#red cod

[anonmousegosqueak]

I don't need much, I just need-

Soap and Ghost cuddling on the porch outside.

It had been a long mission. It's amazing Soap even survived. There was even a close call in those tunnels, If Price had been even one second slower in shooting him... Soap doesn't want to think about what would have happened.

But that's all over now.

Makarov is dead.

The world is just that little bit safer.

Cap had obviously sent them off, practically chasing Soap off the second they got back. He honestly had to feel a bit bad for the guy, it's pretty clear he was under a lot of stress the whole time. Besides, Soap never was one to turn down a free vacation.

He didn't even think twice before grabbing Ghost, packing a small bag for the two of them, and heading off towards his family home up in Scotland.

They had just arrived the other night, having spent the day relaxing and catching up on sleep. Even Ghost, the insomniac he is, didn't leave the bed till 1300.

Gaz and Soap had chatted earlier that day over text, mostly Gaz bragging about the nice date he was planning for Red and himself. Soap couldn't blame him too much, he's definitely not that much better off with how often he talks about Ghost. They were both a bit hopeless, weren't they? Lovesick fools, the pair of them.

Now Johnny is sitting on the back porch, watching the wee barns play around in the backyard. He's shoved himself into Simon's side, close enough he can feel the other man's heart. Thankfully he doesn't seem to mind that much, his only real reaction was a hum before pulling Johnny even closer.

The sun had already started setting, casting a nice glow over everything. The air had started to get a bit of a nip to it but not enough to be uncomfortable. More of an excuse to cuddle, no?

They hadn't talked in a while, simply enjoying each other's company. The warmth of dinner still sat nicely in their stomachs, the first real meal either of them had eaten in... A long time. Rations were fine short term, but even Simon could get a little tired of them.

Dinner was nice for other reasons as well.

Johnny had found himself quieting down for once. Not out of fear or anger, no, more out of... Focus.

Simon was smiling. He was smiling and laughing with Johnny's family. He had taken the mask off to eat, but even then he wouldn't slip it back on while he chewed like he sometimes did when he was uncomfortable. His face was warm and full of life, his posture open and welcoming for once.

And if it didn't all go straight down to Johnny's crotch...

They didn't fool around though, no matter how much Johnny wanted to pull the other man into the nearest bathroom. Instead, they went out to the backyard for the kids to burn off some energy before bed.

His sister was off playing with the kids, his ma working on the garden and his da not too far off so he could lend a hand if she needed it. The rest of the family was all scattered around, too spaced out to really be trackable.

Johnny and Simon had simply relaxed on the porch together.

Snapping brought him back, the slight jostle of his shoulder making him look up.

"y' alright? 'been quiet... In your head again?"

It's not often Simon is worried about him being quiet, usually he's telling Johnny to shut up. He must have spaced out quite a bit to get this kinda reaction from him.

"Mhm. Solid. Just thinking, nothing bad though."

That seems to be enough for Simon, settling for a 'humph' and pulling Johnny closer. If that was even possible.

They drifted back into a quiet cuddle, the silence comforting like a blanket.

And for once? Soap didn't mind the empty space.

Because it wasn't empty. It was full.

Home.

Lmao. Look at these idiots, they're in love haha. Anyways, I'm going to go pass out for a few hours, I'll see y'all when the sun collapses.

[military-title-red]

Omw to shulrp Kyle's gurt.

Love that guy so much...

[anonmousegosqueak]

Labeling these 1-34 and begging y'all to gimme a number to draw.

Please.

I wanna draw Red as all of these.

(yes I know they're connected but I'd rather do it as 34 separate prompts)

Ohh, so I was looking at my storage and found these! I originally shared them on twitter before yeeting the platform. Anyway, feel free to use! Art memes for your oc :D

[thebookbutterfly]

fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

[rottingpink]

PUT YOUR MONEY WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS

masterlist

cw: multi x reader, brat taming, size kink, car sex, breeding, doggy, reverse cowgirl, established relationship

synopsis: reader underestimated her quiet boyfriend and paid the price

You find yourself draped on your boyfriend's lap, positioned with your back pressed against his muscular chest as he bounces you on his massive, throbbing cock with deep, slow thrusts so that you feel every inch of him each time he slides his throbbing shaft against your gummy walls. "F-fuck, ba-babe..." you slur, voice a broken mewl as he slams you up and down on his cock with your back to his chest, using you like a sex doll.

You're crushed in his lap, legs spread wide and shaking, dress pushed up and panties down by your ankles as he keeps both hands locked on your hips while he rocks you down, again and again. He fucks you on his cock like you're nothing but something to use.

