinting with the promise of revenge.

He wanted you back – he would get you back – regardless of the consequences. No one messed with you and lived, whether that meant the revenge was carried out by your own hand or by his doesn’t matter. That town would be purged. Keegan would see to it.

The Federation had made it personal.

“She’s getting tortured!” Ajax yells, insight voicing what everyone already knew, “Greenhorn would rush in if it was one of us out there instead of her!”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re here, isn’t it?” Elias runs a hand down his face, army shirt and cargo pants noticeably wrinkled. No one had slept while they waited for more recent intelligence on the number of tangos in the town, “We can’t be rash. They’ll know we're comin’ for her if we mess this up.”

“Elias,” Merrick finally speaks up, placing his large hands on the chair’s back and leaning into it, “You know we all trust you to make the call…but I have to agree with Ajax on this. We’re practically leaving the Kid behind if we wait any longer.” The stocky Ghost scratches at his beard, “You know what they’ll do to her.”

The older man has a soft spot for you, Keegan realized with a roll of his head and a crack of his neck. All of them had a soft spot. Waiting here was like keeping a group of trained attack dogs from a target – most of all Keegan. Patience was supposed to be his ally, and he had taught you just the same, so how had it left him so stupendously?

Elias grunts, crossing his arms. He looks over to the only person who had thus far been silent and brooding in the corner. A dark cloud was heavy over the Ghost’s head, anyone could see it. A man at the edge of an already fraying rope of sanity.

“Keegan?” Elias asks, gruffly, already knowing the man’s emotions and thoughts, “Do you have anything to add?”

Normally Keegan was one who would wait for a sure answer, but in this instance, the next words he said rocketed out of him before he could fully think over the gravity of what they meant. Always the cautious one, the times he wanted to rush in blind could be counted on one hand and on less than five fingers…but that was before you. Before the hours the two of you spent together training, building trust, and protecting each other in the field with knife and bullet.

All that mattered was getting you back to him. And the words wrote themselves, curved, under the gentle influence of an ink quill.

“I’m bringing my girl home.”

A moment of silence tightens over his throat; the stoic man’s feet move from under him as his eyes slightly widen. If he had the ability his face would have blossomed with a blush, but even so, the embarrassment was visible to those who had known him the longest.

Shit, he hadn’t meant for it to sound like that.

Keegan dares to look back at Elias, only to find the leader smirking, a knowing glimmer in his eyes that leaves him freezing like a mouse under the gaze of an owl.

“Well, then, let’s go get your girl back.”

Ajax snickers and him and Merrick spare glances, amused, nearly saying about time.

—

Your body lightly swings, blood in a pool below your feet and rippling as another drop enters the flood. Your nose is broken; bleeding, just like your ribs. Cuts litter your skin, clothes are ripped and shredded and swarmed with crimson both dried and new. Your combat vest had been ripped off, the rough material thrown somewhere behind you by enraged fingers and ripped apart for any indication of a blueprint of your Fort or useful intel.

The Federation soldiers had left you alone with your thoughts not five minutes ago and to your credit, you have not broken. Not even after everything – the hits, stabs, and beatings that left you sobbing and biting back pleas. Throughout all of it, Keegan’s voice stuck with you; you had drowned in good memories in the small moments you were able to breathe without being slugged in the chest.

The way Keegan would send you soft glances when he thought you weren't looking and how the blank-faced man kept your skills sharp as a way to make sure you were safe. His rare smiles; comforting interactions when you were up late practicing with your rifle. A weak smile filters over your bloody and bruised face, eyes blinking closed as the air is expelled from your lungs in a deep sigh.

“You’re going to get a sore neck if you keep doing this, Little Blue,” The words startled you, eyes widening from where one looks through the scope of your AX-50. Your head jerks back, finger immediately dropping from the trigger you were just about to pull.

“What the actual fuck, Keegan!?” Hair whips around you as your body turns, facing the man leaning against the doorway as a nightly breeze rustles through the outside firing range, “Has no one told you not to sneak up on the person with the gun?”

“I was the one that told you that, Kid.” He raises a brow, strong jawline on display for the moon.

It was rare that the man took off his balaclava when in your presence, and you took a moment to stare from your position on the ground; your heart jerks against the concrete before you shove the feeling in it’s tissue down.

Keegan’s presence made the heat on the back of your neck increase, hands getting clammy over the metal of your gun. You flex them in what you hope looks simply like a resetting method.

“Well, then you’re not good at taking your own advice...” You grumble, huffing and fixing your posture, looking back out over the field and the white target over six hundred feet away, “And my neck is perfectly fine, thank you.”

“It won’t be if you keep getting up and creeping out here every night. I thought I wore you out today?” The memory of getting thrown to the ground more times than you could count during a sparring match made your muscles remember to ache, “Or do I need to ramp up the difficulty? You almost pinned Ajax today.” You suppress a wince and send a quick glance over to the Ghost, who pushes off the wall and sighs, stalking over to you.

“If you think you need to,” Licking your lips, you feel his heavy shadow over your form. You replace your cheek to the stock of your rifle, once more seeking to line up the shot as quickly as possible, “And you did ware me out.” Muttering, you feel yourself get lost in the wave of the sensation of purpose – superiority singing in your veins.

This rifle was your quill, and with it, you signed the signature of death on the poems of others’ lives.

This was your calling, and not a moment later, not feeling the reverent eyes on the side of your face as Keegan stills his breath, you pull the trigger. It lands just a millimeter from the center of the target. Your jaw tightens and you tell yourself, ‘not good enough’ with a narrowing of your eyes.

The action wasn’t missed.

“You’re at this every night, Kid,” Keegan stands by your left thigh, his eyes digging into you, “Don’t pretend like I haven’t noticed.”

You pull back, shame coursing through your veins. You had tried to be stubble, but were you really that bad?

But of course you were, your cheeks head, you lived in the Ghosts’ barracks. They all knew you were sneaking off at night to practice. Your lips thinned at that realization; you really had a lot to learn.

“Blue Jay,” Keegan prods, the authority of his rank now leaking into his tone; it has you straightening unconsciously, “Answer me.”

“...I just need to be better,” You mutter under your breath, going to line up another shot.

A hand on the scope jostles the view, making you pause and tense. Your breath stills in your chest, feeling body heat beginning to leak into your shivering form.

No words are spoken in that silent minute, but you know enough about your Sergeant to tell when he wants you to stop doing something. Keegan’s silence was a mystery that you had only just started to unravel for yourself. Your hands loosen enough for him to take the rifle from your grasp, bringing it up into his grip delicately.

Shuffling up to your knees, you place one hand on your thigh as the other goes to rub at your eyes, feeling the fatigue leak out onto your fingers.

“You’re not going to get better if you keep forcing your eyes open,” Keegan mutters, and his form knees down next to you. The rifle was placed on the ground a few feet away. A warm hand lays on your shoulder and you stifle a hitch in your breath managing to inhale the scent of gunpowder and fresh-cut grass; hickory wood. You have to blink away the sleep that settles on your eyelids.

