I just want to put out some more details about my blog here, especially if you’re wondering about what i write for and about.
I write for cod, rdr, frankenstein, and more, but that’s the main ones. I write a lot of unconventional scenarios—at least, I want to—so that includes horror-like scenarios (dead dove, do not eat). None of that is to be taken literally. These are fictional characters, and I use these themes and plots to explore the characters more in depth.
I also wanna preface by saying that all of what I write is x reader, but I do have some biases. Because of this, in my head while writing, reader is chubby with curly hair and AFAB, and an American raised in Appalachia, so please be aware while reading. These biases can fluctuate
I do take requests! Feel free to send some, or to just DM if you wanna talk :)
I LOST AN EDIT I SAW ON TIK TOK OF NURSE DANA TO THE SONG ILL BELIEVE IN ANYTHING BY WOLF PARADE AND IT HAS DR ROBBY TALKING IN THE BEGINNING PLS HELP ME FIND IT 💔
I love how "Sinners" didn't villify the sinners in the movie. Sammie's father told him that playing music for "drunkards and philanderers who abandon their family responbilities to sweat all over each other" was a sin. And he was right about the kind of people going to the juke joint: Delta Slim is an alcoholic, and Pearline a cheater. It would have been easy to villify them, but the movie tells us that despite their flaws, they are humans worthy of love, respect and freedom.
Delta Slim drinks because he's traumatized by the horrors Black people of his time face. And he's kind and compassionate, encouraging and reassuring Sammie, and sacrificing himself to save everyone else.
Pearline literally saved Sammie's life and sacrificed herself to protect him, a boy she had only known for a day. It shows her kindness because she could have easily stayed back when Remmick tried to bite Sammy and not endangered her life more than necessary.
The movie shows us that preachers blindly condemning those sinners are wrong: Sammie is only alive because drunkards, philanderers and gangsters (Smoke) gave their lives to protect him. They are people, with flaws and qualities.
I love how nuanced the movie is: Sammie's father is not wrong about the kind of people Sammie wants to associate with and their potential bad influence, but he's wrong about them being evil and not deserving of respect.
There is something to say about how people bitch and moan and say they have no culture because they’re American, but then will turn around and wish death to rural areas and call them backwards and behind.
thinking about jack making reader squirt for the first time cause ex!robby never made them do that🤭
MASTERLIST(S) | PREVIOUS PART | INBOX ✉
˙⋆✮ JACK and ROBBY'S EX!READER are fucking... and jack has this trick that can make you temporarily forget that robby ever existed. warnings include language, jack pov, attending!reader, fingering, squirting, bodily fluids
"baby, you keep squirming like that, 'n i can't help you."
you're trembling so hard that your teeth might be chattering, hanging onto jack's thighs with your back to his chest. both of you against the headboard, the man's got his grip all over and inside you. one hand, his palm, is pressing warm below under your belly button. the other has two fingers pumping inside your hole, making sure to curl right into the spot he's been massaging long enough to have you sweating and slurring your words.
"…f-uh-ck you," is all you breathe back, and jack kisses the side of your head before pressing his cheek into the same spot with a silent laugh.
"would," jack croaks, bending his arm to stuff his fingers a little deeper. just because he can. "but 'm kinda in the middle'a something, if you haven't noticed."
a strangled noise cracks out of your throat, and jack hums as to say, yep, right. exactly.
"see, i got this sweet thing wrapped up nice here, who claimed i couldn't make them squirt like a fountain, and yet…" jack trails off to a concentrated, lip-bitten pause at the feeling of a familiar clench around his fingers. grunting, he pumps away until a pretty splash gushes from between your quaking thighs. "here you are. my fuckin' fountain."
jack keeps moving, squelching his hand from you just so swipe flat fingers across your clit to keep you flooding his sheets. even though his lips find your ear to rasp you through, jack can't really talk. too busy watching the way your skin shines and stomach flipping at how you're grabbing at him and begging for something only he's been able to give you.
"i know, baby… i know."
jack helps you loop your arm around his neck as another anchor, patting your belly while you try to breathe between shakes.
