ivyjupiterwrites - Tumblr blog

[ivyjupiterwrites]

It's been a hot minute, much stress and depress, but at least Riley looks still looks super duper happy and stoked for some revenge. What a good pup. Wishing them a happy and healthy retribution.

There's a new skin for Ghost out on COD Mobile and Riley is just the cutest lil thing☺️

Revenge buddies, how sweet💕💕

[ivyjupiterwrites]

Cannon. no one can tell me otherwise

[ivyjupiterwrites]

being abnormal about that old man is an olympic sport. and brother im bringing home the gold

[ivyjupiterwrites]

[ivyjupiterwrites]

requesting blue collar price thoughts, bonus points if it’s thoughts on how he literally can’t say no to his wife bro is whipped isn’t he

ur just so pretty and he loves you so much he can never say no :( and it gets x10 worse whenever you’re pregnant

what is he supposed to say when you waddle up to him, baby catalogues folded under your arm as your curl up next to him, showing him all the things you found for the nursery? no? don’t be ridiculous. he’ll buy you whatever you want and he won’t bat an eyelid until his bank statement comes in

is he supposed to tell you you’re being too needy when you’re in your second trimester and need to be around him constantly? not letting him take a shower when he gets back from a day on the site in the summer, instead just pushing him onto the bed and climbing into his lap to huff at his sweaty, musky scent

when you’re nearing the end of your pregnancy, this man is basically your servant. he’ll handle all of your mood swings and snappy comments bc you’re literally about to push a tiny human out for him. doesn’t understand your logic sometimes but happy wife, happy life

won’t complain when you snatch up the duvet and then proceed to just throw it on the floor completely, leaving you both without a blanket but telling him to leave it there because it’s overstimulating and uncomfortable. completely his fault, he’ll call the company that makes them tomorrow. picture him curled up fetal position with no pillows or blanket because you needed all 4 pillows. two to rest your head on, one for under your belly and one between your knees

he will take the blame for every single thing that upsets you during the day. the shop didn’t have your favourite snack? his fault, he should have accounted for that when he ordered their stock for them. stuck in traffic because of a car accident up ahead? don’t worry, he’ll make sure to drive the car for them next time so this mistake doesn’t happen again! the show you’re watching ended poorly? thanks for your feedback, he’ll remember that next time he writes the scripts

it’s not all bad though because sometimes you just wanna coddle and take care of your man :( your maternal instincts are through the roof and he works such a dangerous and difficult job. he’s not gonna say no to his lady cradling his head to her chest, cooing on his ear about what a good man he is. a good, hard-working honest man. gets his cock hard listening to you praise him for being such a good husband :)

[ivyjupiterwrites]

141 and Chinese Food

Just a thought: British 'Chinese' always looks whack, and kinda sad? For having colonized damn near everywhere and stolen like three worlds over worth of stuff --like why's their food always the most bland, unseasoned stuff??

Tf you mean 'toad in the hole' and its lil sausage guys in a bread? Black pudding?? Not what you think, not even pudding I don't think.

like WHAT??? Brother WHAT?

I'll literally never get over the fact that Yorkshire pudding is a whole firm bowl thingie and is in fact not pudding.

All their foods are pure deception, I swear.

Like that's poutine without cheese and some chicken balls sir. Anyways, my rant about food aside, cause I sure as shit ain't no Gordon Ramsey or Guy Fieri--back to the vision.

All I can imagine is the 141 not knowing about North American 'Chinese' and when they find out about it, their lives are changed.

Permanently.

There's times when they're on a mission, and Soap will just groan, sliding back in his seat cause goddamit he wants that good good food. He wants honey garlic ribs, lemon shrimp, the sweet and sour pork, crab rangoons. He wants it all.

Then Ghost (along with the others heavily agreeing in the background) reminds him just how utterly gaseous and unbearable he is after, always holding his stomach and whining about eating too much. 'If you eat half of an all you can eat buffet, you're going to have stomach troubles Johnny boy.'

Of course Ghost was loosely joking. I can imagine the lot of them rolling into a joint and clearing the place. Like Ghost, Price and Soap alone would be a force to reckon with. Roach is trying to keep pace but bug boy only has so much room and ain't no where near like them. And finally Gaz, who is just there like 'get a normal fucking plate, it's not going to get up and run away christ'.