How was he so warm?

“How do you know that?” You grunt out, itching your eyebrow. You don’t register right away, but a deep chuckle settles warmly on your chest as the man at your side releases it. Reverberations like a purr make you sigh slowly.

“You’re good, Little Blue,” Keegan’s hand goes to your chin, and your cheeks heat as he directs your gaze to his gently, thump and first finger firm. His eyes flicker over your face, taking in every line and imperfection before settling on the black and blue bags that have lived on you for weeks. In turn, you study him – the strong jaw line, usually hard eyes leaning towards soft and caring. You liked when he looked like that; more than anything, you liked when he looked at you like that, “don’t reduce your skill to anything less than what it is. Practice is good, Kid,” Keegan lowers his voice, and your eyes stay locked, “But I can’t watch you ruin yourself.”

Your heart stutters, and your body becomes soft under his touch.

“...but I don’t want to let anyone down.” Eyebrows turning in, Keegan pauses a second at your comment, fingers on your chin tightening for a moment before it begins to travel.

Heart pounding, his touch leaves electricity behind with every scrape of his callouses and healed scars. His eyes stay trapped on yours, watching every minute emotion and movement from you and your hands shock-still in your lap.

“Let ‘em down?” Keegan huffs, the breath ruffling your hair, and his hand settles over your cheek. He continues as his large thumb goes to pet the skin of your undereye, leading your eyes to flicker shut as he mutters your name, “Not a damn chance. You’re a natural, Kid. Hell, you get some proper sleep for once and maybe one day you’ll be as good as me.”

Even with your eyes closed, you couldn’t help the smile that bloomed over your face, feeling his eyes softly fall over your visage.

“Promise?”

You missed the small twitch of Keegan’s lips, “...I promise.”

Shaking yourself out of the memory, your body plays dead as the warehouse door once more opens. A plan had formed, taking root and digging into the small tissue of your brain.

“Why isn’t she moving?” The voice of the Middle Man was enough to make your body tense, toes twitching. No one seemed to notice before you once more went slack, “Get her eyes open!”

Twin pairs of feet slam to the floor, coming closer; soon hands are slamming into your ribs, shaking you back and forth. The bones in your chest move strangely, disconnected from where they were supposed to be. But you hold back your screams, a thin, lip-bitten whine stuck in your mouth.

Your body whines to a stop when the blows halt.

“I said get her eyes open!” Words are yelled in Spanish, and if you were in the right state you would have been able to translate them.

Merrick made sure you were fluent in multiple languages and was one hell of a rough linguistics teacher. Every day you had kept a count of how many swear words he let loose. The undefeated record was fifty-five in one session.

“Let her fall, then! She can’t be dead.” The last half is muttered, followed by a tapping of fingers over palms. Your ears twitch at the sound of receding steps, fast feet, and then the sound of a pulley system and rattling chains.

Your body drops, slamming to the floor, and head bouncing off the concrete like a ball. You don’t have to play dead at that moment, because you’re sure that you passed out, a crack resounding in the bone of your skull and shaking your brain. The chains around your numb arms loosen, leaving your bloodied wrists burning as the air hits them.

Staying still, your body lays sideways, but small trails of water dribble out from your tear ducts.

Just a little longer, You try and tell yourself as circulation comes back to your arms. Shadows dance behind your vision, people moving by you and circling like wolves. Your limbs want to writhe back and forth, help make the needle-like stippling in your nerves go away if only for a millisecond. It was a battle of will. Move or don’t. Be a Ghost, or be helpless.

Well, when you put it like that…

A hand grabs your shoulder just as you clock the two others standing behind you, waiting silently for any signs of life. The gloved hand moves to the pulse point on your neck, heavy fingers digging into the sensitive flesh. One breath. Two.

And then you jerk up and headbutt one of the soldiers right in the nose. Pushing back the black dots that nearly swallow you whole your hands rip out of the lost chains and throw your body at the man. Grabbing his shoulders, curses and sharp barks fly out over the air, and just before the bullets from their guns rip through you, your broken figure twists to shove the man in front of you.

Shots make your ears ring, but the spray of blood comes from the Federation soldier you used as a human shield, screams playing in your head like a symphony. Quicker than a switch, you grab the pistol strapped to the now dead man’s waist, and the minute the body ahead of you stumbles and hits the floor, you fire.

The twin soldiers drop like flies, and the recoil of the gun leaves your weak hand flying back. Clattering to the floor, the weapon stays stationary as you pant and gasp down deep breaths. Blood stains the floor as well as the chains still on the cracked ground, and the vile substance flows from the three men that release death rattles.

Your shattered mind thinks of a snake’s hiss before the sound divulges into a deep gurgling as you stare with blank eyes. Their forms twitch and jerk, brain dying or already dead.

But there was a spark of pride in you that stayed as your hands slap to the floor, pushing your body up with muffled wails and gritted teeth. You shimmy up to your feet and grab the gun on the way up, looking around as you stumble before righting your shaky legs.

Looking around dumbly your limp arm pulses, and your mind runs so fast the festering wound on your head feels like cigarettes are being put out on it.

Someone had to have heard those shots, You reason, and gasp as you walk forward. Your bones don’t feel right. They aren’t supposed to move like that – like they were just floating inside of you not attached to anything.

Blinking rapidly, your vision blurs as the first shouts spring up from outside.

Gotta move, Limping heavily you go as fast as you’re able to the warehouse doors, pushing on the metal as sweat falls down your nose.

Your body aches, muscles constantly tightening and then loosening within seconds of each other. It was getting increasingly harder to push back the need to scream in agony as the adrenaline in you seemed to disappear. Taking to breathing out of your mouth to help out your broken nose, you nearly fall onto your face as you shimmy out into the dirt perimeter surrounding the building.

First, you see the town. Your eyes widen, focus suddenly less on yourself as you take in a sheen of smoke rising up. The raging shouts hadn’t been coming from Federation men rushing to the warehouse – in fact, they were rushing past it. People zip from the corner of your eyes into the treeline, abandoning the houses and buildings with screams of, fantasmas, fresh in the burning air.

Ghosts.

“They came back for me?” Rough and broken, your voice makes you flinch when you finally hear it. Your vocal cords were damaged.

And they torched the whole fucking place! The gun is like iron in your grasp, heavy and cold. Or maybe it was your hands that were the cold ones? You couldn’t tell, but as you lean back into the metal of the warehouse exterior you smirk, blood breaking out from your chapped lips.

Vision once more peeling out, you drop the pistol and slide down, mind floating far above your form and doing jumping-jacks in the clouds. You don’t know how long you’re slumped like that, neck compressed against your chest as your lungs fight for air, but the next thing you remember is panicked shouting.

“--Found her! Warehouse! Blue Jay, open your eyes!” Your eyebrows furrow as strong hands grip you tight, manhandling your body to the ground so you’re laying on your back, “Open your damn eyes, Kid!”

There’s a sound of frantic breathing before the tearing of velcro. Pressure is put on your shoulder.