There is just something about girl with shortish hair—like a bob—with like very messy hair and big fat chunky glasses that makes me wanna just like do things to her. Like. Idk. Like a very nerdy one too…
I am a girl with short hair and chunky glasses but I fear I will never be like other girls with short hair and chunky glasses 😔
Just Phillip who’s been mouthing off to you all day, even as you’re trying to ride the attitude outta him.
“C’mon, girl,” he grunts, gripping your hips with a bruising hold, fingers digging into supple flesh. Your lips purse, but you don’t stop him, because you have hope he’ll knock it off soon. The biggest problem? He’s fighting off his own orgasm to make this go on longer, like a bad lil’ dog fighting off sleep, barking because it can’t sleep even though they’re keeping themselves up…
You grind your hips down on to his pelvis harder, hoping to sedate him. Instead, he suddenly grabs your arm to keep you in place, while simultaneously groping your ass like he was a virgin, bouncing you up and down along his dick himself, while also thrusting messily. It was just bad, and he knew it was, he was just being an ass.
“Yeah, take it you fucking tramp—“ he’s only able mumble the beginning of a slew of obscenities before you pop him in the mouth with a quick flick of your hand, and that’s what does it. He moans like a bitch as he comes, blood dripping down his chin from his lip catching on your rings. Hell, you might’ve chipped his tooth.
But the pain and pleasure felt so good, all of it feeling like fireworks inside him.
Afterwards, he drops his forehead against your shoulder with a mumbled sorry. But, before he can even get out of the aftershocks, you’re yanking his head back up by his hair, and holding your vibrator to his tip, since he just had to have it.
simon 'ghost' riley x reader in which !reader makes him better in bed. because chances are? he's probably not great, no matter what we all like to collectively think. but he can be taught. and reader is not suffering through mediocre sex (promise).
for all the times you'd heard ghost fucking through your shared barracks wall you thought he'd be at least okay in bed.
wrong.
turns out all those whimpers and moans you'd heard from his… partners were award winning acting on their parts. if they ever needed a new job, porn would be more than happy to have them.
because now, with ghost’s body hovering over yours after a few too many drinks at the pub off base, all you can think is “christ, this shit is terrible”.
okay there's a modicum of effort there. it's not like he didn't try to prep you - if a few kitten licks of your clit and some fingering so bad you feel like you're fifteen and behind the bike sheds again could be counted as prep.
you hoped the penetrative sex would be better. his cock was beautiful - thick but not long enough to feel like it was spearing your diaphragm, curved in a way that meant the head of it dragged over the squishy spot on the front wall of your cunt that made your breath hitch - but no. he’s fucking you like a dog; erratic, rhythmless and sloppy.
you can't even bring yourself to fake a moan. you're just lying there almost limp, mind wandering to all the other things you could be doing with your time rather than suffering through less than mediocre sex.
when he snakes his hand between you to rub your clit - trying, at least - you finally snap.
“fucking hell simon, not like that. are you trying to friction burn my clit off, you complete prick?” you hiss at him, shoving your palms into his chest to get him to back off.
he looks shocked. like no one has ever called him out for his lack of sexual prowess before.
“wha’?” he sounds genuinely confused, “the fuck love? thought you were enjoyin’ yourself.”
he slides out of you with a slick pop, eyebrows knitted together in disbelief. you roll your eyes. “what gave you the idea i was enjoying myself, ghost? my utter silence?” it's dry, deadpan.
he looks halfway between dejected and pissed. like no one has ever even hinted that he's anything less than jaw dropping in the sack.
“well ge’ the fuck out of my bed then.” he snaps, defences immediately in place. you roll your eyes again at the fragile masculinity, completely unperturbed by the tension in his voice.
“nah.” you reply, eyes narrowing. “lie the fuck down. i'm gonna do you a fucking favour and show you where you're going wrong.”
so that's how you end up straddling him, hands on his broad chest as you grind down against him; not letting him slip inside yet.