The rest couldn't help themselves just much as Soap. The group making sure to only go eat it when they knew they were able to go straight to sleep after. The first time they had tried it, they had to run right after, not fun. Them all passed out was the inevitable end anyhow, a frenzy of piranhas before they became hibernating bears.

Then it would be months again before they would be able to get their sticky lil hands on it. Trying to convince Price to just let them touch down sometimes if they were flying over for a quick bite, he never would.

"We have Chinese at home." is absolutely what Price says, being the strict Dad while if it were up to Ghost, fun Uncle, he'd allow it.

"Noooooooo...." Soap somewhere off in the distance probably, poor man just wants something other than the dreary UK food.

[ivyjupiterwrites]

Roach and Price, Gaz off to the side like

[ivyjupiterwrites]

MDNI - Tag You're It

I may or may not have been watching some tiktoks lately...This is what came from it. Just sexual themes, no actual smut sorry!

Also a more so neutral reader one for the buggy boy! Much implication that the reader is familiar with feminine things/mindset just as a warning/to let you know!

There's something so much about the thought of a shy boy being so run ragged by the hot thought of something he could so easily have if he just knew how to ask. Idk if that makes sense but tis the theme.

"I don't understand this whole trend." Roach lamented to you as he scrolled through his phone, thumb furiously swiping upwards. "If I catch you, I fuck you?"

You nearly choked on your drink beside him, eyes flying open wide you looked over to be met with a gaze of medium horror. Adding additional funny fuel to the fire.

You had of course heard all about it, the book it came from and the depravity surrounding it. You were certain Roach's life surely would be at least a few shades better not knowing. He was inexperienced as it was when it came to anything of that nature, even more so than you somehow.

Yet there there the two of you sat--with him watching you oh so expectantly--as if there was some intense lore you were to drop to cue him in.

"What's there to get? Pretty self explanatory I'd say?" You attempted to be as nonchalant as possible, dying inside yes, yet by some small miracle you were externally still. Face maintaining a rather serious, yet bored expression despite the shaken wasps nest within you.

Roach wasn't having any of it. Your reply was met with more throwing of his hands in the air exasperatedly and lengthily sighs. You could be downright infuriating at times. Particularly when it came to fucking him around.

"Uh oh I dunno--" he began in a funny tone after having taken a minute, "maybe, just maybe, why're girls so....strange?" which only cracked you up even more. You didn't have the answers to his question, you weren't sure anyone did.

"Whatttt???" You physically had to turn your head away from him to conceal the wide smile which rose the corners of your downtrodden mouth. He was hilarious at the worst of times--get him really going about something and he could have you in tears. Your feigned ignorance to his question warranted another series of vehement hand gestures and sighs.  

"You know what I mean goddamit." you did, to some extent. Watching someone figure out in real time that there were many levels to the woman horny hierarchy was something within itself. The ranges were from as vanilla as snow to the darkest depths of the abyssal. This trend aligning more so towards the latter despite being no where near as bad as what it could. No where near as bad as some of the depraved things you'd seen.

"Okay but just hear me out for a second." having regained your composure you faced him yet again, this time attempting to lead him through the thought. Upon receiving a compliant, albeit biased nod, you proceeded. "What sounds so unappealing about a lil sexy tag-you're-it?" His brow shot up, curiously he silently awaited whatever you had to say next. "But instead of regular tagging, it's jamming your cock, tongue, whatever, into various holes 'til I'm quite literally sobbing from pleasure." 

The look in which he gave you at your final sentence sent shivers down your spine. He quite literally sized you up, or checked you out--either way, it appeared you particularly piqued his fancy using the two of yourselves as the examples. Eyes leaving yours to slowly descend down your frame, thoughtfully, not rushed, before returning to meet your gaze. This time he didn't have a subtle hint of terror behind it, no, it was smouldering like you'd never seen before.

Roach mulled over your sweetly spoken words. He had to admit, explained like that, it didn't sound half bad. Or bad at all. Especially the way in which you had articulated it, so vividly that he was attempting to swoosh the beautifully sinful picture you had painted in his head away. It was hard to look someone in the eyes and talk to them while imaging what he was.