“Ah!” You scream, bearing your teeth and raging at the sensation of firm hands and an unrelenting weight.

“That’s right,” The smooth voice says, “Keep responding, keep making noise for me.”

“Kee?” You ask, only able to half-open your eyes and call out his nickname that you had never actually used aloud before. If possible, the weight is ramped up ten-fold, and you have to wonder if the Ghost is putting a knee up on you to try and stop the bleeding.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Keegan grunts, and his body comes into view as your eyes clear, though one is more muddled than the other; like a body of water filled with mud. Afternoon light shines off the man’s combat vest and back attire, his signature balaclava looking like it had been messed with and run over with rough hands. His black face paint is patchy and in places streaked. Keegan looked tired, you numbly realized as a chill made you shiver, “Look at me.”

You were.

His eyes snap to meet yours, and you’re taken aback by the creases around them; the wrinkles straining his forehead and nose bridge. The color is darker as well, no longer a calm and blank blue but a fiery shade, burning and boiling water. They flash when they already see you looking at him, and his high-hackled shoulders minutely lower as they soften to give you that look that you love. You pray only you’re privy to that look because it makes your shaking hands heat up.

“You have reall–really pretty eyes,” You whisper, voice cutting out, “You know that?”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” He says, eyes flickering away and scanning your body. Behind the fabric you see his lips pull back in a soundless snarl, “But If you think they’re so pretty you’ll have to trouble keepin’ yours locked on ‘em, right?”

You can’t laugh, so the small exhalation from your mouth will have to do. Your eyelids flicker.

“Hey,” Keegan’s hand goes to your cheek, jostling your head so hard you groan, “The hell did I just tell you, Blue?”

“...Hurts,” You whimper, tears gathering as your lips twitch.

You can only do so much to push back the inevitable, and every breath feels like someone’s shoving your chest into a table saw.

Keegan moves one hand from your shoulder and sets it on your cheek, tilting your head to the side, “I know it hurts, Blue, but you gotta keep lookn’ at me, okay? You’re doing good.”

It was the softest you had ever heard him speak. His finger brushes your undereye and makes your eyelashes flutter open.

“There she is,” He grunts, and with a start, you see he’s pushed up his face covering, the fabric a bundle on top of his head. Your face heats at his handsome visage, roaming his lips and cheekbones, “there’s my girl.”

“I didn’t know if you were going to,” Fluid pools in the back of your mouth, and you cough before you can continue, sprinkles of phlegm and blood spraying Keegan’s attire. He doesn’t seem to care, “come back for me,” Uttering the words weakly, you feel yourself speak as if separate from your own body, a willing participant watching just beyond the way of sight.

Keegan’s eyes narrow, face pulling closer unconsciously as if he were trying to shield you with his body from the gunfire far off behind him. Across the field, familiar voices had started to ring out.

“Why the hell would you think that? What kind of dumbass made you–” He stops when your eyes sneak away in shame, numb lips pulling down as tears make your sclera red. A pause ensues before a deep sigh falls from his lips; Keegan taps his thumb on your cheek until you look back at him. His face is tense, but a blatant surety is in his tone, “I would never leave you behind. If you had trouble figuring all that out until now, then you don’t anymore. Got it?”

“Copy, Sarge,” Your eyebrows soften, body going slack and loose. Keegan’s hand is so warm, “You know...I really would have liked to go out on a date with you.”

Eyes going out of focus, your head lulls before Keegan can rip you back to the present with his deep words just as the ground reverberates under you. They say the sense of hearing is the last to go, and that rings true, because the last thing you remember is Keegan’s voice yelling your name so gutturally that you almost miss Merrick’s voice.

“Blue! Shit, Elias, we need Med Evac down here, now! She’s down!”

—

The Med Ward was just how you remembered it, but the man sitting in the chair near the window was new. You were no stranger to the alcoholic scent of the rooms, the blinding overhead lights, and the coarse bed sheets. Around your body, the tight bindings restricted you from sitting up and walking, so for upwards of ten minutes you had stared at Keegan’s figure.

He was sleeping, in nothing more than a black T-shirt and cargo pants. His head was tilted to the side and his arms crossed over his chest; legs out and crossed at the ankles as his combat boots rest on the tile. You should wake him up. You should, but you haven’t and probably won't. Keegan’s dark hair is glowing in an early morning light, making it glow amber and cover him like a halo.

The pillow under your head is hard, uncomfortable, and stinks of bleach, but instead of worrying about it, your mind was running over what you had said before you passed out.

“You know...I really would have liked to go out on a date with you.”

Fuck me, Cheeks heating, your eyes flicker down his body, catching his veiny arms and watching his chest steadily rise and fall. Had you really said that?

Your head begins to hurt, and not only from the tight bindings and the gauze pad around it.

“You’re staring, Little Blue.” Gasping, your eyes widen in their sockets at the sleep-dipped tone.

Keegan’s eyes slide open fluidly as if he were never asleep in the first place. His head moves to right itself and stare directly at you, blinking slowly. Locking gazes, you freeze as your jaw goes slack – it was a good thing you were on pain meds because otherwise, your ribs would be aching at the way your breath halted. Stuttering, you let the room lapse into silence as he watches you. Keegan’s lips flicker into a smirk.

Standing he stalks over to you and drags the chair behind him. Getting about a foot or two away, he stops and flips the chair forward carefully before sitting down once more. Keegan leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees as you watch.

“...You feeln’ alright? Need me to get the nurse?” He has black and blue under his eyes, colored iris’ strained. Keegan was a man of few words – his actions always spoke louder; like how he let you keep his knife, or told you to go to bed when you were up late shooting.

At that moment the cold Ghost’s hand went to your arm, lightly brushing over the bandages and pauses to see if you register any pain. When he doesn’t see any discomfort, he settles his grip and runs his fingers over your skin.

You blink.

“I’m good.” The words come out breathlessly, and where his touch continues to rove, sparks light under the skin.

Keegan’s soft sigh enters the cold air, and his gaze flickers to the floor for a moment. His jaw clenches, like there was something in his head that refused to come out of his lips. The man’s scream still haunted you – how he yelled your name so raw and vulnerable. You had never heard something like that from him, not even when he had to have you stitch him up one time during a mission.

I’m never letting you anywhere a needle again, He had said with his face flushed of color. You really were bad at sutures.

Smiling to yourself, you lift your hand with every bit of cotton sticking to your brain and shimmy it out of his delicate grip. Not wanting to hurt you he pulls back and looks with wide eyes at what you were doing.

“Kid, I don’t–” His comment is halted when your fingers graze his cheek, just the tiniest hint of stubble making your fingers itch perfectly. Freezing like a bird, Keegan’s sights are set on you, confusion bleeding into this expression as his lips pull into a line.

This was stepping a line you hadn’t crossed before, but you didn’t really care all that much.

Caressing his jaw, your hand cradles his face. To your surprise, Keegan leaned into you, tension leaving and body going slack like putty in your grip; a second later, his hand comes and encompasses your own, molten heat radiating into your bloodstream. Your heart skips a beat when his eyelashes flutter closed.