You've gone dumb with it, dizzy and sweaty and barely able to breathe through the choked little gasps that leave your mouth every time he lifts your hips and slams you back down again.

His car shakes just enough to be suspicious as you get ravaged in the parking lot of the bar he took you to to meet some of his childhood friends. The plan had been to get you to meet some of the guys he'd grown up with, and hopefully get you all on good terms, but you couldn't seem to behave for one night.

A couple drinks enough to get you tipsy paired with your loud nature had been enough to get you to go too far.

"He's -hic- totally my bitch, you guys," you’d said with a grin that took up your whole face, waving your hand dramatically. "He acts all tough, y’know, like all big and quiet and scary or whatever, but I swear to god," you leaned in across the table like you were telling a secret, all conspiratorial and smug, "this man says yes ma’am with a mouth full of my p-"

"That’s enough," he’d said then, right next to your ear, and you should've stopped, but you didn't.

The second everyone laughed, loving it, you only leaned further into the moment, letting out this airy little laugh and nudging his thigh under the table like you were just being cute.

"You guys don’t even know," you giggled, tipsy and teasing and leaning too far into it now, your voice a little too loud. "He’s literally obsessed with me. Like, full-on whipped. If I even hint that I want something? He’s already got it in the cart. If I want it in bed? He’s already on his knees. Like, he’ll beg for it, beg, and he’s so good at it too, you guys, it’s actually kind of pathetic,"

He didn't even say anything as he excused the two of you from his friends, hauled you out of the booth, and dragged you out towards the car for a "talk", and now here you are.

Your boyfriend remains surprisingly focused, but you can tell he's furious. His huge hands are gripping your hips so rough that his thick fingers leave indents on your flesh. Soft, rhythmic groans leave him as he stares at your fucked out expression, watching the way you shudder on him and struggle to take him in.

"You think you're so cute and funny, hm?" he grunts, his voice hoarse and deeper than you’ve ever heard it. "You think I'm your bitch?"

He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust that makes your whole body jolt, your eyes fluttering shut as a broken cry escapes your lips.

"Said that shit in front of my goddamn friends?" His hands push your body forward so that he's arching you harder so he can get deeper inside you. You can feel his huge, fat cock rubbing against your sweet spot with each thrust now. "Sat there and lied to their fuckin' faces like I don't handle you whenever I want?"

You try to respond, but you can't whimpering and moaning stupidly to try and convey that you didn't mean it, but with how he's splitting you open, you can't.

"Should’ve pulled you outta that bar by your hair the second you opened that pretty little mouth," he snarls, hips snapping into you harder, dragging you back onto his cock and stretching you out with each thrust. "Sat there giggling, acting cute, telling stories about me begging for you."

His hand moves from your back to your throat, wrapping around it to guide your head back so you're forced to hear every word he spits against your ear.

"Does this feel like I'm the one begging, baby?' he mutters, dragging his cock out almost all the way before slamming it back in, grunting as your body tightens around him. "You’re dripping. Can barely fuckin’ hold yourself up."

"Ngh, I-I'm sorry!" you mewl, lips parted as moans leave your lips. His cock feels so good inside you, and each time he pushes himself in completely, his cock leaves a soft kiss on your womb.  His fingers squeeze, sinking into your skin as he pulls you down onto his cock, impaling you over and over. His breath comes hot and heavy against your neck, his tongue lolling out to lave over your sweat-sheened skin, tasting you. 

His free hand finds your nipples, rolling and pinching the stiff peaks roughly, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting straight to your core. He tugs on them, pinches them, as if trying to pull you even closer.  Your tits swell in his palms, aching and tingling from his groping, the hard points of your nipples feeling warm as he rolls the pads of his fingers over them, groping your breasts shamelessly while sinking his teeth into the column of your throat.

"Still got something to say? Huh?" he snaps, squeezing your throat hard enough to make your vision sparkle as he keeps driving into you, relentless and heavy, like he’s trying to fuck the brat out of you. "Go ahead. Say it again. Tell me I’m your bitch." You try to catch your breath, head swimming, and whisper something like "I didn’t mean-" but he shuts you up with another hard thrust that makes your eyes roll back.

His hips rise and fall with powerful thrusts, his massive cock disappearing into your plump, soaked pussy again and again. The thick, pulsing shaft stretches your entrance obscenely, your slick walls struggling to accommodate its girth. Each thrust forces lewd, wet squelches from your core, the obscene sounds of your juices being stirred up and splashed around his dick. 