Especially when that someone was who he was talking to.

You.

"After a reassessment by the council, I concur, the ladies very well just might be onto something." 

This is I feel like is what comes to Roach's mind. He has no idea how else running could be enticing. Unless maybe there was a special reward at the end. He's seen slashers and horror flicks, so he sorta gets the appeal. Sort of.

That's until it consumes his every waking thought.

Roach bides his time with the sweet imagery you had given him like a present--until it no longer suffices. His hand no longer suffices. And he isn't sure how to go about a solution.

(I like to imagine it like the audio 'at first I was like mmmm feet as a joke, I don't think it's a joke anymore'.)

Initially, Roach thought the whole example between you two, the idea of it--all of it--was a fantasy to keep in the back of his mind when he got bored. A forbidden fruit of sorts being battle buddies. You weren't exactly supposed or allowed to do anything. And so it was something he'd use on a rainy day when things were running particularly slow; or if he needed something sassy in the heat of the moment taking care of himself.

Until it wasn't.

He found himself watching you when you weren't looking, more and more--down to the point where the rest of the taskforce felt the need to point it out. His gaze trained on you so intently, they would've thought you were a roadside circus attraction or a cryptid or something from another planet. Thankfully for Roach, he was constantly wearing his goggles and helmet--so there was little to no chance of catching his pure, raw face reacting to you.

It began with when you were cleaning guns, running your hands up and down them. God your hands looked soft, he wasn't sure the last time he'd felt anything like how you looked. The little hums which would emanate from your parted lips, ones he wanted nothing more than to either kiss or shove something between.

You would be sitting there trying to apply lip gloss or hand lotion and he's glued to you. It was peak bad for him on missions, because when you were running around, the sole thing he could think of was recalling your conversation. Your beyond tight pants, the jostle of your body as you would hustle along, panting breathlessly.

You lived rent free in his mind for most of his waking moments, lewd, salacious delusions playing out in his head. Then, eventually, seeped into his unconscious ones. Roach was beginning to wrack up a tally of how many pairs of pants he could ruin cause good lord are the dreams wet. And many.

The excuses were also starting to run thin, ranging from a raccoon had stolen one pair while he was showering to another had gotten brains on them. "Roach, m'boy, the pants, they're supposed to be on you. How the bloody hell do you keep losing them??!" - Price I imagine, like really, that many pairs? Was Roach giving them away? Soap suggesting maybe he should've fought the raccoon for them back, he'd done something similar in Scotland with a bear apparently?

Roach was in a constant state of desperately attempting to stave off the lustly imagery to form any sort of coherent thought or sentence. Getting called on was a nightmare, a slurred, stumbling, fumbling godawful experience that left the others mocking him and wondering if he was on something. And if so, what, cause they surely needed some.

You had cursed him in ways he initially hadn't thought possible. Almost vexing his mind to revolve around how to get you in the very position. How to make it all happen. He had worked out what to do if given the chance, it was getting there that troubled him. Did he want to go there? Could he even go there? He wasn't supposed to, but goddamit he wanted to more than anything. It tore him apart.

"Are you okay?" Gaz eventually just had to ask him, seeing as none of the others were going to. They didn't touch that stuff, and if Roach was going through something, he'd get through it--their angle being if he wanted to go for drinks, they would, otherwise, give'im time.

Gaz didn't hold the same sentiment however when Roach just stopped being himself.

It was creepy, eerie and weird.

To have him quietly holed up in the corner like Ghost, brooding over god knows what when normally he would be bouncing around? When there were tons of unsupervised weapons like grenades, missiles and such just lying about? Yeah Gaz thought he should maybe talk it out instead of waking up to a huge hole in something, or himself. Or just not at all.

"Huh?" obviously being pulled from some part of his buggy little brain; Roach's head snapped up so he could meet Gaz's rather concerned gaze. "Uh oh... Yeah... thanks."

"Sure....No problem mate..." the conversation over just as soon as it had began, the scenario certainly did not unfold how he'd hoped.

Roach was unbearably dry, in tone, expression, hell even with his responses. Gaz was used to being met by a big greeting, typically accompanied with an equally large wave or finger guns or some other goofy ass gesture. This wilted flower version was like a phantom shell of who he normally was. Who he used to be. The hollowed, tired stare didn't suit his teammate, not in the least. It was unnerving as hell.

