#*cod:mw2

[jaycestaliss]

Choices have consequences.

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, (2022)

[evis-gossip]

Thinking hard about retired!Simon and retired!Riley. A cute little fluffy thing about Simon and his K9 unit dog. Cuz he named the dog after himself and I personally find that a little odd, that at the same time, the dog would somehow be an exact replica of him but as a German Shepard.

Also thinking about how worried Simon would be about you and the dog getting along. His lil birdie he so in love with he's already planing your future together has to love Riley as much as he does. And maybe you've mentioned in passing that you don't enjoy dogs that much, but he holds on to faith. Simon knows how lovely Riley can be he just hopes he likes you as well remember how he has de same personality .

And then you meet Riley. It's the first time he has you over to his place. The flat is pretty empty, barely any furniture and absolutely no decoration, but it doesn't even cross his mind that you might find that odd, he just wants you to like Riley you can redecorate as much as you want once you move in. The dog barks when Simon comes in, and would usually go back to his nap, an old doggo yes he is, he gets up and goes to inspect this new guest. His tail starts wagging happily when you crouch down and coo over him, licking your face and practically jumping on you when you scratch behind his ears.

Simon almost frowns. He hadn't considered the possibility that you would start paying more attention to the dog than him, kissing his head repeatedly and sitting on the floor to cuddle him cuz Simon doesn't let Riley on the sofa. He was supposed to get cuddles from you but no, his dog gets all the attention. And then you start to spoil Riley rotten. Buying him all kinds of expensive treats, new toys and enrichment activities. Never would have Simon tried to put Riley on pastel pink sweater, but you do and Riley lets you. And Simon is almost jealous. Every time you coo at Riley that he's such good boy, yes he is, while rubbing his belly, he just crosses his arms, thinking "I'm a good boy too, I want belly rubs too"

Masterlist

[celenawrites]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, after years of active duty, has no idea how to court a woman normally.

Does recon (*cough* stalking *cough*) at his new date’s place sound normal - taking note of your daily routine, watching you go through mundane chores in skimpy little t-shirts that barely covers your ass as you bend over to take out the laundry from the washer and watching you enjoy a cup of earl grey (a woman after his heart, he says) normal? No, it isn’t.

But, is it normal for your date to come into your apartment when you call to take a rain-check on your date because your bathroom pipes burst open at the worst possible time and you need a plumber to help you stop them or you’d run out if water, only for Simon to offer his help and fix it, discarding his plaid shirt and distracting you with his biceps in that good-for-nothing wife-beater he has on (the one that makes you almost clutch your pendant in comfort as you try to call for takeout as you don’t try to fantasize about his big, muscly arms to have you in a headlock as he fucks you dumb)? Also, not normal.

But, Simon is not exactly a conventional man and after he fixes your pipes, being normal is quite possibly the last thing in his mind as he makes you cum on his thick cock for the third time in an hour, his fingers rubbing at your clit as you bite the pillow and make your back arch in a way that makes your ass grind against his pelvis and he cannot resist the urge to give it a good smack, laughing throatily as he hears your muffled whine at the sting.

Point to be made, nothing has exactly been normal when it comes to Simon. But that’s fine, he can make do with that - or so he believes as he sees you demolish the already cold takeout you both had neglected earlier for your lovemaking. Now, he has a date to plan for as he slowly enjoys the cold noodles from the takeout box and watches the shitty tele with you.

[cherry-cristal]

Mittens

@soapsdish

[eowynstwin]

a wake-up call / neighbors

previous

On a cold winter's day in the early morning hours, you knock on your neighbor Captain John Price's door to make a noise complaint. - “Did you mean any of it?” he asks, voice low and deep in his chest. - ao3

Three knocks on your front door wake you up.

The sound feels at first like the thump of your own throbbing brain against the inside of your skull. Awareness comes back to you slowly, in gradiated shades of stiff joints and greasy skin. You shift, and find you’re still on your couch, still in your clothes from last night. Your eyes are filmy, sticky with dehydration—you blink several times to clear them, to little effect.

The knocking, a three-beat staccato, comes again.

“One second,” you croak irritably, cupping your forehead with your hand. Your skull might come apart, you think, if you move too much.

Your entire body feels like it is suspended from loose, tangled marionette strings as you struggle to sit up on the couch, and you wobble to that effect as you stand. Somehow, your flat has tilted at thirty degree angle, likely sometime in your sleep. You make it to the door at an oblique, having to lean on the jamb as you open it, and to add insult to injury John is standing on your doorstep like a clean, shining beacon of sobriety.

He’s in a dark shirt and jeans. His hair is casually neat, as if he’d styled it with his fingers. He looks fresh-faced, as if he’s been awake for hours already.

“That’s not fair,” you groan. 

His brows draw together over cool blue eyes. “Jesus, love,” he says, looking you up and down.

You think you should say something back. But your head is too full of ache and interrupted sleep—and the bright shock of his presence—to produce anything intelligent.

“John,” is all you say, and you sound absolutely pathetic.

“Was gonna accuse you of standing me up,” he says ruefully, “but I see that’s not the case.”

“No,” you say dumbly. The fact that he’s come to seek you out gets tangled up in the strings. “Um.”

It is so far out of the ordinary as to be dreamlike. John’s knocking belongs on the other side of your wall, not your door. His boots belong on his own doorstep, making room for your house slippers at the time of your choosing, not his.

“Am I still drunk?” you wonder aloud.

John gives that little huff-laugh of his. “I doubt it.”

You rub your face. “Have I overslept?”

“Just a bit,” he replies. “I’ll admit, when I didn’t hear you move around this morning, I got worried.”

