a lot has happened recently, my dog was hospitalized for 2 weeks and it cost 10 thousand reais (1.818,98 dollars), my mother paid most of it since I'm still in college but it was a lot of money
i got sick, I had the flu and I was in bed for like a week
my stepfather recently passed away and it was a lot for me so i decided to take a break for a while
I'm better now and and there's college break in July, so in the meantime I'll try to bring you guys more stuff
Sorry for being inactive guys, im sick and my dog is really sick :( he is hospitalized, he has a liver poisoning, excessive itching, he's throwing up and having diarrhea, and i don't sleep it's been 2 days my nose is clogged and i look like a zombie i can't even walk straight my eyes are heavy and my appetite ain't the same
forgotten war god simon being woken up from his slumber when a lonely patron begged for any god to listen to her prayers for vengeance and protection as she watches her father's house be razed by the encroaching legion. the guttural plea and her fury brings him to her, and simon rages on - anything for his first, and his only, worshipper.
something something along the way, it is simon who spoils his only disciple, granting her godship and marking her as his. something something
sorry as much as i love hybrid cod au i also love ancient greece/greek mythology cod au like...
'please don't worship me, you can't be gentle, is in your nature to hurt and kill' god of gentleness and purity!reader x 'i would move mountains for you; I'll cut my hands off so I can't punch, I'll pluck my teeth out so i can't bite, I'll shut my mouth so I can't curse; I'll refrain myself from lust; I can't be the purest man alive but please let me worship you' warrior!konig who's always covered in blood and literally burns her skin every time he tries to touch her.
anyways sorry for yapping, I'll work on the cow hybrid reader x bull simon xoxo
“my fuckin’ pussy” simon says as he’s pounding you in a mating press. your heel-clad feet are hung over his burly shoulders, flopping with every thrust.
“mmmn, yer fuckin” pussy” you slurred back.
“oh my, we’ve gotta talker, doing a little repeat after me? fuckin’ simon says, huh?”
Simon has his hand somewhere intimate at all times whenever it’s the two of you together.
NOW okay stay with me…
At first, it was somewhat innocent. You’d both be watching a movie on the sofa, he’d deliberately have you lie across him just so his hand can rest on your ass. Casual couple things y’know.
But as your relationship progresses and he’s very used to being able to touch his pretty girl whenever possible…he tends to stray to more intimate places.
There would be one time, you’d be standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner for him on the rare occasion he gets to have a home cooked meal for once. And he’d stand behind you, humming some dumb song that’s been stuck in his head for days. But his hands will be on your tits.
Now, there’s nothing sexual about it really. He just likes holding them. Likes touching you. He’d probably give the occasional squish now and again because let’s face it he’s a man and they’d all do it.
But the only time his need to be touching you would turn sexual, is by complete accident.
(Hear me the fuck out okay?)
So you’d both be lying in bed, you’d be scrolling through your phone as he’s reading beside you (he reads, it’s obvious).
But his hand, would be down whatever pants or shorts you’re wearing for bed, underneath your underwear if you are wearing any at the time…and his hand would simply be resting on your cunt.
Like I said, it wouldn’t be sexual at first and it was an accident this time around.
Because this man can’t sit still at home, it’s too quiet…too calm…he needs something to do.
So what does he do? Play with your cunt.
The pad of his middle finger would idly rub up and down over your clit, not even trying to put any effort in all whilst he focuses on reading. Even if you’re there slightly squirming from the pleasure that the rhythmic motion of his finger creates, he wouldn’t really notice straight away.
He’d circle it a few times, all the while you’re trying to keep quiet as to not disturb him. Having to hold in every moan or soft sound your body aches to let out.
And for the most part, he seems completely focused. Even when his finger would slide down and gather every drop leaking out of you and bring it back to your clit just for more stimulation.