So promptly spinning on the heel of his boot when its just straight silence, Gaz is turning to leave Roach alone. Since that's what it appeared like, that the boy just wanted to be left to his own devices. Gaz didn't really want to, but he wasn't sure how else to tackle the problem aside from shouting 'what is wrong with you!?!' in his face. Gaz didn't figure that'd help.

He later decides the move is to confide in you about Roach, and how he thinks something is super off. To which you entirely agree. The bugs being buggy.... And when he goes on to tell you Roach tried to downplay him, you offer to tap in. Cause oh hell no, he was not going to just ignore Gaz.

"What's your issue huh?" kicking the bottom of his sole with the toe of your boot, you were at Roach the moment Gaz gave you the go ahead. Not that you really needed his green light to pester one of your closest friends.

"Didn't realize I had one." now more aware that his whole 'poker face' wasn't holding up to the trick, Roach was floundering. He was attempting to find any sort of excuse he could to cover his ass. Something smarter than 'a raccoon stole my pants while I was in the shower'.

"Well you've been holed up over here for nearly the whole flight." you returned as you crossed your arms over your chest, "Not to mention you brushed off Gaz? --D'you got worms in your brain or somethin'?"

"...Not that I know of." he carefully stated, side eyeing the surroundings like he a trapped animal. Like if your eyes were to meet you'd turn to him to stone. "Whaddya need?"

"For you to stop being so weird," you retorted with a good natured albeit disgusted frown, "Get outta that damned corner and come hang out." you tried coaxing him like the caged creature he acted like, your hand waving him along.

"Yeah okay...I will--just give me a sec." humming and hawing for a prolonged moment, he gave in, deciding to comply with your request. You certainly had expected a fight. Something. This all seemed surprisingly easy, you thought to yourself, before you seen him swooshing you away with his hand.

Understandably both confusing and irritating you.

"Uh-uh mister, I ain't going no where." crossing your arms over your chest, you showed quite plainly you wouldn't be obedient. Roach groaned at your defiant response, his head hanging back, shoulders slumping. There was a tenseness about him you had finally come to notice, no longer focused in on his emotional turmoil it was much clearer to see.

"Can you just go ahead please? I swear, I'll be right behind you." the underlying pleading in his tone had your brows furrowed. What in the blue infernal flames of hell was he going on about? The pained tone about him was strange. He could act like a kid but he never tended to whine like one. At least with you. Ghost and Price were another story.

"Why can't I just wait for you?" was your earnest response, offended he'd even suggest you to go ahead. You usually waited for him when the two of you were to walk anywhere. Lengthily he exhaled once more, nostrils flaring he chose to just rise to his feet.

Silently he loomed before you, peering down, just watching you. With his helmet and goggles obscuring 99.9% of his face, there wasn't much to be said about his expression. Unless he was talking or gesturing, you didn't have too much of an idea as to what was going on. Like presently. His stance suggested he wanted to fight you.... or perhaps had a brick in his ass?

Just like previously, you were thrown into yet another pit of confusion. What the hell was he doing?

Your eyes travelled down the frame before you, taking in his shoulders, tactical vest, and it wasn't before long your eyes rested upon...it. What he was ever so quietly as the grave to shamefully show you, or so you at least assumed from the way he bared it to you.

From beneath Roach's pants, ly his all too aroused cock, straining to be freed against his pants. For relief. The fabric looked like it was trying to choke it out, or burst, like it was painful. Or was going to jump out from behind the zipper and bite you.

"I can't stop thinking about that damned... trend you explained." he admitted lowly, and the way in which he spoke had you snapping your head up to look at him. Only to find now he had pulled his goggles up over his forehead, resting on his helmet. He was staring directly down at you, all sorts of emotions swimming in his eyes. "I can't stop thinking about you."

"That's what you've been thinking about?" you could've almost laughed in his face--as a matter of fact, there was a slight giggle to your tone as you spoke which caught his attention. Where you laughing at his advances? Exactly what he had feared. "You should've just come to me, I could've sorted that out for you, ya know."

To say he was sent reeling was beyond an understatement, as you had critically flat lined him with your mortal kombat-esque finishing move. Approval of his request. He had done it.

