#pride x reader

Call of Duty Masterlist

Comforting you

As you followed Pride on his heels, you couldn’t help but notice the slump in his shoulders and the way his face seemed to avoid yours. It had been quiet the whole walk and it was beginning to make you antsy.

You didn’t mind the silence, especially when it came to peace with Pride who seemed to always have something on his mind or something to do, but this felt different.

The only way to find out the root of the issue was to ask.

“Pride, darling?”

You spoke it softly in the wind, a sound that could be carried away, but Pride was much too attentive for that to happen. His steps slowed to a stop and he turned to you. He had told you previously he found it rude to not look at someone while speaking.

“Yes, my dear?”

His gaze used to be much more intimidating but now, throughout everything you’ve experienced, you can understand when exhaustion is there. What looks like age-old wisdom is little more than the tiredness of someone stretched too thin.

“Let’s take a break. My legs hurt.”

It was your way of extending an olive branch to him. If you had suggested he may be the tired one, there definitely would be too much fuss. Too much of a gentleman to “ruin” your time together. For an age old god who was the father of all, he could be quite silly.

His eyes slid over your face and you didn’t flinch at his inspection. He hummed and sat down, gesturing for you to sit near him, which you did.

“I’m alright. You don’t have to worry over me.”

“I never suggested otherwise,” you hummed thoughtfully as your hand outstretched to his head, pushing him to lean against your shoulder. To your utter surprise (and soon delight), he followed easily and without protest, “it’s just nice to slow down for a minute.”

“Yes, I…well, it is nice.”

Your fingers were already carding through his hair, sinking easily into the silky feeling. You had once said you were surprised his hair never seemed to knot and he had asked you ‘what are knots?’

Based on the twinkle in his eye, you assumed it was a joke. Or maybe that’s what he wanted you to think.

As his shoulders slumped into a less formal stature and his body leaned into your own, submitting to the idea that he could be loved and safe in his own right, that is indeed when you pounced.

“Now, are you willing to be honest with me?”

“I… am alright. I was deep in thought and I didn’t wish to disturb you with anything frivolous,” he mumbled.

“Nothing you tell me is frivolous.”

“You’ll laugh at me, the old worry I am.”

“Please. Try me.”

Pride had this issue where he clamped up occasionally, either due to the separation that came from your age or your obvious mortality. Something. It was always an obstacle.

“I was simply thinking about how I didn’t want to return. That I could just walk with you, down an endless path, and I knew it was very selfish. I don’t want you to think I don’t care about others—“

“Hm, stop right there sir. It’s not selfish to crave a break from time to time, no?”

“It is for someone like me,” he said but not in a harsh tone. More like a carefully gift-wrapped neutrality.

“Well, I selfishly want you all to myself very often. Alone and trapped with me.”

“I would never view being with you as a trap. It’s a gift to be with you. It’s a gift to be loved by you,” Pride said in a serious tone that made your face feel warmer. It was amazing how he could just say things with no lilt in his voice nor a crack.

He just loved you.

“Well, we can stay here for a bit. My legs still hurt. Hm, my shoulders too. Actually, just about everything.”

You said in a fake thoughtful tone, side eyeing the man whose head rested on your shoulder and the way he contained a chuckle at your antics.

“I don’t see anything wrong with sitting for a few minutes. To stem the soreness, of course.”

You kissed the top of his forehead and smiled at how the affection seemed to shake him slightly.

“Of course.”

103) I wake up with your memory with Dwayne Pride or Chris Lasalle?

Tagging: @kmc1989

It’s late when Dwayne wakes up, later than he intended. His head pounds from the whisky and he can taste the bitterness on his tongue as his hand smooths over the rumpled sheets beside him.

He sighs as he looks at your empty pillow, the sun streaming onto the vacant spot. He remembers how the light used to bring out the copper in your hair, the little sigh of contentment as his fingertips trailed along the curve of your spine. He had lived for mornings like that, waking up next to you, making love and then making breakfast.

His whole world had been tipped upside down when you had been stolen away from him, reassigned to a taskforce working out of Atlanta, Georgia. You’d done undercover work down there for a couple of years before making the jump to the Big Easy.

A few months ago one of your targets from the old days had reached out over you’re old message service, he was back in the country, looking to unload some weapons. You’d told your superiors you weren’t interested in returning to that life, you were done with UC work. They had told you, you didn’t have a choice.

A couple of days later, he’d helped you pack up your bag.

“It’s only a couple of weeks.” You had told him as you’d climbed into his lap, straddling his hips. “I’ll be back before you know about.”

“It’s not that I’m worried about.” He tells you as he cradles your neck, his thumb tracing over the scar that’s etched onto your throat, the one where a mad man had tried to strangle you to death with bike chain.