It’s only when you’re close to cumming from the lazy but constant stimulation that he’ll lean down slightly just to whisper in your ear.
thinking about being john’s newly-wed, barefoot and warm as an oven, stumbling to the door when you hear his iron foot fall. it’s been months, but you recognize the cadence on the porch. sounds like morning tea and his favorite cigars.
unlocking the door and throwing yourself into his arms, smelling the space above his shoulder, inhaling…petrichor. wet dirt. blood.
that isn’t your husband.
you slowly peel yourself away, stunned when your eyes meet brown instead of blue.
“where’s…”
“right ‘ere, dove.”
you glance over the stranger’s shoulder (who is still holding you up) and find your husband, looking a little too amused that his wife is in another man’s arms.
once you reach him, he kisses the top of your head, before rubbing your shoulder to coo the loud creature of embarrassment before it reaches your mouth in the form of an apology.
“you’ve met simon. he’ll be staying with us for a little while.”
you glance between the two before meeting your husbands eye. “I-“
“im sure you don’t mind the extra stomach, right darlin?”
you swallow.
“of course not,” you glance at simon, who’s face remains neutral, “the more the merrier.”
you meant for meals. they seemed to understand it differently.
now you sleep between the two of them, quilt unnecessary while their meaty limbs keep you sweltering.
the bed is heavy, and you haven’t complained because you’re a hostess, and simon is john’s friend. even when you feel him palming your clothed cunt ‘in his sleep’, you don’t fuss.
instead, you silently turn on your side, trying your best to subtly grab your husbands attention.
but he’s already there, watching. smiling gently, like he does when he says he loves you.
“there there dove. you can learn to share, right?”
When you write the animal things do imagine actual animals or hybrids
Hybrids!!! I would NEVER write bestiality or anything with animals; is gross
I like to think the hybrids have animals ears, tails (and horns if they do have it) and a fluffier hair/more body hair. As for physical appearance i like to imagine, for example, cow hybrids are chubbier and tall with curlier/wavy hair. As for cowhybrid!reader, I had in mind the mini highland cows bc they're so adorable look at 'em; but since cowhybrid!reader is a self insert of whoever is reading i prefer to not clarify weight but just that they're shorter than the rest of the cows bc...well, mini highland cow are MINI (the second photo is a mini highland cow compared to a normal sized cow)
slightly dark simon riley x sergeant medic f!reader
misunderstood crushes to enemies to lovers, toxic masculinity, dubcon, somno, smut
When Simon Riley finally gets you in his bed, you go kicking and screaming.
Your captain forces you to take leave after Johnny's scrape with death, and you pointedly refuse to tell anyone on the team where you're going. Too shaken to go home, you don't tell your family that you found a hotel to camp out in in London, paid for courtesy of a well-timed SAS Combat Medical Technician credit card. You spring for a nice one, hoping the room charges will piss off anyone reading them on the back end.
The first two nights you can't sleep, stuck with the image of the bullet in Johnny's torso when you tried to push him out of the way. Your hands, covered in his blood, slippery as you tried to maintain pressure against the wound. Screaming for your captain, your Sergeant, so desperate as to call out for Simon with a pained "Ghost". You wake panting, sweat dripping down your back, and watch the sun rise from your window.
The third night, you decide a drink is needed.
It's the shittiest dive bar in London, you think. The music speaker is tinny, your alcoholic cider is definitely watered down and the bar seat is a little sticky. Perfect to drown your sorrows, and potentially find some asshole you'll never see again to drown in as well.
The footie on the TV drones low, a never-ending stream of consciousness you focus on. You let it drown out the sound of Johnny wheezing under you. The beeping of medical machines when you got to the field hospital, the pale tone of his blood-drained skin. The rasping of his intubation tube, his throat bulging because of the plastic intrusion. The rabid look in his eyes when he finally woke, irrevocably changed because of you.
The game cuts to commercial. When you drag your eyes away and to your left, the empty seat is newly occupied by a man.
Prey for the night, hopefully.