"Stupid mouth, always running," he breathes against your hair, his grip on your neck tightening just slightly. "Sayin' shit that makes me want to lose it. But I still show up for you. I still take care of you. I still let you act like a fuckin' brat because I love you."

You moan, turning your head to press your lips against his, hoping it shows him that you’re really sorry and love him just as much, and to your delight, he accepts it, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mouth in response, his tongue rolling over yours. The head of his cock kisses your gummy sweet spot with every thrust, battering against the entrance to your womb, as if he intends to force his way inside and shove his cum right into your depths.

Suddenly, with a sudden, sharp tug on your hips, he pushes you forward off his lap. Before you can catch your balance, he's gripping your hips and pulling them back, shoving your upper body down onto the seats so you’re folded in half. The leather is cold and smooth against your palms as he positions you in front of him with him fucking into you from behind.

He wastes no time, gripping your hips hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises on your skin as he hilts inside you with one brutal, balls-deep thrust. The angle is different like this, allowing him to plunge even deeper, his spongy tip slamming into your cervix as he grips your hair and tugs your head back.

You're forced to arch your back, neck craning to look up in front of you as your boyfriend sets a vicious pace pounding into your slick pussy. Drool drips down your chin, a strand of saliva connecting your lower lip to your chin as garbled moans and desperate cries spill from your plush lips. "Fu-fuck, I’m s-sorry baby... f-feels so good, I... m-more,"

Your words come out slurred, broken by every hard thrust that rocks your whole body forward, his grip iron tight on your hips as he keeps you exactly where he wants you, bent over in the seat like a perfect little mess just for him. The second that needy little more slips out, he lets out this ragged groan through gritted teeth, one hand releasing your hip only to come down with a sharp smack on your ass, making you jolt and whine.

"Oh, now you’re sorry?" he growls, voice dark and low, laced with that edge of fury he’s barely holding onto. "Didn't sound sorry when you were running your fuckin' mouth back there."

Your ass jiggles and ripples with every impact of his pelvis against your rear, the lewd slaps echoing in the chamber. Your plump pussy lips hug his shaft like a fleshy vise, the puffy skin stretched taut around his girth, glistening with your arousal, and each time he draws his thick cock back, you grip onto him, almost sucking him back in.  Your soaked cunt makes the filthiest squelching noises as his cock plunges in and out, stirring up your juices and coating his balls with your slick essence. 

Your boyfriend moans unabashedly, head thrown back as each thrust brings him nearer to orgasm, his eyes fluttering shut. "Oh fuck, you take me so well… Shit, gonna make me cum inside you, aren't you? Can feel you tightening around me like you want it," With one last thrust, he slams your hips back against his groin, grinding your ass into his pelvis as he hits your cervix dead-on.

He throws his head back, a guttural, animalistic groan tearing from his throat as he finds his release. His cock jerks and throbs, pulsing as it paints your insides white with his hot, thick cum. Rope after rope of his seed floods your womb, filling you to the brim.

The feeling of his hot cum gushing into you triggers an overwhelming orgasm of your own. You scream, back arching almost painfully as pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clamps down on his spurting cock, the muscles rippling and milking him for every last drop of him.

He grinds against that sensitive spot deep inside you, rubbing and thrusting as he rides out the aftershocks of his climax. Every movement sends sparks of ecstasy shooting up your spine, drawing out your own mind-blowing orgasm. Your juices gush around his shaft, mixing with his cum as it squirts out around his cock with each press against that soft little sweet spot.

As the last spurts of cum paint your insides, your boyfriend leans over your back, his chest pressing into your shoulders as he pants heavily. His hands release your hips to trail slowly up your sides, almost tenderly, as if savoring the feeling of your sweat slicked flesh.

He huffs, low and warm against your skin, pressing a kiss to your shoulder now that he’s spent and still inside you. "Now we're gonna get you cleaned up and you're gonna tell my friends you're sorry for acting up. Let 'em see who you belong to."

[theorist-fox]

Simon has dinner

Literally I don't know what this is I just got horny

18+

CW: simon eats you out, squirting, idk

Placing the window in front of the stove was a good choice, you think—especially since your kitchen faces west. The sun kisses your skin as it sets at the horizon, only countryside stretching before your eyes.

You're lost in your head, mindlessly stirring dinner with a wooden spoon. Red lentils, bit of coconut milk, spinach—a recipe you found online and couldn't wait to try.

Arms wrap around your waist loosely, out of the blue—appearing so suddenly that you can't help but jump on the spot.

Heart in your throat, you turn your head to look behind you in horror—

—but you're met with a smirk blooming on scarred cheek. Quickly, Simon hides it in the crook of your neck—stubble coarse against the thinner skin there, though he soon soothes the irritation with apologetic kisses.