You used to hide it when you first started working together, pretty silk scarves, sometimes tried with a knot, sometimes wound around your throat. It’s over a year before he sees you without one, not until you undress for him the night he kisses you outside of Dixie’s.

His phone chimes on the nightstand and he gropes for it, his thumb dragging down the message box so he can read it.

Just another sunny day in Georgia, it reads, followed by a peach emoji.

He clasps the phone to his chest, the screen coming to rest against his heart.

You send him the same message every day, sometimes first thing in the morning and sometimes late at night. It’s a code the two of you use, your way of letting him know that you’re ok, despite the fact you can’t call.

Day 2: Pride/Reflection and Ego

Shattered Reflection - Pride X Wife!Reader

WC:2,059

TW: Body dysmorphia, mention of self harm, blood, accidental cuts on shattered glass, anxiety, insecurity, mention of sex but no smut.

Index: 'Bella' means 'Beautiful' in Latin, Spanish and Italian. Used as nickname, and term of endearment.

The hurried clicking of heels echoed in the empty hallways, accompanied by the swathes of navy fabric Isabella wasn’t able to gather into her arms before she’d hurried back the way she came. With every step, the ringing in her ears grew louder, threatening to drown out the murmurs of courtiers and well practiced symphonies.

Too thick thighs. 

Too big tummy. 

Too big breasts. 

The words ring in her head, resounding throughout her body. Each syllable is an ache in her heart, and a throb in her temples. 

Isabella clutches at her chest, over the shimmering fabric of her bodice, and forces one foot in front of the other. She stumbles as the hallway leading to her room seems to rock with each step, and the sound of drums carrying from the ballroom, and echoing in her ear certainly don't help. Did the musicians playing tonight have drums? Or perhaps it’s her heart? She didn’t know, nor did she care at this moment. 

She hacks out a cough, reaching out to grab something for support with her free hand as the floor seems to drift closer and closer. Isa vaguely registers the sound of something shattering, and a sticky residue on her hands.

She chokes on a sob, trying to stand, only to stumble again.

This time, when she collapses to the ground, pain shoots through her knees, as well as the uncomfortable sensation of something stuck in her skin. Pieces of a frame? A mirror? Perhaps a vase? She couldn't tell. 

Her throat constricts, a shriek building, demanding to be set free. However, not wanting to draw attention, she forces herself to her feet, ignoring her pain, and begins moving back through the halls until she reaches a familiar hall. Changing her course last minute, Isabella turns from her room, entering one across the hall instead. 

The voices continued ringing in her mind, chastising her.

The whole court can probably hear you stomping around up here. Have you considered dropping a few pounds? 

Shut up.

If you did hit the training yard though, I bet you’d look so pathetic next to everyone else! 

Shut up. 

Are you sure you want to subject them to the sight of you? I mean, look at you.

Her eyes snap to the mirror beside her. In its reflection, she can see a portrait of her Prince, hanging just behind her. It didn’t do his angelic looks justice, nor did it quite convey that sinful smile he used to entice just about anyone to his bed.

Shut up.

She stepped closer to the mirror, glancing between the reflection of herself and the portrait. The ringing started getting louder, as her surroundings vanished and all that was left was the mirror.  

See? Can you really stand beside him like this?

“But… He loves me,” she rasps, though it felt more like trying to herself than refute the thought.

It would be better for his standing as a Prince of Hell if you weren’t around to humiliate him. You should leave. Then you also won’t prevent him from finding Lucia. I bet she didn’t look like this. I’m sure she was slimmer with soft curves. Nothing like you. Too big in all the wrong places. You should disappear. Disappear. Disappear. Disappear. Disappear. Disappear- 

“SHUT-”

“Count,” 

Her fist stops mere inches away from the mirror. 

“Count,” it commanded again. 

Everything was loud. The squeak of floorboards. The thoughts in her head. The swishing of her dress. All of it. All too loud, and all happening at once. How could she-

“Count,” 

“P-Pride said m-my hair is always done up b-beauti-beautiful,” she stutters, voice choked and raspy from crying. 

Had she been crying? 

“P-Pride said my smile is con-contagious, and my lips are plu-ump, like strawberries,” she add, slowly falling to her knees before the mirror. 

Her heart rate slowly eased, while her vision began clearing at the edges. 

“Pride said h-he loves to- to grab my breasts when he’s stressed, lay his head on them when he’s tired, and kiss them when we have sex,” her voice became steadier with each word she spoke. 

Still, she took deep breaths as more of the room came into focus, and she was able to recognise the navy walls, accented with silver, and ornate furniture that complimented the marble flooring. 

“Pride said he likes my stomach because it’s cute, fun to kneed, a comfy pillow and he enjoys tickling it, even if it annoys me,” This time, Isa’s voice was completely even as she spoke.

“Can you really blame me for wanting to see that blinding smile whenever I please?” 