"You watchin'?" He gestures to the screen with a beer bottle in his hands. You take in his buzzcut, the way his muscles don't fully fill out his t-shirt, his worn jeans. Good enough, though when you're surrounded by military men all the time, civilians seem to pale in comparison.
You shrug. "Men yelling at each other is background noise at this point." He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised you didn't follow some unforeseen script. "That so?" He asks. You smile, thin and feline. "In one ear and out the other." You answer, turning so you face him instead of the bar. "That why you're talking to me? 'Cause I'm not yellin'." He leans closer, one elbow on the bar. You cringe to think of him putting his bare skin against the sticky faux-wood, completely unaware of his surroundings.
"I'm talking to you because I think you have something to offer me." You let your gaze fall down to his lap and trail up to his face, ending with a smirk. When he leans forward, the staleness of his Axe cologne hits you. You wrinkle your nose at the sliver of disgust in your stomach, but when you think of the empty room waiting, you decide to push through.
"I-"
A figure appears in the empty space on your left. Foreboding, like he should be wearing a dark robe and holding a scythe. You ignore it completely.
"Hey, man, we're talking. Can we get some space?" The brave, or stupid, stranger ventures, scanning your lieutenant up and down. "No." Simon grunts. You keep your head straight, refusing to engage. His presence is all-consuming, heat rolling off him like a furnace while his anger seems to heighten by the minute. "Thoughts on an offer?" You murmur, taking care to keep your voice steady. You turn your shoulder slightly towards the bartop so you don't have to keep seeing Simon in your periphery. The stranger copies you with hunched shoulders and disgust at his meekness rolls through your veins.
"You know this dude?" The stranger whispers, nodding over his shoulder. You follow his gaze, looking at Simon for the first time since he's arrived. You start at the top of his head, out in the open as he switched out his usual skullface for a black medical mask. The short blonde strands look like honey in the bar light. His eyes have remnants of eyeblack, giving the illusion that he just finished mining in a cave somewhere sinister. He's in his usual outfit of a black sweatshirt and dark jeans, but it fits him so unlike the stranger next to you. His shoulders stretch the sweatshirt impossibly thin while his thighs do the same against their denim confines. That cologne of his, a spicy scent usually mixed with gunpower or blood, is for once just that -- no heady mix of warfare to be found. You can still sense war on him though, in the hands that flex at his sides.
"Never seen him before in my life." You lie, biting down a smirk before it appears on your face. "Move." Simon orders and you sigh, turning so that you can leave the chair. Instead, a hand clamps down on your shoulder, keeping you rooted to the spot. The stranger takes the hint, scampering away back to whatever rat hole he came from. Simon takes his seat, dwarfing it with his sizeable mass of muscles and tension.
"Shouldn't lie, Sergeant. Bad look." He suggests, a mocking tone in his voice. You refrain from rolling your eyes, reminding yourself you're still in the presence of a superior, though technically as a medic, the lines are blurry. "I wasn't lying. I've never seen you as a civilian, Simon." You hum the syllables of his name, ones you've never let roll off your tongue. You've said them in your head thousands of times, ever since you peeked at his confidential medical file for some reason or another. Si-mon, haunting you with his arrogance on and off the field.
He tenses at the sounds of his name, one hand fisting against his thigh. You watch the veins pop and release as he tightens the leash he has on himself, a soldier to the very core. He breathes in then out, and suddenly it's like nothing ever happened. Simon scans the bar, the creaking of the lights and the debauchery of the clientele, before landing back on you. "Didn't expect you to be drinkin' in a shithole." He remarks. He fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, some black battered thing with a skullface. "Think that's a little on the nose, Lieutenant?" You nod to the ghostface, holding back a snort. He looks down at the lighter like it's the first time he's seeing it. "Johnny gave it to me few years ago; Christmas gift." Your heart sinks at the mention of him. The brother-in-arms that you let get shot, didn't pull out of the way fast enough. The one who's currently sentenced to six months of PT and will probably be discharged after, forced into civilian life like a square peg into a circular hole. On that note, you check your pockets for your hotel key and phone. Once you've confirmed you have your stuff, you slap down some cash for the cider and get up out of your seat.
