A/N: seriously, I almost titled this chapter "idiot" , XD (and that's also the spoiler alert XD)
part 1 to too much
part 2 : not enough
***
One year ago
„When will you get those irrational thoughts out of your head Y/N?”
“What irrational thoughts?”
[nsfw below]
konig and his little partner are paired up with the 141 for whatever reason. maybe their kortac contract was bought out, who knows. all the same, they catch ghost’s eye. how could they not? some pretty little thing and their not so gentle giant. they make no show of hiding their connection. maybe things are different in paramilitary corps, because theyre very, very public with their affections in a way that makes ghost’s cheeks burn with… embarrassment? it couldn’t be jealousy, no.
he cant stop thinking about it. about them. especially after konig wears those stupid gray sweatpants in the gym. he’s huge, of course he is, bigger than simon (something at the intersection between envy and desire twists, wet and ugly, in his chest) and he can’t get it out of his fucking head. they’re so small, does it even fit inside of them? is konig rough, does he bully his cock inside or does he lick them slow until they’re pliant enough to take all of him? and who’s in charge, konig or his little pet? konig is so subservient to them, at their beck and call, following them around the base like a guard dog. does he kneel for them? does he do as he’s told? do they make him?
there are signs. little flashes of a bite marks on konig’s shoulder in the shower stalls, the way he brings them coffee every morning in the mess hall, made just the way they like it, without them even asking. signs of what simon knows to be rope burn on konig’s wrists.
he’s caught staring. because he never made much of an effort to hide it in the first place, if we’re being honest.
and konig and his little friend share a look. and simon swears he sees the giant’s eyes crinkle into a smile under the mask.
Jaskier: hey, do you have a bag I could borrow?
Geralt: the only bags I have are the ones under my eyes, and they’re specifically designed to carry the burden of my existence.
Jaskier: literally all you had to do is say no.
We really let those rich elites convince us golf is a sport. You let them get away with it too, you fucks.
Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!Reader (other pairings later)
Wordcount: 4.5K
Warnings: gore. ptsd. references to captivity and torture. implied cannibalism. implied sex. there are mentions of hair. blood transfusion. needles.
Summary: Red is grievously injured. 141 races against the clock to save her.
A/N: Many thanks to @sprout-fics and @moondirti for reading through this because my damn eyes were crossing. Also, huge thanks to @ghostaholics who helped me with all the blood transfusion nonsense and ghost thots in general
The rain continued to pour down with a violence. The pharmacy was cold-the kind of cold that was trapped in the linoleum and sunk into Price’s skin. Red’s hair had fallen out of its binding-spreading across the dirty floor. The blood was syrupy and dark as mud. Her eyelids hung heavy; her lips parted around uneven breaths. As if time had shifted, Price was suddenly seeing something else: Red Fox lying on that metal table in Kursk, her wrists bone-thin and strapped down. Her face so swollen it was nearly unrecognizable.
It had only been a month. How could they have done the damage they’d done in a single month?
something about these pictures of ghost that makes a tear run down my leg
2022 was a tough year, so I wanted to welcome 2023 with a smile and laughs.
I present to you low quality memes!
This is a PSA to any of my fellow chubby sweethearts out there:
Simon fucking loves every inch of your curves, is so obsessed with your body he hardly knows what to do with himself. He knows you're nothing short of a ethereal, and would happily spend the rest of his life worshipping you, and fuck, if he isn't going to give it his best fucking shot.
He loves the way his clothes envelop you, the hem of his shirt hitting your mid thigh, coaxing his hands to grab the plush of your legs between his fingers, warm and so, so soft. He loves the feeling of you sat on his lap, although it had taken you some coaxing at first, unsure and wary eyes avoiding his gaze as you mumble something about "hurting him", and Simon can't recall the last time he heard something so ridiculous, so he lifts you up, and deposits you straight onto his lap, a bemused smile forming at your adorably shocked expression. It's become both of your favourite forms of skinship ever since.
And he fucking adores your stomach. He doesn't give a single fuck about your opinions on it, he loves it because it's attached to you, because it's a part of a silhouette that has him on his knees and begging just for a second of your attention. He goes near feral at the sight of tummy spilling over the waistband of your panties, and you damn right near kill him every time you turn around and he's met with the sight of your ass peeking out from under alluring lace.
But more than anything else, Simon loves how he can make you feel safe with just his size alone. Over the past year, that arbitrary concern about crushing him or being too shy to wear crop tops has all but vanished, you know that he was made just for you, that he will always love you, absolutely unconditionally. And Simon will always be there to catch you when those pesky insecurities catch up to you once again, with tender kisses to your tummy, worship whispered into your skin so delicately, as though he hopes the words will seep through your pores.
He pants into your mouth, and you can feel the stretch of his grin—a languorous, satiated smile like the sunrise in the winter. All dark, endlessly so, and then suddenly—
Johnny feels like dusk. The first breach of the morning over the lands; a sleepy haze of light eating into the tenebrose that shrouds everything around you. A steak of ochre, gold, in a world of darkness; the varicoloured smear of pastel clouds breaking over the horizon.
Being with him is a little bit like cupping the sun in the palm of your hand.
warnings: soft!Soap, super soft smut, fluff, domestic bliss, two idiots being drunk off of each other; female gendered anatomy, female!reader; very little substance just pure fluff
word count: 4k
notes: coorie is a cuddle in Scots and that’s the cutest thing to me. we just have cwtsh. also, you can’t look me in the eye and tell me this man ISN’T the little spoon.