“first of all? fucking ask what people like ghost.” you murmur, throwing your head back and whining as the ridge of his head catches your clit. “some of us like it rough. some soft. just…ask.” you grind against him again, his cock slipping through your now slick folds, “and for the love of christ don't ever just choke someone without asking. last guy who tried that with me ended up with a broken nose.”
ghost nods slightly, eyes flicking between your very serious face and the way you're simply using him to get yourself off.
“if you're eating someone out - get the fuck up in there. make out with their cunt. little flicks of your tongue are just… tickly.” you add thoughtfully, slipping a hand between you to guide his throbbing head to your entrance. “and if you're using your fingers? don't just fucking ram them up there, that shit is just painful. have a bit of technique to it - some people like a crook, some prefer more of an in and out. communicate ghost. and i know you can do that because you're pretty fucking clear over comms.”
he actually groans when you sink down onto him, head tipping back against the headboard; brown eyes fluttering shut.
you flick him in the forehead. hard.
his eyes slam back open, wide and vaguely shocked at your audacity.
“pay attention.” you snap out, as you take him all the way to the base, clit rubbing against the wiry blonde hairs on his pelvis as you move your hips in little circles. “look, i’ve got a rhythm, right?” you add, shifting from your knees to your toes. “i’m not just moving, i’m purposeful.”
you demonstrate with controlled bounces, dragging your walls up and down his length, chasing the pleasure he couldn't give you himself.
“righ’, righ’.” he mutters back, “so wha’ was i doin’?”
you level him with a look that would turn a lesser man to a crying pile on the floor. “you were fucking me like we were in a shitty porn film. no rhythm. no consideration. just… poking at my insides.”
ghost actually blushes slightly. he has the sense to look vaguely embarrassed under your glare.
“and don't get me wrong - there are people that like that. probably. but I'm not one of them.” you continue, unbothered. “so find a rhythm that works for both of you.”
you demonstrate again, a controlled movement that has you both gasping slightly; cunt clenching onto him for dear life as he drags through your walls.
you lean forward, changing the angle slightly, dropping your forehead to his and whining against his mouth. “see? that's what someone sounds like when they're actually having fun, simon. can you hear the difference?”
and ghost hates to admit it, but he can. he can hear the real pleasure in your noises in comparison to the breathy, high pitched whimpers he usually gets. “yeah. yeah. can ‘ear it love.”
“you try.” it's an order rather than a suggestion, body stilling on top of him. his hands find your waist, fingers digging into the flesh there as he bucks up once, tentatively - immediately reassured when you let out a low groan. so he does it again. and again. settling into a rhythm that has you both gasping.
“tha’ better?” and this time he doesn't sound disgruntled, he sounds almost hopeful.
“mm, much better simon.” you grin at him, catching his lower lip between your teeth just to hear the way his breath catches in his throat. “just keep doing that. same pace, same depth.”
so he does. he's good at following clear, specific instructions - not that you expected any different.
you keep your chest pressed against his, face tucked in his neck whilst he fucks up into you; letting the feeling wash over you now it's actually good.
“i need you to play with my clit if i'm gonna cum.” you murmur into his ear, dragging one of his hands between you. “use two fingers to spread the pressure. firm but not fast.” you demonstrate for a moment, hand guiding his until you're sure he's got it. and oh. turns out with guidance ghost can be good in bed. “oh - fuck - okay ghost, keep doing that.”
and he does. he moves exactly as you've told him to - deep, steady thrusts of his cock inside you as the pads of his fingers circle your clit.
“fuck - yer gettin’ tighter love. fuckin' squeezin’ the life outta me. am not gonna last. the fuck?” he manages to hiss out just as you tumble over the edge he's dragged you to with a low moan; forehead dropping to his again as you gasp into his mouth. it's a wave that starts at your cunt and travels up your thighs and stomach, rippling through your nervous system as you go rigid on top of him before just melting into a puddle of flesh shaped like a human being.
ghost tips over the edge right after, hips stuttering as he spills into your still fluttering cunt with a hiss of your name and a flick of his brown eyes into his skull.
there's nothing but trembling breaths for a moment, no sound other than the two of you coming down from a shared high.
when you're settled next to him, arm slung over his waist as he rests his chin on the top of your head he takes a deep breath, before asking almost hesitantly, “why was yer cunt doin’ that? squeezin' me?”
you sigh, glancing up at him. “congratulations simon, you've just given someone an orgasm. apparently for the first time.”
the expression on his face is priceless.
there's a beat of silence and then, “can… can we do tha’ again? for the… practice.”