Roach's mind had drawn a blank as to what to even say, your sweet smile messing all the words up like alphabet soup. How could you be smiling like that after telling him he could do something so devilish to you?

"I'll even let you catch me before you gotta run too much." you winked to him, walking ahead as the two of you were supposed to be going to hangout. As you went ahead, you glanced over your shoulder at him. Roach was stuck to the floor where you'd told him he could enact his wildest fantasies.

So cheeky you were.

And he was absolutely going to take you up on that offer.

[ivyjupiterwrites]

okay but i need a reader who is badshit insane, i need a reader with a history dretenched in so much blood that it’s stained them.

i need a reader that can be as stoic and scary as ghost so much so that they’ve become more of a legend then a person, a rotting grave that holds the bones of who they once were.

or a reader that was always drawn to the glint of a knife and the sight of blood running down their hands until no more skin showed, more monster than human since birth.

let them be feral I BEG‼️‼️‼️ especially for price, let them be feral and protective and obsessive and in love with price please 🙏🏽 🗣️

[ivyjupiterwrites]

the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

[ivyjupiterwrites]

SIMON GHOST RILEY

Yay finally finished in color!

Just can’t stop thinking about him honestly…

[ivyjupiterwrites]

This made me laugh so so much holy christ, I cannot believe I didn't see it sooner! Bless you. Sincerely. This is the addition it needed, you've made it complete.

"Not even the Gulag could stop the head that I'd give that man if I was given the chance."

Ghost absolutely hears you say this about him.

To Roach and Gaz.

Who are entirely speechless by your brazenness to just say the most outta pocket things to them sometimes.

"You can just keep some stuff to yourself." is Gaz's polite suggestion.

Roach nodding in the background with his lil antennae bouncing on his helmet, 'preach brother' is his sole thought.

They loved you like a sister but good god that came with consequences.

Meaning them having to listen to you go on and on and on about how you wanted your lieutenant.

[ivyjupiterwrites]

Stay cunty 💀

[ivyjupiterwrites]

me reading this like

Being a camgirl comes with its fair share of ups and downs, but you never expected one of the downs to be one of your unboxings from a fan going horribly wrong during a live stream—the proof of it still buzzing between your thighs beyond your finger's reach. 

A rush of embarrassment comes with knocking on your roommate’s bedroom door and asking him for help because you’re nearing the brink of overstimulation and can’t think straight enough to get the words out. It’s worse when he stands there and says nothing—all imposing with two tattooed arms crossed over his chest—while you try to get through a sentence without moaning. 

Simon looks at you with a cocked brow and something akin to amusement as he watches you squirm in his doorway. 

Then he finally says, “Get on the bed,” in a steady and low voice, opening his bedroom door wider.

You fidget under his scrutinizing gaze as you settle back against his pillows, biting back whimpers with a too-hot face and sweat dripping down your back. 

Him settling a knee on the bed makes you jump, “Let’s take a look, love.” 

Simon crawls up the bed, forcing your knees open, and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad and big he looks, towering over you—every part of you laid bare for him to see. A large hand presses right below your belly button, jostling the toy inside you, and this time, you can’t hold back the squeal that rips from your chest. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice imperceptibly deeper, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Okay, you’re going to feel a slight stretch.”

You bite your lip. “A-alright—”

Slight doesn’t even come close to the fingers sliding into you, spearing your sensitive walls open and pressing into a spot where you’ve never been able to reach with startling precision. You remind yourself that he has to do this, that he’s just being…friendly, or whatever makes the lines less blurred. 

None of this stops the fact your lower stomach burns with the promise of another orgasm when his fingers brush against the egg vibrator before accidentally pressing it deeper inside.

“Ah, there it is.”

At the sight of your scrunched nose, he asks if it hurts. You shake your head; eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to hold back the stinging pleasure racing up your spine. “N-no,” you whimper.

“Relax, okay?”

Simon doesn’t comment on how you’re implying that it feels good. So good, you think, his thumb just barely touching your clit as he twists his hand to try a different angle. Then he pushes down on your belly again, and his long fingers finally grip the vibrator.

“Oh!” you moan at the feel of it dragging down your front wall, your fingers gripping the sheets. 