"Scared me shitless." You breathe a chuckle, dropping your spoon on the counter. "Asshole."

He only huffs. "Sorry."

Big hands feel you up, from the curves of your stomach to the silhouette of your hips. They reach upwards, thumb at your nipple as his palm follows the soft arch of your breast. Squeezing, feeling its weight in his hand and how it delightfully dimples under the pads of his fingers.

"Bit hungry, love" he whispers, mouth kissing the shell of your ear.

No matter how often you giggle and swat him away, or say that dinner’s just about ready—he won't let go until he's satisfied. 

And you know how rare that instance is.

Which is why his hand sneakily turns off the stove.

Which is why those subtle kisses on your neck turn open and awfully patient; teeth at your jugular, bites assuaged by his tongue a moment later.

Which is why you're panting, now, naked with your ass flush to the kitchen island—clothes hanging from the back of a chair, or crumpled on the kitchen floor. 

Simon crouches before you, head already buried between your thighs.

He encourages your hands to pull at his hair, guiding your fingers to fist his curls. Encourages your moans to grow louder, because he didn't buy this cottage deep in the countryside for you to be afraid of waking up neighbours that don't exist.

He sucks on your clit, laps at your cunt until he can hear your cries grow breathy, until you fall quiet—only gasping for air.

He fits a finger inside. Then two. Sucks and licks and pumps you stuffed and full with three. Your heels digging at his back, your thighs closing in around his head. Gorgeous pressure—even if it cottons his ears, muffles your voice.

He can live with that. Feels like a right bargain.

It's probably less than a handful of minutes before you're cumming on his tongue. 

He pushes in—inhales, the bastard. Takes out his fingers and replaces his tongue, effortlessly sliding over your clit to prolong your orgasm for as long as he can.

Licks over and through them to taste the juices you drip, those that you spray. Ecstatic when you do, holding onto your thigh something fierce—like he won the moment he started drowning between your legs.

Until you're a puddle on the table, dizzy and slack. Gooey limbs draped over his shoulders, blood like syrup pumping slowly down to the tips of your toes.

He looks up at you, cheeks wet and mouth smiling the loveliest smile and yet still the cheekiest of smirks. Tenderly, you draw its outline with your thumb.

“Still peckish?” You ask with the same tease you see in his eyes.

He scoffs and turns his head to kiss the inside of your thigh, where your flesh is softer and streaked with silver lines.

"Nah," he shrugs. "Ate loads."

You snort, something between embarrassment, disgust and utmost fondness riddled in your tone.

"Oh my God, Simon."

Gently, you nudge him with your foot, hooking the arch at his shoulder. He catches it. Softly kisses your ankle through his smile, huffing a breathy laugh.

He leaves his hand there, draped over your shin—smoothing slow lines all the way to your toes, up and down, in a soothing fashion.

"Reckon bed's sounding better than dinner right now." He murmurs to your skin, leaving pecks to the side of your foot. "What d'you think?"

You shake your head fondly with a quiet chuckle.

Simon won't let go until he's satisfied—and you know, always have, that those instances are rare.

And he proves you right every single time.

Alas, dinner can wait. Takeout is always an option, after all.

You jump down the kitchen island—can't even land on your feet that he already has his hands wrapped solidly around your thighs.

He stands up, and brings you with him.

You kiss his cheek. "Reckon it does."

[anonmousegosqueak]

Gaz: *posin' all fancy like*

Red: *tied to the back of a horse, glaring at him.* "You done, pretty boy? 'pretty sure you should be taking me to jail, not posting thirst-traps..."

🤠

[wombywoo]

hawk.

[anonmousegosqueak]

*me: literally hyperventilating*

"GAZGAZGAZGAZGAZGAZGAZ-"

*me: reading the bit where he's in town.*

"hah. I'ma imagine Red in this scene."

*Red: is actually in this*

*me: hyperventilates even more*

"REDGAZREDGAZREDGAZREDGAZREDGAZREDGAZ-"

Anyways, everyone read this or I'll literally cut your bones out and give them to my good boy.

Forged in Fire

@anonmousegosqueak @writer-fennec

This is set before Honey and Grass

Introducing:

The Gods

Nikolai = Lai Laswell and Laura = Sal and Ra Alejandro and Rudy = Landro and Rudi Farah and Alex = Fah and Lex

Simon sword slips through the crevice in his enemy's armour, the body falling to the ground as he pulls the weapon free. Behind him, Jon rides his horse at a slow pace, their small battalion following behind the King and his knight. The town is quiet with fear, people looking out through their windows or pulling the cloth away from their doors to get a better look at King Jonathan Price.