“Tired?” You ask, slightly amused.

“No,” Keegan grumbles, face blank, and you flinch as a laugh barks from your lips. Not a good idea. Weaving his fingers so he can grip your hand more tightly, he peels you from his face and opens his eyes.

Watching you and clocking your emotions, he lays your hand to his lips and lays a gentle kiss, lips moving over your skin as he places another right after. You’re surprised you don’t catch on fire – especially with that look on his face.

How could a man so cold be as gentle as he was with you?

“You worried the boys,” He says when he pulls back but still holds your hand close, “Ajax nearly strangled Elias to get him to hurry up and go after you.”

Smirking, you hum, “And you? Were you worried, Kee?” Teasing with the nickname, you watch as a small smile forms over his face, eyes lingering so beautifully on your visage.

“No,” You raise a brow at the bare answer, but he wasn’t done, “I was damn near terrified.” Licking your lips, you watch him track the motion, and he rises and leans closer to you, “What gave you the right to make me feel like that, Kid,” His breath fans over your cheeks, and your eyes flutter when his nose caresses your own. You can feel his eyes bore into you, unrelenting as they look over every pore and mark.

Keegan’s lips whisper over yours.

Yes, Your mind sings at the contact, and a small whimper falls into the air.

“...Who gave you the right to make me want to be yours?” All but growling the words out, his lips descend onto yours, firm but still gentle. He would never hurt you, even if he wanted to feel you against him. You were injured, and that reality never failed to leave his head.

So for now, he would kiss you as if you were the most delicate of glass; worship your skin and bestow on it everything he couldn’t say.

As you both move together, his hands come up and grab at your jaw as your own travel to rest on his chest that looms over your own, mapping out the dip of his muscles and the way he shivers when your nails rake into the fabric of his shirt.

This was what you had wanted, to feel him move over you and flex as your fingers go to grip at his hair.

Pulling back, the man pants in breath with you, lips were swollen. It was quite the sight, and you swore you felt your pupils dilate just by staring at him. Keegan hums deep in his chest and then places his forehead gently to your own – careful of the bandages and, most likely, stitches that live under there.

“I lost your knife,” You whisper out, and almost cringe at the needy tone of your voice. Were you really this infatuated with the man? …You already knew the answer to that question.

“Don’t worry about it,” Keegan grunts, and keeps the knowledge of the fact that the blade was already paced back in your room by his own hands to himself, “I’ll make sure you pay for it when you’re well enough to be discharged. Can’t have my Blue Jay leaving weapons behind, now can we?”

It’s safe to say you prayed for a speedy recovery, just like how poets of days long past wished for a gentle rain or mist-filled morning – if only to have something to quietly worship.

#keegan p russ #call of duty keegan #keegan x reader #call of duty #cod x you #cod x reader #cod #cod: ghosts

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daughterofyore · 1 year

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{{Drabble}} George and his anxiety.

wc;; 661

summary;; George has anxiety about an upcoming speech and you calm him down.

contents;; fluff, sweet nothings, loving caresses, stressed George and signs of mania.

a/n;; although I do write smut mainly I wanted to start filling up my repertoire of work. So, I decided to add in a very small lil drabble for ‘just George’. :)

!!W!!;; none really, signs of his mania? (Shaking hand) and anxiety.

George, sweet loveable George. He sat in the upholstered leather chair at the large mahogany desk in his study, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t raise his eyes to meet yours, he didn’t even glance up as you walked into the study. Your dress hissed along the ground, it’s brilliant floral design cascading down the sides, bedecked with jewels and your hair in a very fashionable up-do. A very classic Georgian era outfit.

You approached his desk, placing a gentle hand on his back between his shoulder blades. “What troubles you dearest?” You question him softly, beginning to rub small circles on his back. He looked up at you, brows scrunched together and eyes glassy. Had he been crying?

“I am… frustrated my dear.” He slapped a hand on top of papers, a quill lay discarded to the right. Ink leaked along the table, threatening to spill off the edge and onto the expensive carpets below. “I have to ready a speech for government. Make my presence known and make sure they remember me.” He scoffed incredulously, shaking his head as if it was hard to believe. “Yet, my nerves will not settle. I am beginning to panic and-“ you noticed his hand began to shake, the tell tale sign of an episode threatening to take hold of him. You squatted down at his side, gently placing a hand on his knee, demanding his unwavering attention.

“My love, I will help you be the best you can be. I know you will do excellently for there is nothing you can’t do.” A small smile tugs at your lips and his quiver in response, fighting back a wave of emotions. “You will be amazing, an excellent king and a wonderful speaker. You need not worry about how they perceive you. You are George, King of the United Kingdom’s.” You stood, taking his face in your hands. Cupping his cheeks and whispering, “And you are my husband.” His shoulders slumped and he stood, now towering over you. He held your gaze, smiling.

“My beautiful wife.” He brushed his fingers along your cheek, they no longer shook. “What would I ever do without you?” His voice broke a bit, but he held firm in not allowing tears to fall. You reached up and squeezed his hand.

“I’m sure you would be fine, I am merely a help.” He shook his head, making a disgusted face.

“You are absolutely not! Yes, you may help me but you are so much more. You are my wife, my love, the mother of my children you-“ He sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to be flush with his front. “You are everything and more. Venus could not compare to your divinity.” You hid your face in his chest, trying to conceal the blush creeping along your face.

“Come darling, let’s go and get some tea to settle ourselves.” You spoke into his chest and he chuckled at your shyness, tenderly grasping your shoulders and pushing you back so that he may see you.

“I love it when you blush. You look so cute.” He smirked, pressing a kiss to your forehead and taking your hand in his. He began to walk towards the parlour. He told Reynolds to bring you tea and confectioneries, once he had vanished down the hall and around a corner George spun to you and scooped you into his arms. He began to rush down the hall, eliciting screams and giggles of joy from you.

He pushed the door open with his foot and lay back on a chaise longue, placing you on top of him. He began to trace lazy circles over your stomach once you were both settled. His other hand playing with your fingers. Before the servants knocked on the door with the tea he whispered into your ear, his breath hot and titillating.

“I love you, my beautiful wife.”

#bridgerton #bridgerton series #bridgerton smut #bridgerton spoilers #king george bridgerton #king george iii #king george x f!reader #king george x reader #queen charlotte #bridgerton fanfiction #king George drabble #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton fic #bridgerton men #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton family

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loganlermanstanaccount · 11 months

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Rigor Mortis (part 2)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 1, Part 3

summary: Your new roommate has... interesting habits.

warnings: sexually suggestive, nothing explicit.

a/n: i think i've realised miggy in this fic is a combo of his movie and comic counterpart. Miguel O'Hara: part-time whore lmfaooo

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 4.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

lady death, at the cradle of a babe.

You've decided: if Miguel's the Sun, then you're a black hole. Cold and dark where he was warm, to seemingly everyone else but you. Even then, the metaphor didn't carry, and O'Hara wasn't quite the shining centre of the universe you had first thought him to be.