He has to tell you to relax again, his voice cracking, but you hardly hear it over your heart beating loudly in your ears. His fingers drag the toy out slowly, almost too slow that you can feel it bumping against every slippery ridge inside you.

“Ah, sorry,” he says when you twitch—unapologetic—using his thumb to rub soothing circles into your stomach. “You’re so wet. I need to make sure I don’t lose it again.”

You nod, cunt clenching down at his words.

And then Simon’s fingers curl up: your thighs start quivering, breath caught in your throat, and your jaw locks up until your orgasm ripples through you. It’s unending, the strongest one yet, and just when you think it’s over, you feel the press of his palm against your clit.

“W-wait! Simon,” you moan, pushing at his hand. “No more, I‘m sensitive!”

He gets you to fall over the edge one more time before finally slipping the vibrator out of you, letting it hum softly on the bed, and your exhausted body sinks into the mattress once again. Simon gathers you into his lap, rocking you back and forth.

You swallow lungfuls of air against his chest, head still spinning and walls spasming from the aftershocks. 

He murmurs in your ear about how good you are, kisses your temple, and rubs your sides, and it’s… enlightening. Moments pass before you finally return to yourself, and when he pulls back, his brows furrow at your pout.

“All good?”

You shake your head and go with honesty. “I didn’t think you’d cuddle me afterward.”

He smiles, thumb flicking your bottom lip. “You wanted me to fuck you?” 

Your mouth falls open. “N-no—”

Then he leans down, lips brushing against your ear: “Don’t worry, love. Good girls get fucked hard.”

[ivyjupiterwrites]

Ice Cream, You Cream (Kyle Gaz Garrick x F!Reader)

CW: Food Play, spitting, eroticism Summary: On a warm summer's day the best way to unwind is by sharing ice cream. Word Count: 2.1k a/n: an earnest attempt at eroticism for the most part

Your boyfriend, Kyle, finally had some extended military leave on his hands. So, rather than squander that leave in his flat in grey, gloomy, England, where he could do filthy things to you that would make a devil blush, he took it upon himself to book a different destination to hole up.

That's how you ended up in Milan, laid out on a balcony in a thin, barely there sundress, while the golden sunlight warms your exposed flesh. You enjoyed the sweltering heat as you laid back on the lounger, Kyle inside fetching some ice cream you had bought the day before.

"Vanilla or strawberry, lovie?" You hear his buttery soft voice call out.

"I'll take vanilla!"

Soon Kyle emerges with that warm smile and gentle eyes that you fell in love with. An unbuttoned linen shirt to show off his lean torso, and denim shorts that display his strong calves. Ice cream bars in his hands. A treat carrying a treat.

You're both laying on your loungers, quietly enjoying each others' presence as you tan, sucking and licking on your ice cream bars to prevent them from melting all over you both. However, your pink tongue simply isn't quick enough, and soon a thick river of cream trickles down your hand and arm, a cold shivering trail that drips down onto your thigh.

"Love-" Kyle sighs with a slight chuckle, "You're gettin' it everywhere."

You sigh in frustration and go to get up, "I'll grab some wipes, hang on."

"No need, I have a wipe here-" He stops you quickly and you watch him as he leans forward, tossing his stick aside, and then he licks from your hand down your arm, sucking gently as he cleans the ice cream from your skin with his warm, hot tongue. The freezing cold cream mingling with his burning hot mouth stimulating every nerve causing you to shiver with arousal.

"Kyle" You breathe out his name, your breath heavy and hot as you make eye contact with him. His smoldering brown eyes staring up at you through his thick eyelashes, while his plump lips leave warm, darling kisses trailing up the arm to your hand.

He coaxes you to move your hand, bringing the popsicle back to your lips while he smiles sweetly, "Go on love, give it a suck, know you're good at tha'".

Wrapping your pink lips around the white creamy desert you give it a suckle, your pink tongue darting out to lick the underside as white trickles down your chin and the front of your throat, making a rippling line of white down your chest and disappearing between your cleavage beneath your dress.

Kyle lets out a breathy moan at the sight and then he pinches the wooden stick between his fingers and begins to push the popsicle deeper into your mouth, watching as a melted ring of vanilla pools around your lips to dribble down across your skin. He then pulls it back out, allowing your tongue to dart around and clean it from your lips.