They leader of the village is dead, no one to take up the mantel for him, or to greet their saviours. Instead, Simon watches as a young man scurries out of a sturdy looking stone building, dust kicking up behind him as he rushes towards them. His sword raises, ready to protect his King at all costs, but the man slides into a kneel just before Simon is preparing to wield his sword.

"King Price! I am Kyle Garrick, the blacksmith of this village that you have so gratefully saved."

Jon steadies his steed and climbs down, boots thudding against the dirt, dry from the weeks without rain. He glances to Simon, wishes to know what his knight thinks of the young and eager looking man kneeling before them. Far too young to be a blacksmith, too young to be speaking on behalf of this village. But Simon has not met Jon's eye yet, gaze focused on Kyle, on the kneeling man. His shoulders are tense, leather creaking from his tight grip on the hilt of his sword. Jon places a steady hand on his friend's shoulder, squeezes just slightly to pull the man back to his senses.

"Tell me, Garrick, why a man of your age is speaking on behalf of this village?"

"I am the oldest man left, my King."

Jon does not stumble back in his surprise, has seen far too much bloodshed for that to happen. His lungs tighten at the knowledge that his men were too late, that they could not save the people of this village. He is young, he knows mistakes will be made, but Jon still feels the loss of people he did not know burning in his chest. With hushed words, Jon sends a soldier back to his kingdom with orders to return with the plans to build an outpost village. It's not a proper solution, but it will give the village, and those surrounding, protection.

"The rumours are true, you really are too kind, my King. You mean to bless us with the resources to prosper, and yet you have asked not in return in form of payment."

Jon follows the young leader into the sturdy stone building, eyes flitting around the room he recognises as that for a blacksmith. Simon walks behind him, hand still wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword, ready to protect at a moments notice. Their soldiers wander through the village, offering their help to any who claim to need it, taking a chance to relax before they must return to their journey. Jon's paces are even, controlled, as he steps over piles of ash and twisted metal, leather strewn about and woods charred. Kyle's words, his disbelief, ring through the King's head, but a glint catches his eye before he can respond.

Hanged on a wall, glinting in the fire light, is a dagger. It is not alone on the wall, a multitude of weapons and shields decorating the area. But the dagger is the latest of creations, even Simon can tell that. Thick leather wrapped to form a hilt, grooves ground into it for fingers that most likely belong to the blacksmith responsible for it. The metal, one that is localised to Jon's kingdom and highly expensive, is polished and sharpened, cared for more than most of the space.

Kyle tenses, eyes darting between the King and the dagger. He had talked of payment, had been disbelieving that such a powerful King could be so merciful. And really, what is a dagger to things Jon could ask for? A weapon that Kyle crafts like second nature, that he travelled to the city to obtain the metal to make, it would be a worthy sacrifice to keep his people safe.

"They say a weapon speaks to the crafter. Daggers are very personal choices, close range and often symbols of betrayal."

The words are not spoken to him, they are not meant for Kyle to answer. He is but a spectator to a conversation spoken in code that he does not wish to understand. The knight steps forward, eyes flickering to Kyle when the blacksmith takes a step forward with hitched breath.

"Daggers have also served the weak, those who cannot lift sword or bow. They serve the brave few that bother to learn their ways, becoming a deadly weapon for the wielder."

The dagger is placed back into it's spot, the knight and King exchanging a nod as they turn to Kyle. He does his best not to flinch, not to acknowledge that he knows the conversation was about him rather than his dagger. He knows not about what their words truly meant, but he knows they meant for him to hear.

"Your payment will be service. In 5 months time, we wish for this campaign to end, and we shall return through this village. That will give you ample time oversee the preparations of the outpost before you accompany us back to the city."

Kyle's chest tightens, a bitter resignation filling his eyes. Leave his village, the only home he's known, and join the King. It should be an honour, should have him eagerly agreeing and already packing a bag despite the months left he has here. But instead, Kyle hears that soft voice in his head, sees brown hair braided with flowers from the field. He hears snarky comments and quiet laughter.

"Your majesty, I-"

He takes a breath, tries to push the betrayal and guilt out of his stomach. 5 months, possibly even more if the campaign is disrupted. Red may return within those months, though Kyle knows it unlikely. A promise made over three seasons ago, and yet he has still not found his way back to Kyle, has not been guided by Lai as he said would happen. Kyle cannot wait for his love friend when there are more important matters to attend to.

"I shall await your return, my King."