In the dim gloom of a little lamp on your bedside table, you’re left squinting at a crisp white document. Blank; save for a thousand tabs open, and the blue links of a half-hearted bibliography. You’ve got the bare bones of an assignment; left too late, as usual. The rest lies at the tip of your tongue; nips at the ends of your fingers like the heat of cigarette butts, and as fleeting as wispy smoke in an ashtray. To get yourself through it, you’ve resorted to romanticising it all, pretending you're a wistful poet dipping the feathered end of a quill into ink. Writing something… revolutionary; as opposed to the mish-mash of articles and studies you’ve crammed within the last hour and a half. There’s a pounding at your skull: the dull beginnings of a migraine, most likely. You squeeze at your temples, eyes shut – and the thrum matches the thud at your thin walls. Rhythmic, obscene, and it creates a cruel staccato; shaking the flimsy plasterboard that separates your room from your roommate’s.

He’s fucking someone. Loud, like it can’t be heard by half the complex. It's the third girl he’s had over in as many weeks. Not that you were keeping count. For a supposed tutor, you hadn’t seen much studying - despite the bright eyed young women that seemed to be at your doorstep most days. Perhaps you're being dramatic, but you couldn’t quite wrap your head around the kind of pupils Miguel had had the privilege to “teach”.

You remember the first time the true weight of Jia’s words became clear: whilst banging on the front door after a draining day of lectures.

You’d forgotten your keys after rushing out the morning of, and arrived to a locked door in the afternoon. You had been starving, insides churning with the thought of takeout you’d saved the night before; a greasy bag nestled in the corner of your shelf in the fridge. So maybe you'd been antsy, irritable at a stretch; fist on the door like a divorce lawyer, hungry in more ways than one.

Wasn’t Miguel already home? He had to be, you can hear the low tones of his voice leaking from the gaps at the sides of the door. And.. rustling, the shift of fabric tousled and pillows hitting the floor. It’s then that you hear another voice, higher pitched; gentle and soft where his is baritone. If you’re not mistaken; and something at the pit of your stomach hopes you are, for some reason; he’s laughing, speaking in hushed tones, whilst she giggles at something he said. You bang at the door even harder, hoping the sharp rap-rap-rap interrupts him. It feels like you’ve had half of your college’s senior cohort in the city in and out of your apartment - or, at the very least, the pretty ones. For some reason, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; and your knuckles sting against the lacquered wood. You’ve half a mind to shout into the keyhole, to tell him to hurry the fuck up, or else–

Miguel opens, brow tight, and wiping something from his lips with the back of his hand. It’s suspicious; he looks carefully flushed, lips plump and cheeks slightly ruddy. You notice the way his head flops onto the lip of the open door; slightly out of breath like he’s done a dozen push ups. And with the way his biceps flex and tense under his open button up; paired with some slacks in a pitiful attempt to look less slutty; he might have. The image makes you purse your lips to stop inappropriate laughter: Miguel on the floor, brows kneaded in concentration as the woman in your apartment looks on, entranced. It feels more plausible than the reality; making out on your couch, whilst her hands travel to undo the button at his waistband.

What doesn’t help, is the look he gives you; like you’ve interrupted something important.

“Oh.” He says, clearly deflated. “It’s… you.”

You flash him a sarcastic smile and push past into the front room. You’ve seen her before: the girl on your couch. Sarah, a pretty thing in Miguel’s advanced Math class, you’d learned from the last few weeks. It’s not the first time she’d been over, but she doesn’t usually stay; rather, she’d drop something off at the door and twirl her hair whilst she waited. You’d answer, because of course he was never home at the right times, and she’d crane her head in for a glimpse of him. The first time; you were struck by the effortlessness of her beauty. And on your sofa, she seemed hardly fazed; the gentle curve of her stomach and thighs spilling onto the tattered cushions, donned in a patterned sundress. Her lips are pert, curved into a knowing smile as she giggles at the scene you and Miguel make at the door.

“Hey, Sarah.” You give her a small wave as you make your way into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. However, you don’t have the energy to dignify Miguel with a response – so you stay silent. He bristles.

“You don’t have a key, or something?” You’re digging through the shelves as he calls out to you, hands on his hips like you’re in the wrong. You can’t help but hiss under your breath. He’s got an attitude, when only one of you had been left outside the door; starved and exhausted. And the other: getting off on your sofa. Poor Miguel, left with a limp dick and full balls.

"Forgot." Your answer is curt, and you don't even bother to look up. You can hear him scoff, incredulous - as if the mere idea was so offensive. It makes anger bubble up at your gut, head still buried behind the fridge door.

"That's convenient." You can't hear the words that come out after, but you're sure it's not exactly glowing praise. You lob a hypothetical grenade over the lip of the fridge door: a middle finger, crisp and clear.

Takeout in hand, and a bag over your shoulder that feels like a concrete block; you drag yourself to your room, without giving Miguel so much as a second glance. When the door slams, you're hit with the full weight of Jia's words; a moment that seems so long ago. Miguel's probably picky about who he tutors for the same reason people swipe left and right on dating apps: he's an unrepentant whore.

The thought had seemed somewhat premature, at the time. You had had little to no evidence: a string of pretty women in your apartment did not a slut make, after all. It wasn't quite enough, just a knee-jerk reaction after a bad day. The most charitable interpretations tell you that by all means, your roommate is an upstanding guy. A model student; who left his undergrad with honours and a disgustingly high GPA, head of half a dozen clubs and societies, and currently getting his masters sponsored by a prestigious biotech company in the city. He’s a chronic overachiever, more or less. All things you've learnt from the people he’s tutored, small talk in between sessions (and they’ve all been nice enough). It seems a little more than convenient that the prettiest ones end up in your apartment - in his bed. And yet, you can’t get a straight answer from the man himself. Favours for a couple of friends, he says every time you complain.

With the noises you hear from the room over, you wonder how he treats the friends he really likes.

You think he’s doing it on purpose. That’s the only explanation you’re left with as you massage your temples in desperation. A steady pounding, that makes the shared wall shudder. Interspersed with graphic moans, the higher pitched panting of his partner; Yes Miguel and Just like that; seems to blend with his groans. Sleep pulls at your eyes, and you want to scream into the pillows. It’s muffled, but you can make out his voice beyond the wall; low, hushed tones that makes desire pool at the base of your stomach. And you’d rather die than admit it; but you zone out for a moment, a little lost in the haze of a daydream. God, his stamina. It feels like they’ve been going for hours, obscene grunts and groans spilling into your room. The wide span of his shoulders, the way light is cut at his jawline - and you wonder what he’d look like on top, or the sounds he’d make underneath.