"See you later, Lieutenant." You walk past him, your knuckles brushing his knee as you fail to control your fast-paced walk. It's a bolt of lightning, Zeus laughing from somewhere above as you're unable to control the shiver down your spine. You keep your head up, continuing past him until you exit onto the backstreets of London. Cars honk and pedestrians yell and lights blare as you remind yourself that you're in regular society and not the battlefield. You turn left towards your hotel, walking briskly so you can speed up the inevitable.
Heavy footsteps follow you the entire time.
-
You don't try to push him out of the elevator when he gets in, only trailing by a few seconds. There's no point in making a scene and you definitely don't want Price hearing about this, his subordinates getting into yet another squabble about something inane. Instead, you stand there, resisting the urge to shift back and forth on your feet like you used to do before the SAS trained it out of you. Simon stands silently on your right, having to be the one to press the button of the floor. You don't tell him your floor number and he doesn't ask.
You've learned not to question these things.
He crowds your back at the door of your room, barely giving your arm room to fish your keycard out of your jean pocket. It beeps green and you push through, toeing off your shoes. He follows and you hear the audible click of the lock, all three available. "Shoes off," you snap when you hear him try to step on your carpet with god-knows-what on his boots. They thump loudly and suddenly it's quiet.
"I'll take first shift." He declares, shouldering past you to explore the room. You can sense when he takes in the extravagance you've allowed yourself: room service menus scattered, goodies from the spa service you had yesterday, bra and underwear draped over the chair in the corner. The only other place to sit, with all your outfits spread out, is the couch.
Simon approaches the chair without caution, grunting dispassionately as he gathers lacy items in one large paw. He scrunches them in his fist, as if to feel their weight, then tosses them on the couch. "It's a hotel, Simon, not a campout." You bite out. He's still standing in front of the chair, blocking your path to the couch where your pajamas lay. He's just so big -- taking up every aspect of your life and your room, the one week he wasn't even supposed to be here. Instead of asking him to move, which he clearly won't do, you shoulder past him. It's your shoulder and arm and leg against his own, burning with awareness that this is the most you've touched in a non-medical setting. He doesn't stop you, but he doesn't move either, simply watching as you grab the t-shirt and shorts you've been wearing to bed. Alone, they made a perfect pajama set. With how the sleeve of your shirt falls off one shoulder and the tiny barely-there size of your shorts, you could almost pretend you're a regular woman with a regular job, who didn't send her coworker to the hospital.
You wash the bar grime off you quickly in the bathroom, distinctly aware of being naked while your lieutenant waits outside. Towel, lotion, change, then it's time to brush your teeth. As you stick your bright pink toothbrush in your mouth, you remember how Simon seems to be here with no supplies. The drawer contains an extra white disposable toothbrush, and you snatch it and exit the bathroom without thinking.
He's practically naked.
Well, the most you've ever willingly seen. Only wearing a t-shirt and boxers, it feels illegal to see him like this. You've seen him naked, once: a bullet graze on his outer thigh. It was medical and fast and adrenaline-driven, no time to clock the tattoos that start on his arm and the scars that make themselves known everywhere else. The mask is off and you've seen his face too, but coupled with all this skin it's like a new man. And then you remember what he said and did and you hate him all over again.
"Here." You throw the toothbrush square at his chest, your words muffled by the toothbrush in your mouth. He doesn't say thank you, just looks down like you've thrown him a live grenade. You go back to the bathroom and finish up, ready to sleep this stupid day away. The lack of sleep has finally caught up with you and it's making you delirious, imagining that Simon's eyes were locked on your thighs when in reality, he was probably just caught off-guard.
Though he never really gets caught off-guard. He's the Ghost, after all.
You exit the bathroom and immediately beeline for the bed, ignoring how he walks into it after you like that's normal. Communal showers on base aren't the same as this, him using the same aloe vera hotel soap you did.