Very crudely looked over, don’t shoot me. Contains smut
He didn’t see you again for days, which turned into a week, then another, and Graves got lost in his piles of papers and maps with crudely drawn red arrows representing hundreds of lives. The dim lights of the dive bar that sat sternly in the dingy town outside of base faded from his mind. But the shadows it casted didn’t.
The small, quick kisses in corners, with wandering hands, just out of the lights touch, had stayed within those dark hiding spots. He’d relish in those moments with you, where you weren’t in a rush to leave or get it done quickly, wipe your hands of it. But, you’d still stay in his mind longer than you did his company. It was embarrassing. He was supposed to be the one to leave you hanging on, and he knew how childish it sounded. But it’s how it had worked every time. And if they were lucky, he’d entertain them for a few months, or even years.
Now he was the mouse being dragged around by the tail, and he didn’t mind. Not when he was able to look at your pearly teeth snapping at him.
It wasn’t until his own crew members bothered him enough to shake him out of his slump that he came back to the bar. This time, with a bunch of men in tow, who were now scattered about the bar. Some had already left with another person, probably heading to a motel, others were drunk and attempting to hold a pole que and keep their balance, and failing at both.
Graves himself sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a whiskey. He didn’t raise his head until he felt a body and the scent of a rainy morning fill the spot beside him. His gaze fell on you—on the brown leather bomber jacket and jeans that always have dirt soaked into the cuffs, with equally as gritty sneakers—on all of the sharp, jagged edges of you.
“Hey, sweetpea,” he greeted, turning in his seat to face you. He didn’t get an answer straightaway, but rather the view of your lips meeting your glass, finishing it off.
“Phil.” Your eyes glanced around the bar scene over your shoulder, at all of the little toy soldiers playing in ‘civy’ clothes. “Brought all your boys out?” He’d never told you more than a few anecdotes of his job, but you got the gist: military, higher-ranking, not quite in any branch, but ex-marine.
He ran his tongue across his teeth, watching your irises roll across the rails of charcoal that rimmed your waterline, small flakes escaping onto your eyelid. The splotchy purplish red scars on your cheeks and the little diamond pushed into the flesh of your nostril. So completely you, with no trace of him. Not the slightest care of what he did after you left, or what he did over seas, or if he ever came back to this bar. If you did care, it wasn’t enough to be shown.
He leaned in, his hand finding the back of your neck to pull you closer. “I don’t see why your playing buddy-buddy with me,” he mulls, pausing to see your throat bob as you swallow. “There’s no reason bringing you home with me just to leave me hurtin’ with an empty mattress and dirty sheets when we can just go to the bathroom.”
“It ain’t my fault you keep putting faith in me,” you snap. “And I’m not putting my bare ass on a snuff stained sink again.”
It didn’t get any louder or quieter. There was no fishbowl moment of just the two of you. It was the normal bickering.
He took your hand, ignoring the lack of grip from you, and pulled you in the opposite direction of the rusty bathroom door.
“I thought I just leave you hurtin’ in dirty sheets?” you chime, trying to ignore the jumping muscle in his jaw.
“You haven’t hurt me on my leather seats yet.”
“Right, cause the sink has already been ruined.”
The cold air nipped at you both as he lead you out to the gravel parking lot, to his big, pristine, white truck that was placed in the far corner, a few stray pine branches covering most of the windows. You scoffed out a laugh, and he turned around just as he dug in his back pocket for his keys.
“Good money,” you add, gesturing to the still shimmering rims and the completely black leather interior. It matched the modest ranch house he owned too. You hadn’t ever been in his car. You only ever let him call you a few minutes after he left; didn’t like the idea of being reliant on him for a ride home after. A weird rule, but one you were stiffed on.