"Atta girl..." he murmurs, voice raspy and deep in his chest, dropping to a purr as he leans in to lick the cream off your chin, "So good at swallowing down cream, ain't ya?"

You shudder in delight at his words and they send a tingle from the stem of your brain, down your spine and right to your throbbing core, causing you to clamp your thighs together and squirm - which only causes the pooled dribbles of ice cream to stick between your thighs and smear around in an even coat - the overwhelming smell of vanilla and Kyle's citrus-tinged cologne flooding your lungs.

He plucks the ice cream from between your plush lips, leaving you chasing the desert for a second while you watch him wrap his own plump, soft lips around it, sucking the last few bits off to pull it out and reveal a clean wooden stick with a dirty charming smile, "More?"

"God yes..." You breathe out in delight, only to have Kyle on your neck, his humid and plush lips contrasting with the lulling cold stains on your skin, amalgamating in a symphony of pleasure as he moans: a rumbling low noise in the back of his throat. Then his teeth graze over the skin, gently at first, hard ivory grinding against your sweet flesh teasingly before he sinks in. There's a gentle pain as he leaves a love bite, quickly washed by pleasure as he suckles on the skin, moaning in delight as he gets a taste of vanilla on his tongue which eggs him on. His lips never leave the skin, tracing along, kissing patterns down, between each and every purple and red possessive hickey.

You let out a pathetic moan as your head rolls back, only providing him more room to perform his art. Plump thighs stuck together slick with ice cream and arousal as they soak between the flesh and stain the fabric of the seat below you.

"Tha's it, doll..." Kyle mumbles against your throat, "Sing for me, so sweet, sweeter than ice cream..." his rough hand caresses your cheek, his thumb running over the apple of your cheek as he follows that white treasure trail down to where it disappears between your breasts, his other hand pulling on the neckline of your soft dress, and you feel the fabric slide against your skin, the hem rolling over your perky nipples before its tucked under the flesh to allow your tits be free.

Crinkling is heard from the side for a moment before you let out a sharp gasp and sit up to attention, only for that warm, rough hand on your cheek to reach to your shoulder and hold you down, "Shhh shhh, just helpin' to keep ya cool, lovie." he murmurs as he presses a kiss to your temple, circling a frozen ice cream pop against your pink nipple. The first wave of arousal comes with a shiver, to be replaces by a throbbing pain similar to pins and needles, before your raw pink nipple goes numb, a sinful white trail dripping down over the hill of your breast.

"Fuck, look so pretty covered in milk, doll." then you let out a loud guttural moan of relief as wet warmth envelopes your numb nipple, bringing the nerves back to life in a way that sparks arousal through your nerves. He sucks, a wet slurping noise harmonizing with both of your moans as he ravishes your breast, the other one receiving the same cold treatment of freezing and numbing the nipple while he makes your voice pitch upwards in its keening moans.

What's worse is the freezing cold desert is dribbling under your dress, sending rivers of cold across your skin as it rushes like a waterfall, downward, steadfast, following the contours of your body to your aching cunt. Your hips jerk in reaction when the first stream of cold ice cream dribbles over your hot, swollen clit.

Meanwhile, Kyle has switched his attentions to the other breast, his lips kissing at the nipple and suckling as eagerly as he did to the one before, his face buried into the soft fleshy mound to get impossibly close, to trap his warmth against the cold stains he's leaving on your skin. He's moaning, soft but heavy in the bottom of his gut - eyelashes flush to his cheeks as he holds himself against you. His broad body cages you in with no escape, and yet it provides a warmth inside you that rises up to meet the cold nerves, delivering a wave of pleasure that makes you whimper.

Then his strong arms are trailing down until they're grabbing the backs of your knees, pushing them up and apart to watch your skirt raise - and there he can see his masterpiece on display for him. Thighs stained in vanilla desert and a waterfall of the milk spilling under your panties into your soaked, glistening cunt.

"Fuck..." He breathes out in reverence, "Fuck baby... never seen anything like this... you're, you're delectable."