You turn off the lights, not caring if he can't see. Then it's ten minutes of shifting around in bed until the bathroom door opens and you stiffen like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't have. The chair in the corner creaks with his weight. When you peek out behind the sheets, you can see him lean his head back on the headrest, jaw sharp in the moonlight shining through the curtained windows. You hide yourself in the mountain of blankets and pillows and by some miracle, sleep.
A ticking bomb. Johnny shouting, Price in your ear, Ghost and Gaz lost somewhere in the building. Footsteps and yelling and the click of a safety turning off and you jump out from the corner, hands grasping at Johnny's legs as you try to drag him out of the way. The thud of a bullet hitting skin and you're reaching for your gun, aiming steady like how Price taught you and not hesitating like how Ghost showed you. It fires and Makarov crumples but Johnny's in your arms, blood everywhere and you can't tell if the bullet hit his heart but he's murmuring something in a language you don't understand.
Other medics arrive and they have to pull you off him. You're apologizing to empty air and the lieutenant brushes past you. You try to grab his arm and say sorry but he shakes you off, fire in his eyes.
"It's your fault, tech." Tech, the derogatory name some less grateful soldiers call you when you get in their way. Ghost's eyes squint under his mask. "Get out of my way before you get me shot, too."
You wake up crying and thrashing, tangled in sweaty sheets.
"You're okay, you're okay. Deep breaths, dove." He's half-straddling you, one leg pinning your lap down while the other stands straight on the floor. Bare callused hands cup your face, holding you firmly in place. You blink the tears out of your eyes, vision blurry and light nowhere to be found. The clock blinks 2:08AM at you, red and oppressive. He jerks your head away from the clock to turn back to what you assume is his face, but it's hard for you to see in the dark.
"It's my fault he got shot." You admit. You shake his hands off your face so you can swipe at your tears, palms against the underside of your eyes to stave off more sadness. "'s not. Was a stupid move he made." He replies, voice low and raspy with sleep. He was sleeping and you woke him up with your stupid, stupid nightmare. "You said it's my fault." You whisper, the true root of your tears. The man you thought might like you, might do more than tolerate your existence, blaming you for the near-death of his best friend. The one he calls a brother.
"I did." It's not a question, but you nod to affirm his words anyway. "And you called me tech." You add as an afterthought, embarrassed at how much you care. "I'm sorry, dove. Was mad and not thinkin'." You might've accepted that answer years ago. But you won't take it in the dark like this, not when he didn't offer it without prompting. "I'm going to bed." You reply, ripping yourself out of his arms. As you turn, instead of going back to his chair, he lifts himself over you and to the other side of the king bed.
"What are you doing?" You whisper-yell, trying to ignore how his warmth seeps into your bones despite there being enough room between you to not touch. "Sleepin'." He asserts like he's daring you to say no. You huff and roll your eyes, turning so your back is towards him. Exhaustion washes over you and you sleep again.
-
You wake again to a heavy arm around your waist and fingers brushing against the waistband of your shorts. "What're you doing?" You slur, sleepy and comforted by the warmth of him against your back. "Thought you were fuckin' Johnny. Tha's why I was mad." He murmurs against your skin. Your shoulder is bare, shirt slipped down, and suddenly there's pressure against it. Simon mouths at your bare skin, tongue laving at the sweat that's accumulated the whole night. "I hate you," you sigh, not pushing him away but not arching into him either. His fingers slip under your shorts and find your cunt sopping. He has to pry your thighs apart slightly to have room and you find yourself unable to resist. Rough fingers slide up and down your folds, petting at the soft curls there. He runs them against the seam of you but doesn't dip down in between, content to just feel.