Shaking your head, you try to convince yourself: it's the lack of sleep that makes you think of the way his hands would feel on your waist.

~~~

The honeymoon stage, if there ever was one, was well and truly over.

In the morning, you’re woken up by the thud of the front door. Laptop cracked open on the covers, you shift to wipe the drool crusted on the side of your mouth. The good news: you remember getting down a couple thousand words before fitful sleep. Not to a great standard, of course, but as your deadline approaches, you’re grateful for whatever you can scrape together. Stretching, your back creaks with the memory of last night: hunched over your laptop, barely able to concentrate. Still in pyjamas from last night, you pad into the front room, looking for water to satisfy your dry mouth.

The bad news: you’re met with Miguel on the sofa, splayed out on the cushions lazily. There’s a mug of something on a side table, which he’s clearly neglected; eyes closed, and an arm drawn upwards to expose the tan skin of his chest. He’s wearing nothing but loose plaid pants, hair a mess and frustratingly peaceful. For once, he’s not wearing the perpetual frown you’ve been subjected to for the past few weeks, and he looks five years younger as a result. You tilt your head to the side – like a mere 90 degrees would make him look any different – and you can’t believe this was the man who was terrorising you the night before. He looks… cute. Innocent, almost.

The sight makes you scoff. You snatch a glass from the cupboard with a clink-clink, and he stirs. You watch him stretch as you fill it; a mop of brown peeking over the back of the couch. He peers over, groggy and seemingly confused.

"....When did you get back?" His voice is gravelly, heavy with last night's sleep – or lack thereof. You ignore the feelings it stirs up; pleasant and comfortable and domestic.

"Good morning to you too, " You say it under your breath but he hears; catches it and holds it at his chest like a songbird. One hand over his heart, he smiles, wide; a lazy, sarcastic grin, but it still makes your face heat up. It's too damn early for this, you think. "I wasn't… for fuck's sake… I came back last night."

"Oh." He frowns, sweeping into the kitchen, and opening up the cupboard.

"I couldn't sleep." Miguel's not stupid, and you wait for him to take the hint. "There was… too much noise last night."

"So that's why you're up early." He clicks his tongue. "You don't have a lecture to be late for?"

"You don't have another girl to fuck and ignore?" Without missing a beat, you snap at him – too tired and annoyed to entertain it.

"Ouch." It's blaise, thrown over his shoulder without a second thought. He doesn't even look at you, head buried and eyes scanning the shelves – looking for his morning coffee, no doubt. He finds it, opening the packet and elbowing you in the process, and you give him a glare. Did he have to do that right next to you?

You catch the ghost of a smile on his face.

"...Miguel?" You say; quietly, because you can't quite find your next words.

"Hmm?" He hums, fiddling around with the machine; a ritual you've only caught glimpses of.

How do you tell your roommate you can hear him have obnoxious sex through thin walls? Well, probably by opening your mouth and saying it, but anything resembling your true feelings dies in your throat.

He doesn't prompt you to finish the question, choosing to let the silence wash over you both. The clattering of a spoon against ceramic is the only noise in the little kitchen. It's not something you hear too often - never waking up at the same time as Miguel through a combination of coincidence and sheer willpower. Naturally, your routines are asynchronous - a half step, half-hearted jig to crashing music. That is to say: if you and your roommate were partners in a… ballroom, perhaps: you’d be stepped-on-toes and two-left-feet on the dancefloor. Disastrous, to say the least.

And yet, half-asleep, you watch as he pads around the kitchen; poking into cupboards and bringing out the ingredients to a hearty breakfast. Eggs and chorizo and tortillas; your stomach rumbles at the thought of a proper cooked meal. Ever the stereotypical college student, your usual food has mostly been instant noodles and leftovers. Maybe you’re just tired, but he makes the drawers and fridge shelves seem bottomless. It’s clear Miguel eats and he eats well – because of course he does.

“Could you…” You jump a bit when he places a gentle hand at your waist, moving you to the side as he reaches for a chopping board on the counter. “Sorry. Do you mind?”

It’s brief, but the fleeting touch fucks with your head as he cooks. Flashes of the night before run up your spine, electric. You watch his deft fingers fly on the chopping board; slender, a wide palm covering the span of a large pepper. How would they feel on your waist – properly – at the crook of your back, or at your thighs? Sighing, you chew the inside of your cheek and lean your head back against the wall. You feel the whispers of another headache. It's much too early for this.

He puts a pan on the stove. Shirtless, despite the heat of the spitting oil, and he pops a piece of a bell pepper in his mouth with a little smile that makes you roll your eyes. It's smug, somehow, like he knows something you don't – like he knows exactly what he did yesterday (or rather, who) and he’s enjoying your reaction.

Except: you’re exhausted, and he’s giggling like you’ve caught a kid with cookie crumbs on their face, empty jar in hand.

It’s a quiet he sits with, comfortable; moving around the space with the kind of familiarity that comes with time. It makes you wonder just how long he's been here, which other roommates he’s terrorised over the years. Maybe, Miguel’s got a reputation, and there’s a Yelp review sitting somewhere you’ve neglected to read.

“Did you see her leave?” He still doesn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes are trained at the eggs on the pan, onions and veg making a lopsided smile in the runny yolk. Even his food seems smug.

“Her?” You frown, not quite following.

“...Katie?” He says it like it’s obvious, as if her name alone should set off half a dozen bells in your head. It’s Katie, this time - not Jia, or Sita, or the slew of other girls he’s been fucking in the past few weeks alone.

Your eye twitches. Involuntarily, of course, but it feels like your body is physically rejecting his bullshit.

“I didn’t know she stayed the night.” A lie, obviously. You heard her well enough through the walls, not even a couple of hours ago.

“S’okay,” He shakes his head, nonchalant. You trace the curve of his shoulders and gentle slope of his plump lips. “I would’ve called her an Uber, or something.”

“You’re a gentleman, Miguel.”

And he laughs, a deep rumble that rings off the tiles. Admittedly, you like the way it sounds, and the way his eyes crinkle up into crows feet. He’s pretty, you think. In an annoying kind of way.

Oh, fuck him. You get closer, and stick a fingertip into the rich red of the pan. Wrapping your lips around it, with the heat of Miguel at your back, and yes, it's fine. Okay, fucking incredible – you know, nothing you haven’t tasted before.

Making eye contact, you watch him blink in surprise. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of himself; not dripping with the arrogance of a few minutes ago. Not wanting to give anything away, you keep your face steady.

"Needs salt, I think."

The spell is broken and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "I've seen the crap you shovel into that big mouth of yours… ¿mi mamá no me enseñó a cocinar para que vengas a decirme que sabe mal…?"

[My mom didn't teach me how to cook so you can come here and tell me it tastes bad…?]

It's your turn to smile at the sweet taste of revenge. Not enough to fuel the next couple hours of essay writing, but a small victory nonetheless. You flash him pink tongue, and watch as his gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second.

"More salt?" He scoffs. "You wouldn't know good food if it bit you on the ass."

It's childish, but he chucks a tea towel at your head; and you narrowly miss it.

"Asshole." You spit out, frustrated. Your stomach grumbles, loud, and you watch his face crack, amused.

His lips curve into a shit-eating grin. "Idiot."

Face tight, you storm out of the kitchen.

You're holed up in your room for the rest of the day; only leaving for snack and toilet breaks. Luckily, Miguel doesn't disturb you, except for a full plate left outside your doorstep in the morning. It tastes delicious; warm and homely, but you'd rather pull your teeth out than see that stupid fucking grin on his face. Instead, you give him a grudging thanks, shrugging as if to say: it was somewhat edible.

And when you hit send on your essay, with a whole 11 minutes to spare, you sigh in relief. You got through it, eventually; even though your roommate is trying to kill you, your new apartment is falling apart and you're failing half your classes already. But you're through the day, and approaching the end of the week with minimal emotional damage. Key word: minimal.

In the warmth under the covers of your bed, it makes you think. It can't get any worse, right? It won't – it can't.

Something shifts. Like a rip in the space time continuum or a malevolent god, the universe snatches up that thought; ripe and ready to spit you back out onto the fire.