She whips her head around, noticing the Prince in question leaning against the door frame. Isa can only watch him with wide eyes. 

Pride’s eyes narrow on her, as he takes in her appearance. Shards of a mirror are stuck in her palms, both of which are still bleeding. There’s also blood seeping from a gash he can see on her on her knee, from where it peeks out from under her dress. Although, her face is probably the most heartbreaking sight that Pride’s ever seen. Bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks stare back at him, along with a runny nose and lips that are raw and red from where she bit and pulled at them. 

It was a bad day for her. Pride could tell that much from the moment she wasn’t at the ballroom in time, but while being even the slightest bit late was odd for her, Pride didn’t begin to truly worry until he saw drops of blood and a shattered mirror in the hallway leading to their suite when he went to go find her.

He barely registered using transversa magic to get to his room before he found her crumpled in front of the mirror, a bloody hand pressed against it. He felt his namesake’s sin swelling in his chest as he heard her using the method he taught her to calm down. He’d remembered how bewildered she was the first time he’d told her to order her least favorite features from one to five, one being the least favorite. Confused, she had done as he asked. After that, Pride made her name one compliment, or thing he liked about the fifth feature on that list, two to the fourth, three to the third, and so on, so forth.

“You still need to do the last one, by the way,” he reminds, snapping her out of her daze. 

“Oh, Pride loves squeezing my thighs, spreading my thighs, burying his face in my thighs, thinks my thighs are strong strong, and that there’s a perfect amount of them to bite,” Isa finishes. 

“There’s a good girl,” Pride grins, walking over to pick her up from in front of the mirror. Caring little for the blood dripping everywhere, he deposited her right onto a comfy couch, knowing she’d lose it if he dumped her on the bed and she got blood on it, “Now stay put,” 

Isa only nodded, letting Pride poke his head out of the room for a few minutes. He didn’t go far, and didn’t shut the door. Instead, he stood in the doorway, blocking anyone from seeing in, as he spoke to someone. Moments later, he took something from them, and came back in, shutting the door behind them. When he came back, there were bandages and ointments in his hands, all of which were ceremoniously dumped onto the floor when Pride dropped to his knee. 

Gasping, Isabella tried to stand, only for a stern look to force her back down. Pride never kneeled. For anyone. The only time he’d ever knelt before her was less kneeling and more lying down, and it was just so he could feast on Isa. Now, however, his touches remained reverent as he pulled out the glass, before cleaning and bandaging each wound. 

“Pride-” 

“We’ll talk later, just- Just let me do this first,”    

Isa could only nod. 

When he was done, he carried her to the bed, before leaving and coming back with a simple, blue tunic. Pride had no intention of letting her do anything tonight, it seemed, as he pulled the gown from her body, not caring as the thin ties snapped at the back. After that, he pulled the tunic over her, and gently pushed her to lay on the bed. Moments later, he was climbing in with her, having taken off his formalwear, and coming back in loose trousers. 

“Want to tell me what happened?” he asked, once they were both tucked into bed. 

“It got bad,” she whispered, “Worse than before. I took one look at that ballroom, and suddenly, the thought of food made me want to hurl, and having to spend an evening with others looking at me all night, made me want to tear at my skin,” 

“Has it ever gotten this bad before?” Pride asks. 

“Once, but it was a while before I came here,” she assured him. 

Pride rubs a thumb over her cheek, gentle and soothing. 

“I’m so, so sorry, Bella,” he whispers.

Isa’s heart picks up its pace in her chest. Pride never apologizes either. Well, not to anyone but her anyway. It appears she’s been the exception to many rules, when it comes to Pride. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” she responds, “I’m sorry I made you miss your party. I know how much you love them,” 

“Don’t be. I love you more,” he soothes, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips.  

“I have one more thing I need to ask, Bella,” he tells her, suddenly serious.

“Yes?” 

“The glass shards. Did you do that on purpose?” 

“No! No, of course not. I- On my way back up here, everything had overwhelmed me and I was so dizzy, I was reaching for anything to grab onto and I- I ended up grabbing the mirror, and…dropped it…” Isabella trails off sheepishly.

Pride examines her for a moment, his icy eyes carving deep into her flesh, before he finally relents. 

“Alright, good. Please remember, that I don’t know what I’d do without you, my Bella,” he whispers, “So don’t you ever, ever, even consider it.” 

“I’ll try not to,” she whispers, “But sometimes those voices just make too much sense to ignore,” 

“Tell me what it will take to help you, my love. Do you want me to take you on my throne before our whole court, to let them, and you, know who holds whatever’s left of my heart? Is there a person in particular bothering you, that I need to feed to some foul beast somewhere? Do I need to kiss every inch of your flesh until your mind accepts my words as fact? Would you like me to shatter every mirror in my circle, so you can never rely on them to show you yourself again?” he asks desperately. 