[anonmousegosqueak]

I don't need much, I just need-

John and Nikolai returning home after a mission.

It had been a shit show from day one honestly, it's amazing they all survived and were in one piece. There was even a close call in those tunnels. If Price had been even one second slower, Soap might have ended up with a new hole in his head.

But that's all over now.

Makarov is dead.

The world is just that little bit safer.

Price had sent everyone home for some much needed rest and recuperation. Soap had dragged Ghost to the Scottish highlands to meet the family- they'd already met him before, Soap just wanted an excuse to make sure Ghost wasn't alone. Gaz had texted Price a few days ago, informing him that he made it to his flat and had also sent added picture of Red passed out in a bundle of sheets (that were almost definitely Gaz's bed). Everyone was home.

And Price?

Well Price went home with his husband.

After getting Dima from the cat-sitters, dusting off all the surfaces, and ordering some takeout, Price was just about ready to fall asleep on that couch and stay asleep for a few days. Yeah he was a little dirty, he wouldn't mind a shower to wash off the grime of travel, but he was so tired...

He might have audibly shrieked a bit when Nik picked him up.

"Ah- малышка! Relax. I'm just taking us to the shower, да?"

Huffing, John doesn't say much as he simply lets his Nik carry him to the bathroom.

He had long gotten used to the mans strength, no longer uncomfortable with these casual acts of love. The first time Nik had picked him up, he might have almost passed out with how quickly all his blood rushed down there. Nowadays he's much more relaxed, able to just melt into his lovers strong arms.

It's still a bit hot though.

The shower itself was nice enough. Sure the pipes were a little rusty from lack of use, but they'd fix that tomorrow. Tonight is just for relaxation.

It's partly why John doesn't fight back when Nik starts to rub those fancy products into his skin.

While John was not unclean, he tried to stay far from it, he was just... Simple. 3-1 worked just fine, it was cheaper and quicker too. So imagine his surprise when not only did Nikolai not share the same taste, the man was visibly concerned.

'But малышка, it dries your skin!'

And?

John never found a reason to care. It's not like it was anything important, just some skin. He'd been through worse anyways. Why should he spend extra money, extra time, extra effort, all for his skin to look nice?

Nikolai. That's why.

It wasn't that long after their original conversation that John was able to put the pieces together. Nikolai liked nice skin, he liked soft hair and he liked it when John smelled nice.

And that was a good enough reason for him. As long as his husband was happy, he was happy.

He didn't fully register the water turning off. Not the fluffy towels getting wrapped around him, not the extra product so lovingly applied to his skin. The next time he was actually aware of his surroundings was when he was in bed. Dima was squished between them, purrs audible from a mile away. Nikolai wasn't much better off, running his fingers through John's chest hair and making biscuits on his tits like a cat. He never really questioned it. Nik was a cat, he acted like one, purred like one, loved like one, who was John to deny him?

It wasn't long before he was drifting off to sleep, more calm than he'd been in months.

Home.

Y'all, I'm literally gonna go off my meds and die or smth at this point. Why? Because I've been so uncreative, so uninspired, so bored lately. And I forget my drugs *one day*? All of a sudden I'm busting out this as I'm trying to go to sleep. Like dang, that sucks.

Jk, I'm gonna keep on doing my drugs because I wanna stay alive and fanfic isn't a good enough reason to suffer greatly 😎

[military-title-red]

🥃 + what do you think of Phoenix c:

- totally NOT Phoenix mun :3

Well... I think he's kinda ugly, and an asshole as well. Has good taste in men at least, 'specially his current boyfriend. All in all, 'don't really like the guy.

(hiiii!)

[giotanner]

John "Soap" Mactavish - behind the Red Skull mask

(Hey cod fans please help me to be in your circle with a reblog)

Tiktok entire video

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld

> summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold > tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description

Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.

Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.

Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.

You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.

"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.

"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.

"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.

"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"

"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."

Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.

He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.

Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.

You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.

The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.

Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.

Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.

"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"

"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."

"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."

You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.

There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.

Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.

Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.

They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.

Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.

Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.

But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.

Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.

Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.

Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?

"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.

"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."

Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.

You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.

A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.

Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.

You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.

His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.

Devils, come to sack the convent.

Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.

You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.

It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.

"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.

The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."

You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.

"Good girl," Skull says.

The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.

Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.

You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.

"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"

"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"

"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.

"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.

It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.

Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.

"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"

A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.

Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.

The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.

Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.

They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.

Yet.

"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.

His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.

Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.

"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"

You blanch, breath leaving you.

"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"

"Take 'er."

With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.

"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."

Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.

The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.

You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.