“The backseats heat too, sweetpea. ‘keep ya warm.”
“I’m sure i’ll stay warm enough.”
Graves clicked the key fob a few times, and the car rumbled to life, the doors unlocking too. He pulled the back one open holding it open for you.
“Ladies first,” he hummed, the charming face being stretched back over him to release the tension. He helped you in first, before following after and shutting the door behind him. He wasn’t able to sit down fully before he felt your legs wrapping around his waist.
You never were one to slow the pace.
“What, were you expecting to be like two teenagers after prom on Lovers Outlook?”
“No, but I wasn’t expecting such a sudden welcome. You usually entertain my heavy petting,” he chuckled. You stilled his silver tongue with a sloppy kiss, tongue pushing past his lips to lick over his molars, and his hands ran up and down your body, stopping every so often to squeeze at the soft flesh beneath his fingers.
He felt your fingers tug at his belt. He unzipped your pants, tugging them down enough to push his hand past the waistband of your panties and the tight denim, palm grazing the thick hair, to run and tease his fingers over the vulnerable, soft part of you. It seemed to slow you for at least a little, let him indulge in the fantasy of a life with you.
He sat up for a moment to pull his sweatshirt up and over his head, pausing as you slipped out of your jacket, leaving the tank top. His fingers grabbed onto the belt loops of your jeans, helping you tug them down until they caught on your plump thighs and ass, making you wiggle and squirm and curse while you struggled out, like a butterfly out of its cocoon. He let you focus on doing that while he untied you sneakers and threw them onto the floor, before reaching back to unlace his own boots.
Its an awkward shuffle of clothes and bodies, and he only laughs when you accidentally knee him in the chin while taking off your underwear.
You also laugh, all teeth and squeezing ribs, loud and messy, a lived in, well-used laugh, instead of a mousy giggle. He lets you move his face to assess the damage as he pulls at your thighs to get them back around his waist.
“Reach down in that pocket and grab me a rubber, sweetpea,” he muttered, jerking his chin, newly decorated with a little red mark, to the pocket on the back of the drivers seat. As you twisted to slip your fingers into the pocket, brushing against the corner of a wrapper, he slipped two fingers inside you, rubbing eagerly against every angle and service provided.
There wasn’t a virgin laced cry or gasp that exploded from you, but rather hum of appreciation. “You’ve got ballerina fingers,” you quip, rolling back onto the seat and focusing on opening the small package. He pulled back, taken a little aback. He smirked, but his attention was quickly pulled to the way your hips were rocking, grinding onto his fingers to the point your clit was touching his palm and the pads of his fingers were occasionally bumping your cervix.
He felt his pulse drop and his dick twitch.
“What do you mean by ‘ballerina fingers’?” he huffed, bending his fingers to help you. “They’re able to spread you apart, aren’t they? I’m not playing piano here.”
“Yeah, but…” you trail off, finally ripping the packet. You pulled at his jeans and boxers until he sprang free, rolling the condom onto him. “…nevermind. I’m just saying you got feather fingers is all. don’t get your panties in a twist.”
He only scoffed, not able to retort since you pulled his hand away, already trying to maneuver yourself onto him, and you succeeded, somewhat. His fat tip had pushed its way in, and you were shifting to push in more despite the resistance.
“Hey, hey, easy,” he breathed, pulling your lower half up enough to be lifted off the seats and weighing on him. “Let me do some of the work. It’s part of the fun.”
He put one hand by your head to stabilize himself just as you pulled your leg up onto his shoulder, letting out a moan and a quiet “fuck…”
“So eager,” Phillip says, putting his other hand on your waist, thrusting in slowly, but deep enough to have your toes curl in your cat-patterned socks and your muscles tense. “Just ready to get down to business before I even get my pants off.”
“Shit, rub my clit, Phil,” you state, harsh, but not out of a mean-spirit. Your face was all scrunched up, eyes closed, and your hands had found grip on the dog tags are his neck and the shoulder of the seats. The fabric craned under your nails, and he was only slightly embarrassed about what you pulling on his dog tags was doing for him.