He kisses into the crook of your neck, running his tongue brazenly across your skin like he owns you. "No, you don't." He corrects you in his Lieutenant tone. You don't respond, neither confirming nor denying, and it's enough to make him slip down between your folds. The angle is awkward, but his thumb finds your clit anyway, rubbing small circles as you jerk under him. His middle finger teases your hole, and he chuckles as it flutters under his attentions. "I know, baby, I know. It hurts, doesn't it?" He jeers. It hurts to be so empty, his fingers right there but not going in. "Simon." You whine, giving in. You muffle the last syllable into the pillow underneath you, turning your face inward. He doesn't like that you're hiding from him, growling as he has to make out with your neck and not your lips, so you open your thighs wider to compensate.
His finger slips in and it's like heaven.
He's bigger than your own fingers, thick for you to clench around. Now that he has more room, he experiments with angles until he finds the right one. It's all-consuming, his mouth on your neck and his thumb on your clit and his finger pumping in and out like he knows what's better for your body than you do. Your nipples are hard and with every movement they brush against the soft fabric of your t-shirt, just the right amount of friction and heat.
"Turn." You refuse, mainly to punish yourself for giving in when you're just so mad. His fingers slip out and you're cursing and he's yanking off the comforter and pulling down your shorts. Simon settles himself on top of you, one hand on your jaw so you're no longer face-into-pillow. He slips in two fingers and his thumb is back on your clit and you keen, hips bucking in contentment at being filled. A streak of moonlight hits his face, giving you a glimpse of blown pupils and a set mouth. It's you who closes the difference, feeling his lips on yours for the very first time. You're not sure who's more angry but it's him who bites your upper lip a little too rough, leaving you to gasp openly into his mouth. He takes the chance to slip in a third finger.
"Fucking bastard." You breathe into his mouth, core tensing as you stretch around him. He smiles against you, feral. "Need you prepped, dove." You kiss him to shut him up, bruising as your noses brush unkindly. He rubs harder and you flutter around his fingers, orgasm creeping up unexpectedly. He leans his weight into the next kiss and you break, clenching hard as your release makes you boneless under him. A low moan rumbles through you and you sigh, forehead pressing into his collarbone. "Take my cock out, baby." You shake your head at his order, too tired to follow. His fingers slip out and you sigh discontentedly. "I can't." You complain, body not obeying his commands.
Powerful hands grip your hips and flip you so you're face down. One of the pillows smothering you disappears and slips under your hips, tilting them upwards. A massive weight presses into your back and his forearms bracket your head where your head is turned to the side for air. Some fabric shifts and he pushes in, stretching you so wide until you combust. "Simon, it hurts." He slides to the hilt and you gasp, so full you swear your insides won't ever be the same. He pulls back and pushes in again, the slide easier than the first. "Relax and it won't, dove." He grunts next to your air, warm breath rasping against your ear. You force your muscle to relax, taking a deep breath. The next thrust is good and the next one even better, stuffing you full of him further and further. It feels peculiar, that spot inside you being hit with every thrust, something that's only happened once or twice.
"Feels funny." You slur, almost drunk with the weight of him on you and in you and all around like you'll never be alone again. "So tight for me, baby. Didn't think you would be so fuckin' sweet." You moan together as he hits a particularly satisfying spot, your hips arching innately. That spot inside you pulses and you feel the crest of another orgasm gathering inside, a rush of endorphins waiting to be unleashed. Your arms are tucked under your chin and you pull one out, scrambling until you find his hand. He laces them together, sweaty and slippery and a perfect fit. One more rough thrust sends you over the edge, walls clenching around his cock as you sink into the mattress.
"Fuck." Simon swears. A moment later, you feel warm liquid between your thighs and hide your face in the mattress, embarrassed to be so fucking expressive. "So good, baby. There you are." He calms you with an easy tone, skin slapping as he increases his pace. A moment later he eases against you back as heated cum fills your cunt, dripping out around his cock and onto the mattress. He crushes you with his weight and all it does is make you clench your thighs.
He squeezes your hand. You squeeze back.
-
shoutout to the post i saw about prone bone i can't remember who wrote it but it was very #inspirational
yes reader is a medic bc im still obsessed w the pitt
KEL • in hiatus @starboykel - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