~~~

You wake up and something feels off, already. For one, light streams in through the blinds, a slight chill from the open window. It’s peaceful, and the first thing you hear is the song of morning birds just beyond the glass, instead of cars and clattering garbage trucks.

But it’s a Friday, and you’ve got that 9:00am; the one you were insane enough to sign up for at the beginning of the semester. What you should be hearing is the call-for-war of your alarm; the one that slaps you square across the face and wakes you the fuck up. On time, of course, but still the kind of sound that strikes fear into the hearts of grown men. Groggy, you wipe the sleep from your eyes. And then you frown. The lilting chirp of songbirds (well-fed pigeons that shit all over your windowsill, large enough to be classed as biological weapons), instead of your alarm…?

Your hands go cold, and dread creeps in. Reaching for your phone, you click it on and it shuts off just as quickly. You’re met with the red icon of a dead battery. Fuck.

Leaping out of bed, you rush into the hallway. From there, you see Miguel; out of his workout clothes and flitting in and out the kitchen. Except usually, at this time he’s just coming back from his run and banging at the door to hurry you out of the shower. He spots you and furrows his brow in confusion.

“Aren’t you meant to be…?”

You don't let him finish, and call out. “–What’s the time?”

He looks at his watch. “Uhhh… quarter past 8?”

“Fuck!” It erupts out of you, and you bite down the rest; opting to dart back into your room.

Miguel gets closer, pops his head towards your door; in the careful kind of way someone might approach a sleeping bear.

“Are you–”

When you open it in a robe and toiletries bag in hand, he’s there; tentative, and slow, and in your way. A beat passes and your eyes widen, incredulous. Like a fucking lump of coal, he’s slow on the uptake.

“...Move.”

You push past him into the bathroom and he throws his hand up to surrender. You’re the oddest person he’s had the pleasure (?) of sharing an apartment with, he thinks. Mostly harmless, but hard to read.

The shower sputters to life, changing from hot to ice cold in a second. You grit down a scream, powering through it until the suds wash off. Sheer resolve makes you towel off and change in record time.

You’re grabbing your bag and chucking whatever you can find in the fridge onto bread. Whilst making a crude sandwich, you’re distracted – going through the calculations in your head. You’ve got a train to catch in about 20 minutes, and if you keep a brisk pace you can make the walk in 15. When you switch subway lines to get across town, it’ll be tight, but you can make it up by cutting across the barriers and keeping those elbows sharp on the stairs. God forbid you miss the transfer, because you’ll have to wait another 15 minutes for the next one and–

Miguel watches by the doorway, a little amused. So caught up in your own world, you don’t notice. He takes a sip of a mug of hot coffee, and you look up. Your face, cute and all scrunched up as you concentrate; but he can’t help but enjoy the flash of displeasure on your face.

“Don’t want to hear it.” You’re spreading butter aggressively, if there was ever such a thing.

He shrugs. “...I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear it, Miguel. You’re thinking out loud, and…” Wrapping up your meal in tinfoil, you stuff it into your bag. “...I don’t have the time to tell you to fuck off.”

With a little gasp, he clutches at hypothetical pearls. He gives you a sarcastic grin before you’re off – slamming the front door in your wake.

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #eventual smut #angst #kat_writes😼#rigor mortis 😼

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mcondance · 21 days

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say yes (please?) > peter quill

fem reader, pathetic peter

peter’s like a big dog.

you know, the ones who don’t really know just how big they are?

he’s also a little pathetic— lovingly, i promise, especially when it comes to you getting his dick wet.

which culminates into this; his forehead resting on your shoulder with you pressed against a wall in the ship, tucked off in a hall no one really passes.

“please? lemme— fuck,” he groans when his dick, hard and trapped in those fucking pants, catches against your thigh. the pressure has his head spinning and he’s seeing stars much like the ones he passes through all the time.

his hands encase your waist, he makes light work of shrouding your body with his. and his lips are trailing up your neck, slow and sweet as molasses and as entrapping as it too.

you’re weak, always are when it comes to him, and he didn’t even have to beg before you were ready to let him in. he’s hiking your leg up with one hand and pressing it around him and before you know it he’s got your panties and shorts pulled to the side and he’s breaching your cunt, stretching you on his cock.

your mouth slack, your hands threaded in his curls, you watch with barely opened eyes the way your cunt envelops him, swallowing his thick cock. he’s all whiny, soft breathy moans tumbling from his lips as he feels your warmth overtake him, your wet, soft walls kissing his length. the stretch burns but its a heat you’ve grown to love, a marker of the absolute weapon he’s got between his thick thighs.

“you take it so—, fuckin’ stargirl,” he breathes in awe, chest heaving as he inches inside you, taking it slow so he can drink in the celestial sight. the last push is one of his favorite things, the little breath you give him when he’s flush against you finally, the way it feels to be completely fucking intertwined. its what made him herd you into this corner and grovel like a sinner before his star.

well, partly at least. he pulls out and sinks right back in, stirring up your stomach. your eyes roll back at the feel of the pretty veins on his cock rubbing against you, and they squeeze shut when he hits that deep spot inside you. he’s all rambly, like he always is when he gets like this, spilling out, “so good, so fucking good, baby.”

feeling your body move with his, hearing your back slide against the wall through his shirt, hearing himself fuck the breath out of your lungs is something else he’ll grovel for. you leak and gush around his cock, around his big cock, and you make him fit, and you just barely muster his name before you suck in air and a whine, and it has his head swimming, full of light and flames.

the hand wrapped around your thigh squeezes tight. his fingers dig into your hot skin. “don’t know how i go so long without it,” he confesses, “should give rocket what he wants and let him steer this thing the whole time so we can fuck back here till we can’t anymore. can we, honey, please?”

you reduce him to this, this whiny mess. strong only in his hands holding you up and his thrusts pinning you to the wall and his overwhelming urge to get laid. he’s pathetic, but he’s a world-shaking fuck, and that’s why he always gets what he wants. rocket steers the ship for the rest of the trip. peter makes sure to fuck somewhere you can see the stars pass by.

#— 🎠#from the drafts #drafted december 21 2023 #peter quill x black reader #peter quill x reader #peter quill smut #peter quill x you #well!!