The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.

Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.

"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.

Or ask him for help.

Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.

A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.

Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.

"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.

"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."

"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.

When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?

God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?

"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.

You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.

"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.

"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."

They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.

Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.

It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.

You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.

Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.

You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?

The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.

Blood rushes in your ears again.

You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.

A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.

"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."

You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.

"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."

"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"

"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"

"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."

He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.

"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."

It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.

The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.

"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.

You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.

"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.

The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.

"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"

"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."

"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.

Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.

You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.

Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.

"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.

"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.

Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.

When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.

Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.

He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.

"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.

"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"

No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.

Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.

"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."

You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.

You wonder when this journey will end.

Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.

She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.

Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.

"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."

"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.

Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.

"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"

Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.

Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.

Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.

"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.

"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.

"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."

He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.

"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.

Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.

"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."

You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.

"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.

The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.

You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.

The soap is better than the water.

"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.

"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."

"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.

"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."

The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.

"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.

The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.

The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.

"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.

"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"

"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"

"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.

You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.

Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.

"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."

[military-title-red]

Aye- somethin' like this actually happened to me once!

Wasn't the fuck truck or whatever tha' thing is called, but there was a fire. It was actually on one of my dates with Kyle, someone in the kitchen of the restaurant we went to started a fire!

I tried to tell 'im it wasn't me, but I don' think he believed me...

A dumb doodle I created with @anonmousegosqueak 's OC, Red!

[succubusvalentine]

"character and character would NEVER be together why are people shipping them?!"

I know for a FACT you were watching those Elsa x Jack Frost videos on YouTube as a kid. THEY'RE FROM COMPLETELY DIFFERENT UNIVERSES. But you gobbled it up didn't you. DIDN'T YOU.

[foreveradreamaway]

streaming- MV33/1

summary- a compilation of moments from maxs streams

i really loved writing this as i always have small idea that aren’t long enough to be their own post, if you have any small idea that goes with this or just in general then please comment it or send it to me and i will make a part two or another post similar <3

max loved to stream every now and then. he loved the interactions with fans and getting to play with his friends. you also loved when max streamed because it gave you some peace and quiet for a while, it also allowed you to do some house work without max following you like a lost puppy.

you had made numerous appearances in his streams and his fans loved it. probably enjoying seeing you both as actual humans and getting to see how you both live your daily lives together. some fans had made a compilation of the many times you made an appearance in one of maxs streams.

🏎️

max sat in his gaming chair immersed in whatever game he was playing. you needed something from the room he was in and it couldn’t wait.

you opened the door as slowly and quietly as possible and creeped over to the thing you needed. apparently you weren’t quiet enough and he heard you. he moved one side of his headset off his ear.

“sorry, i just needed to grab the end thing for the hoover.” you sheepishly smiled. he only grinned in return. you took this as the opportunity to walk up behind him so you were in the frame.

“what are you playing?” you questioned as your face finally came in shot.

“im playing cod with lando, charles and carlos”

“aww cute” you sent a quick wave to say hello to everyone that was on the other end of the camera. however your eyes were quickly caught by the top of maxs head.

“can they hear me?” you questioned, he nodded. “okay. hello everyone, it’s your favourite person in the world here and i just needed to show you something” max had a confused look on his face as he watched you through the camera, wondering what you were about to show.

your hands reached for each side of the head set that was on his head and slowly removed it and handed it to him. your hands then went to either side of his head and tilted it down.

“max gets really bad headset hair guys and it will literally stay like this for the rest of the day” max’s hands quickly went up to his hair to attempt to fix while you and the chat couldn’t help but laugh.

“shut up” he grumbled as he lifted the head set back onto his head. “love you baby!” you called over your shoulder as you left the room.

“i hate her”

“i heard that!”

🏎️

“mijn liefste, wil je zo pasta? Ik ben er nu een paar aan het maken” you can’t be seen as you poke your head round the door.

“Het gaat goed, dank je schat” he replies while not taking his eyes off the game but removing one side of his headset. “welke pasta ben je aan het maken?”

“i know i’m learning but im not that good yet max” you laugh.

“i said ‘what pasta are you making” he replies, suddenly feeling hunger bubble his stomach.

“i’m not sure yet. are you sure you don’t want any? i’ll surprise you” making food has always been one of your love languages, your mum had shown you to cook as soon as she could and you picked it up quick.

“yeah go on then” he finally turns to you and smiles as you walk away. when he finally turns back he sees the chat filled with questions and people telling him how cute you both are.

“yeah she is learning dutch. i’m teaching her” his face lights up as he talks about you. “it’s very easy for her though because she already knows other languages so she picks it up quickly” his smile never leaving his face.