He lifts a knee to his face and places a kiss there, and then you feel him give your leg the same treatment he gave your arms. Heavy kisses delivered by warm, plush lips, leaving kisses that stain your very soul with the worship they carry. Then his tongue licks a fat stripe over your thighs, lapping at the skin to peel every morsel of vanilla from you while he purrs out his pleasure through a guttural moan. Your musk melds with the smell of vanilla and it goes straight to his cock, making white pearls of cum bead at the tip.

Cotton pushes aside to expose your molten core to the cool air and your entrance flutters pathetically as you can't hold back the moans tumbling forward from your lips. It's glistening, slick with arousal and stained by cold ropes of sticky ice cream. Then you feel a forearm lock you into place, bracing you - and you feel why. You squeal in a mix of discomfort and delight as you feel something thick and cold rub between your folds, sending pulses of pleasure through your aching cunt and down your legs, the cold pooling with that heat in your stomach that threatens to bubble over into an orgasm.

He smacks the dessert against your hot clitoris, watching it melt across the flush flesh and down between your folds while your hips buck and moans of agonizing bliss are wrangled from the back of your throat until its going hoarse.

"Gonna cum for me, doll? Gonna show me which cream is sweeter?" He says in a soft voice while firmly pressing the popsicle against your pussy, jiggling it around while rubbing it between your hot folds, watching the two temperatures fight for dominance while your orgasm peaks on top - slick mixing with the desert as you let out a cry of his name and your eyes roll back, screwing tight and jaw going slack as you spread your release all over the cold, sweet toy.

Then he removes it, leaving a numb ache for more between your legs as the phantom cold whispers over your quivering pussy, your entrance fluttering in time with your racing pulse as you come back down from your high.

"So good, lovie, looked so good-" he kisses the inside of your thigh, "can I have a taste?"

You nod desperately, needing him in whatever way he has to offer. Then you feel it, his soft, burning tongue lapping between your folds, the tip flicking up to collect the dribbled desert from your swollen pussy. His nose presses firmly against the clitoris, allowing you to stimulate yourself as you grind your hips down on his tongue, overstimulated and aching, you chase your next orgasm with abandon while Kyle doubles his efforts into eating the sweetness of your pussy paired with sickly vanilla.

"Kyle, Kyle, oh God oh- Kyle no no I'm gonna-" your thighs quiver as they're forcibly held open by his firm, strong hands and he moans in delight knowing he's the one making his little pillow princess cum undone like this. He focuses his effort back over that nub of nerves, suckling on it and rolling it around on his experienced tongue, causing your jaw to go slack once more, and the chord in your stomach burning wildly as it pulls taut, about to tear and pull a scream from your throat of wild ecstasy.

Then his fingers sink into your aching hole, and it fits him like a tight, velvet glove. Squelching as he searches for that braille that tells his fingers to massage your insides just so, to watch you come undone on his hand and mouth. Your back arches as your hands and toes clench, the chord snapping and a scream of delirious bliss singing out Kyle's name to the air. You squirt down his mouth and he moans in delight as he welcomes your release in his mouth.

His lips are quickly slot over yours and he gathers all that's in his mouth and spits it into yours - his own taste, musky and chocolatey, mixed with the vanilla ice cream you ate and the heavy sweetness of your pussy. He bites on your bottom lip as he pulls away and growls out, "Swallow, lovie. Just gave you the sweetest damn desert, don' go wastin' it."

You swallow and open your mouth wide, tongue lolling out to prove to him you've done so, and he smiles in satisfaction, leaning down to suck your pleasure-tasting tongue into his mouth.

"Taste so sweet, doll... think we need a palette cleanser." He murmurs against your lips, his thumbs hooking under the waist of his shorts.

@going-to-ikea-for-the-fries @xxshadowbabexx @lovifie @mothymunson

a/n: the ice cream pops I had in mind:

[ivyjupiterwrites]

Part 2 of stupid COD comics based on jokes my friends made while watching me play

[ivyjupiterwrites]

Ghost is most attractive to me when he's condescending...it fits his character so well? he's physically BIG so he's always looking down at you, but he's also keenly aware of how good he is at his job and how he's basically irreplaceable to the 141. imagine a coworker who fucks around but never finds out because there are no consequences to his actions, because there is no one brave enough to challenge him and because he is such an asset to his superiors. i mean, fuck. but also. fuck.