“Could I get a please?” he prodded.
“Phil—“
“Please, rub my clit, Phil. It feels so—“
“Please.”
He dragged his thumb over the soft flesh, rubbing at it with pressure, trying all different ways until he felt your walls squeeze him, and sticking with that pattern. He was rewarded with the smallest whimper, but it was the most noise he had gotten from you.
“Fuck, baby. You’re so nice and warm, so nice to me,” he murmured, his accent just getting thicker as his pace got faster.
Like this, he could pretend like you two had been married for years, and this had just been a night out for a few drinks after a long week. Maybe a dog was at home—a golden retriever. Just one. His. He knew you had two cats, he’d seen a picture of them after he asked to make small talk. A fat tabby and a chubby tuxedo. Both weren’t the brightest, you said. Half their brains froze while they were outside, but together they make a whole idiot…
…sweat beaded on his back, and his breathing grew erratic, moaning and whining like a bitch in heat. It wasn’t nearly a good enough description for how he felt. He was hot, and his skin tingled, he almost wanted to pull away, if it weren’t for you pulling him. Like he was a child, and there was a hit stove in front of him, but he was so cold. “So pretty, baby,” he said softly, and he barely registered the way you were folding up, muscles so tense, like you were focused on something he couldn’t see. He increased the pressure from his thumb just a little, and your back bowed with a deep hum from your chest…
…he’d build a cat tower for them, maybe some hammocks by the windows too. And some bird feeders for outside. And you’d have wind chimes you’d pick out. He could only imagine what kind, but maybe some stained glass ones. Bells on them too. Wildflower seeds would be sprinkled in the fall and the blossoms would push out in the spring, crawling up the wrap around porch of his house. You’d make it a proper home, he’s sure. Keep the fire burning in fireplace, and decorate it…
“Oh—Oh! Fuck!” he cursed, his orgasm hitting him hard enough he leaned onto his forearm for more support. It just didn’t stop, and he didn’t either, keeping his pace for you, even if it was sloppy.
Your hand unwrapped from his chain, instead holding the back of his neck. Your orgasm hit, and he rested his forehead against yours, your noses bumping.
“I love you,” he blurted out, hard and sudden and heavy. “I love you so much, I…”
He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you so close like you were water ready to rush through his fingers and trickle back to the ocean. You were warm and soft and so comforting, and you were both sweaty and your hair was stuck to your forehead and he wanted to see what you looked like in the morning. He wanted you.
The moment lasted longer than it should have. And you didn’t do anything until your nerves calmed… at least calmed from the orgasm. Your heart was thundering now. His jeans felt scratchy against the back of your thighs and his neck was moist.
Your hands moved away from his neck, and you started to sit up, but he didn’t loosen his hold. “Baby, please…”
“Phil, no, you don’t understand. I don’t do this stuff.”
“Sweetpea… cmon,” he sighed, letting you go to let you sit up. You swallowed, hard, and looked down at him from where he stayed leaned down. “You can’t keep doing this. Please, tell me yes or no.”
“…Can you drive me home?” you ask, voice firm but not as steady as it usually is. Not quite an incineration or an ‘I love you’. But he didn’t know where you lived, and you didn’t let him drive you. You always took your car to his place. It was something.
“…Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetpea. Put some clothes on and I’ll… do that.”
brain is rotting thinking about you not even having your own plate at the high table. you share his plate, he’ll have it piled high with food, when the servants are dishing up different meals, he’ll give you that lazy look not even saying a word. letting you nod or shake your head to let them know if you want any of that specific food
his arm curled around your hip as you sit on his lap, delicately picking at the food with your fork until he decides to just start feeding you with his fingers. after he gulps down half the wine in his goblet, he’ll pass it to you to drink from
I know he’s a messy eater too, demolishing fat turkey legs and having his pretty wife wipe the mess away from his mouth with a cloth napkin
Have the COD members in love with a little weirdo who really likes spongebob and who’s favorite animal is a special type of crab that is like two cm tall and only found on the sea floor.