🏎️

max is looking intensely at the chat in-front of him, reading everything is the chat. answering a couple questions. he does this until he sees a familiar name come up.

“‘answer your phone’ what?” he quickly picks up his phone to see that he has ten missed calls from you. he is quick to call you back.

“max stop putting your phone on do not disturb and silent” you scold. he always did when he was streaming, he always said it was because he didn’t want to be disturbed however sometimes it was important. like now.

“sorry schat.”

“do you want anything from the shop? i’ve already got your m&ms and tomato soup.” max had a soft spot for m&ms and everyone knows about this man’s love of tomato soup.

“no i’m okay thank you baby. what are we having for dinner” max had a massive smile on his face. half because he was talking to you and because he knew how much everyone watching would love the conversation.

“well you’ve got mean prep” you couldn’t help but laugh as max groaned loudly and threw his head back. he hated meal prep. don’t get me wrong he loved being healthy and eating nice food but sometimes he just craved your cooking. “and i’m having a stir fry.”

“ugh whatever. i want stir fry”

“i know baby. ill make you one as soon as your nutritionist will allow me too”

“okay fine. when will you be home?” max kept the phone close to his mic to make sure everyone would be able to hear you on the other end of the phone.

“not long, i took the ferrari so it won’t take me long to get home. i don’t have my keys so be ready to pick up your phone and open the door! okay, i love you bye” you ended the phone call quickly before he could say anything about you taking his car.

“i swear she prefers my cars over her own” he laughed as he read through the chat again.

🏎️

when you moved in with max you demanded that a sofa be put into his gaming/office room. he got you the cosiest sofa he could just to make sure you were comfy. max spent a lot of time in the room and you missed him when he was in there.

before you lived together, you tried to sit on the floor when you were round but you just weren’t comfortable enough so that’s when you demanded a sofa. if max was streaming or just had some admin stuff to do, you would just sit on the sofa and enjoy each-others company.

max was streaming, as per usual, while you sat all snuggled up on the sofa across the room. you had one the comfiest jumper of his that you could find, his joggers, a blanket covering your whole body and tucked under your chin and you glasses that sat on your nose.

max had specifically bought a pair of joggers that were too small for him. one day he came home to see you wearing a pair of his that were far to big for you and when he questioned you, you said that you just enjoy wearing his clothes. so the next day he went and bought a pair that were to small and placed them in his waldrobe. from then on they were yours.

you were also a secret iPad kid at heart. your iPad was literally your prized possession and you took it everywhere with you. now was no different as you sat there with your ipad resting on your legs as you watched tik tok.

“look” you turned the ipad around so that it was facing max, he leant on the arm rest of the chair to get a better view of what you were showing him. it was a cat.

“we should get sassy and jimmy one” he laughed as you nodded. he sat back into his chair and caught what the chat were saying. many people asking where you were.

he grabbed the camera from its holder and turned it to face you, showing you under the blanket. he got up out his chair and moved to sit next to you on the sofa.

“you are actually such an old man” you laughed as he struggled to hold the camera so that it would get a view of both of you. “give it to me” you took the camera from his hand and wrapped your other arm around his neck to bring him closer to you.

“hey guys, it’s your favourite person in the world here” the camera now had a perfect view of both of you as you put a quick peace sign up to the camera. you quickly nudged max and his fingers quickly went to the same position as yours. “i want to show you all my outfit, hold this baby” you handed the camera to max and threw the blanket onto him as you stood from your seat.

“max, show them my whole body my love” you laughed as he was only showing the camera your legs. “i’m trying Schat” you leant forward a bit and moved maxs hand so it faced where it should be.

“okay so my glasses are from specsavers, they are the only people i trust with my glasses. even if i need a new pair i would rather fly home than get a pair from anywhere else. because if they messed my glasses up i would just hear my mum in my ear saying ‘should have gone to specsavers’. my jumper is maxs- where is this jumper from?” you questioned him.

“umm its a zara one i think”

“okay so the jumper is from zara and these joggers are from nike. can i even say that? do they even sponsor you?” max’s laugh could be heard from behind the camera before he replies. “yeah it’s okay. i think” his face fell into a sheepish grin behind the camera.

“my socks are from god knows where. and the blanket is from also god knows where.” you gave the camera a big smile as you fell back into your previous position.

“you are the new version of maxplaining”

“shut up”

🏎️

“can we play fifa?” you were sat on the floor, cross legged, next to max while he sat in his gaming chair. “you only want to play fifa because you always beat me” he huffed.

“exactly” you grinned at him.