“I don’t know,” she whispers honestly. 

“Then try to remember this; You are my wife. You are the first face I see in the morning, the last face I see every night, and the one face I could never be tired of. I love your belly, even if it’s bigger than others’. I love your thick thighs, and plump lips. I love the way your eyes sparkle when you find something you’re interested in. I love the way you squeal when you see something cute. I love the way your smile instantly improves my mood. I love everything about you, my sweet, beautiful Bella,” Pride whispers to each one with conviction, “Whatever you see in your reflection, pay it no heed. Only my view of you matters. Mine, and nobody elses,” 

“Pride-” 

His arms wrap around her, pulling her close to his chest. 

“Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Whatever it takes, if it means I won’t lose you!” 

Isabella relaxes in his hold, though her mind is still racing. 

“Just- Just hold me. And help me remember why you love me. Why I love me,” 

“Of course, my beautiful love,” Pride whispers, before he begins listing everything he’s ever loved about you off, one by one. From appearance to personality to memories. Pride leaves nothing out. By the time he’s done, you can barely keep your eyes open. Noticing this, Pride chuckles. “Sleep Bella,” 

“Goodnight, Pride,” 

How about something spicey with the lovely Pride and fem reader? Maybe a dash of possessiveness and jelousy?

mwah! love you my darling ram♡

Ask and ye shall receive! Thanks so much for playing my lovely!

---

Pride leans over you, a vicious snarl twisting his lip above his too sharp canine. Right now, he’s not anywhere close to the businessman persona he puts on every day. Right now, he is the embodiment of the primal sin he is named for.

Rage thrashes in his golden eyes and his fingers sink into the flesh of your hips. His demonic nails, pointed and dangerous for a human like yourself, rip through the material clinging to your waist like it’s nothing. He grips a little too tight and those nails cut into your skin. You shiver because you’ve never seen him lose his cool like this.

You can’t breathe with how much he’s pressed into your space. With how his energy snaps and crackles in the air, how it fills your lungs instead of the oxygen you need.

“I saw you,” he breathes, his gaze snagging yours even as you try to look towards the ground.

“Saw me what?” you ask, you are truly lost, confused.

“I saw you with that bastard. That fucker in accounting. He’s nothing compared to me. Why did you even give him the time of day?” Pride snarls.

You can feel the tickling drip of your own blood as it slips down your legs. You swallow. You try to rack your memories, try to figure out what he’s talking about. You’d picked up documents. That’s all. You stopped to chat?

“I don’t know what you mean,” you whisper. “Pride. It wasn’t… anything.”

You shake your head.

“Liar,” he hisses.

And you know he’s too far gone for you to be able to reach him. He’s two seconds from shifting into his demonic form and fucking you stupid.

“But that’s okay, baby girl,” he coos. “I just need to remind you who you belong to.”

He grips your chin with those bloodstained fingernails, tilting your face, manipulating you so easily like he always does. Eventually he has you pliable, just where he wants you, and then he kisses you.

Kissing Pride is always something that feels like you are getting consumed. Like your soul is being swallowed in the process. His kisses are calculated yet passionate, they make you wobbly and he knows it’s the best way to make you compliant. He sweeps his tongue in, and you feel the way you react from your flesh to your human spirit.

Everything in you throbs, it aches for more. The hand that is cupping your face drops down along the column of your throat, his fingers aligning with your pulse. Every noise you make he swallows greedily, as he presses his tongue to the roof of your mouth and draws swirling patterns you are sure have meaning. His nails on your hip dig slightly deeper and the pain makes you dizzy in ways that shouldn’t be as delicious as they are.

He finally pulls back, “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you parrot back.

Boo :)

I think a lot of things would change the answers. Did they want to become a killer? Are they in control of themselves? Either or though, here you go.

Tony Stark x bi!child!reader

warnings:

a/n:

prompt: anonymous: “Hi! I wanted to request a pride ask if im not too late. Could it be 'coming out as bisexual to adoptive father!Tony? Thank you💜”

sometimes it was really hard to be serious with your father

but today was one of the days you demanded it

“dad? got a minute?” -you

he was in the lab at the time

“not really. kinda busy” -tony

“well too bad. come here” -you

“shit, y/n. did you set something on fire or panic buy something?” -tony

you brought him to an area without distraction and told him straight up

“dad, i am bisexual” -you

“very cool. can i get back to work?” -tony

“dude” -you

“no, i’m proud, i swear. i just left something in the lab that might blow up in like—” -tony, pausing as an explosion ensues and fire alarms blare “now”

“oh. right” -you

“whatever. FRIDAY can take care of it. anyways, good for you, kid! glad you told me. you know, i’m a little bit of a bisexual myself” -tony

“what does that even mean?” -you

“i am also bisexual. anyways, celebration tonight? dinner? disneyland? whatever you want” -tony