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 11 months

Note

Can I request scratching Peter quills back during sex and leaving a bunch of marks 🤭 Thank you so much have a great day :3

hii!! sorry this took longer than I planned, been ill the last week so haven’t been able to write, but on the plus side, I got REALLY into writing this🤭 maybe too much. thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌

markings

Peter Quill x fem!reader

wc || 888

warnings || 18+ only sexually explicit content (implied oral at start (f receiving) mention of a stomach bulge, lots and lots of dirty talk, praise, p in v) minors dni

masterlist + taglist

"You ready, hm?" Peter hazily questions between your thighs, looking up at you as he swipes your cum from the corner of his lips, rubbing your juices on the back of his hand. "Ready for me now, baby?" he asks, kissing a slow trail up your stomach.

You hum, fervidly nodding as your fingers eagerly knead into his swole shoulders, urging him back up to you.

"Yeah?" he coos, watching the desperation in your eyes. His head hangs low, looking down at you with a patronising glimmer as he cups your jaw. "Tell me you want me? Go on, honey. Tell me with that pretty little mouth of yours," he whispers against your lips, lightly nibbling on the bottom one.

"I want you," you rasp, your words muffled against him. Your tone was pathetic, utterly pathetic— just desperate and needy, and Peter loved it. He loved the effect he had on you. How he could get you to say anything he wanted in times like this, get you to do anything he wants.

"Aw," he coos once more, bruising your lips with a harsh kiss. "I know, honey," he cockily grins, sitting up and kneeling between your thighs.

He wraps his rough palm around the base of his cock, rolling over his hardened length as his eyes dart over the beauty of your body below him. Gazing over your stiffened nipples, goosebumped tummy, eager eyes, everything— staring over you like he was mesmerised.

His hands hook around your waist, dragging you along the mattress so you're almost touching, so close. He slides his leaking, swollen head through your folds, pushing his tip past your lips to collect your arousal around his head. He coats himself in your flavour, using you as lube.

He slowly guides his cock in, poking his tip into your pretty pussy, gingerly sinking into your warmth. "Fuck—“ he groans, cutting himself off with a harsh exhale. "You can take it, you can take it," he whispers, sliding further into you. "That's it— god, that's it... such a good girl, hm?" he praises, feeling his head press up to your cervix, bottoming out.

You melt over him with his praise, wrapped tightly around him, almost like you were hugging his dick.

"Aw, look at that," he says, his words hoarse as he rubs over the stomach bulge, teasing his head through your skin. "Takin' me so well," he grins, sliding his hands to your waist. He pulls you closer, just a bit closer, like he wanted— needed even more of you. "Yeah— yeah, that's it," he smirks, grazing his palm over your public bone, itching his thumb to your clit, thumbing over your nub at the speed that matched his steady thrusts.

It all begins to feel like too much, it's like he knows all of the ways to get you off, and he's doing it all simultaneously, like he was purposely trying to consume you. Your urgent hands grip his forearms, holding him as if you were seeking comfort, like you need to feel him, tenderly touch him.

"Please?" you mutter amongst a whimper, sliding your hands up and to his biceps, pulling him down to you. You didn't even know what you were pleading for or what you were asking. It was just all you could muster. His chest is flush with yours as he works into you. You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, moaning half swears against his skin as you enwrap yourself around his body. Knees snuggled to his hips with your arms wrapped around his torso, your hands kneading into the back of his shoulders. "Fu—" you cry out against his chest, your teeth grazing his skin as your fingernails drag over his back, marking him.

"God— fuck, honey, you feel so good," he rasps below your ear, sloppily kissing the skin. "Feel so good around me, baby— so fuckin' good," he murmurs, his words falling past his lips in a drunken haze as he continues to rut you in the way you both need, fucking you into the mattress. "I'm almost there— I'm right there, shit. You gotta cum first. I can't if you don't," he gushes, speaking with desperation as he works into you, his balls heavy as they slap against your ass. "Be a good girl and cum around my dick. You want to be a good girl for me, don't ya? Don't you? Yeah, that's it— god. Doing so good,"

Your nails dig into Quill's back, scratching and dragging, leaving a trail of pink markings over his skin as you reach your high, convulsing and clamping around him with your release. His face is pained as he holds himself off, bottom lip clamped with his teeth as he halts his release, waiting for you to finish yours.

His jaw is slack, and his breathing staggers as he drags his cock from you, rolling over his head as he spills his load over your lower stomach, twitching in his fist.

“God, fuck—" he groans, flopping beside you almost as if his body gave out.

"Sorry about your back," you chuckle, breathing heavily. "Got carried away," you sigh, rolling over to rest on Peter's chest.

"Don't be... I liked it," he boyishly grins, kissing the crown of your head. "Liked it quite a lot."

taglist- @annielr @ugh09876554444 @spacetalbot @bubblezuku @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser @queerponcho @selfryed @traiitorjoe

#peter quill #peter quill fanfic #peter quill x female reader #peter quill x reader #peter quill imagine #peter quill x fem!reader #peter quill smut #peter quill fanfiction #star lord #gotg fanfiction

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murdrdocs · 1 year

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big, broad, corn-fed half-god peter quill DEFINITELY has a size kink and you cannot tell me any different

i wont tell u any different bc ur right.

he's so big and broad and buff and he knows this. he's always flexing, just to get on your nerves, or talking about how he could easily overpower you, again, just to get on your nerves. and you pretend to be uninterested, rolling your eyes, scoffing, punching his shoulder which does absolutely nothing.

but when it comes down to it, you love the way peter has so much strength over you. you're obsessed with it, but not nearly as much as him.

he's teasing you, pouting and running the leaking head of his cock up through your folds. "don't think it'll fit. what'd you think, babe?" he's always commenting on how much smaller you are when he's driving into you, pulling little squeaks from your parted lips. "look at that, tiny little thing managed to fit me."

he loves to bend and fold you however he sees fit. pressing you into a counter while he holds your hips still, keeping you secure against him. "no, no, no, no. don't try to run away, sweetheart." there's this one time where he just can't get enough of you, originally fucking you in casual missionary that turns into him pulling you into his lap, your legs held open by both of his hands, most of your weight on your upper back. he openly marveled at how open you were for him then, thinking about how you were so much smaller than him, so much weaker, that you practically had to bend and turn however he wanted you to.

but his absolute favorite way to have you is in a mating press, legs pushed back against your tits by his strong arms, the ones that you hold onto, your nails digging into his skin while your cunt is forced to swallow all of him.

#yeahhh #peter quill x you #peter quill smut #peter quill x reader #quillsworld!#celeste writes mcu #peter quill x gn!reader

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incorrectquotesmcu · 1 month

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Rocket, about Gamora: She gave me that look that makes my ass leak.

Quill: I am familiar with that look.

#source: orange is the new black #rocket incorrect quotes #rocket raccoon #peter quill #peter quill incorrect quotes #star lord #gamora #marvel incorrect quotes #marvel #guardians of the galaxy

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