“I fell asleep on the couch,” you confess. You put a hand to your forehead as your brain throbs again. “Oh, I shouldn’t have drank that much.”

“Love,” says John, gentle and soft, “why don’t you let me in, and I’ll make you some breakfast?”

You blink, and you’re sure now that you’re still drunk. 

John. In your flat. Cooking?

“I’m not fancy in the kitchen, but I manage alright,” he suggests further. His gaze is warm on yours, brows lifted encouragingly.

“…Sure,” you say, and shuffle to the side to let him in. If this morning is determined to be strange, you might as well not get in its way.

He gives you a small smile and crosses the threshold. 

Your flat shifts again; as he enters your living room, it seems to shrink, or maybe it’s just that John fills your home in a way no one ever has. His body, his presence, casts new light on the interior that throws its existence into unfamiliar repose. Details—the softness of your furniture, the cozy clutter of books and knickknacks spread across every available flat surface—offer unmeasured insight into who you are, more than you might ever have intended to reveal to John.

It’s only when he’s halfway to your kitchen that you realize one detail—the bright fucking pink of your vibrator, still on your coffee table—is glowing like a neon sign.

And your previous night’s activities come flooding back. 

Your body, draped over his. The scrape of his beard on your hand, your face. 

The furious grind of your mons against that toy as you pictured him taking you, drenched in hot shower water and pressed bare to the tile wall.

You are fully, painfully awake now. You stare, frozen in shocked terror, waiting for him to catch sight of it, but his head does not turn in its direction. He passes by it with no indication that he even noticed.

You dart over and snatch it behind his back, shoving it deep into your dress pocket, and grab up the empty water glass for an excuse. Then you have to put a hand to your head as your vision swims from the sudden movement.

“Have eggs?” John asks over his shoulder. He enters your kitchen. “I can make ‘em any way you like. Fried, over easy, sunny side…”

“Um,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut, “scrambled.”

You follow after him, and lean against the wall to watch as he opens your fridge. His hand engulfs more of its handle than yours ever has; the musculature of his powerful body visibly shifts beneath his clothes as he has to bend down to root around the shelves.

He is broad in your kitchen. As broad as he’d been between your legs, in memory and in fantasy.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he straightens and puts the eggs, butter, and milk on the counter. Your breath hangs suspended in the shallows of your lungs when he catches your gaze.

His brows crease again. “You look like you’re about to fall over.” 

“Um,” you say, again, because it’s the only sound your brain will reliably supply.

To your horror, he comes to you, and—oh, god—takes your face in both hands.

“You’re warm,” he says. “Do you feel sick, love?”

Your brain supplies nothing now. It is so unfair, how good he looks the morning after drinking nearly half a bottle of scotch. His features are velvet-soft, so easy and wonderful to look at that you stop feeling your headache entirely.

“I really think I might still be drunk,” you admit, sounding pathetic.

His thumbs rub into your temples as he smiles at you. “Hell of a hangover, then.”

The pressure of his fingers is an incredible relief, and you close your eyes as you give into it. You feel, if your knees suddenly gave out, that he would easily be able to hold you up like this, as if you weighed nothing. His hands are a little cool from rooting around in your fridge, and the rest of him is warm, standing close enough that his body heat reaches out to you with the freshness of a recent shower. You want to fall into that warmth, bury your face in his chest…

Your eyes fly open. You hear your own voice again—I wanted to touch you, and I wanted you to hold me. You feel, again, the echo of his body between your thighs. Your heart starts beating wildly in your chest as embarrassment, hot and acidic, pumps through you.

“I think I need to sit down,” you whisper.

He strokes your temples, and surveys your face with a gentle gaze. “Sure, love. Go ahead.”

And then he releases you, and you try to remember how to walk as you return to your living room. There is no relief to be found as you sit down on your couch, which is indented by the dissatisfied night.

“How’d you sleep?” John asks from the counter. You hear him crack a few eggs into a bowl. This is the first time cooking has happened in your kitchen with you outside of it, and the cognitive dissonance of it does not help to steady you.

“Like the dead,” you say, rubbing your sore neck. Then, you decide to lie to him. “I—I think I passed out before the door even closed last night.”

John looks over his shoulder at you, and he smiles. The vibrator sits cold in your pocket. Are you imagining that glimmer in his eyes? “Wouldn’t be surprised. You were pretty out of it.”

“I didn’t end up drinking the whole bottle, did I?”

A chuckle. “Not quite.”

“Didn’t you drink as much as me?” You try to recall, and think you can remember him matching you glass for glass. “Why aren’t you out of commission?”

“The army never cares if you’re hungover, I’ve found,” says John. “Guess I learned to stop caring too.”

You hear the sizzle of whisked eggs spreading over a hot pan, and for a while there’s only the sound of John moving a spatula around.

You watch him in your kitchen, his back to you as he stands at the stove. His long-sleeved shirt clings to the breadth of his shoulders, planes of shifting muscle underneath casting shadows through the soft cotton. The collar hangs a little low down his neck, leaving enough room for the dark hair at his nape to curl as it dries.

It makes something in your stomach twist, twinning your nervous hunger with unstable desire. It’s something that wants to walk back into the kitchen and wrap your arms around his trim waist, press your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Want anything else?” John asks. “Could make some toast.”

“Eggs are fine!” you say too quickly.

The spatula scrapes softly against the pan again. As he turns to open your fridge, you swear you see him grinning. 

Heat blooms across your face. SAS. Of course he could feel you looking at him.

It does not take him very long to finish cooking. Space bends once again as he leaves your kitchen, as he comes to you with a plate balanced on one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. You feel smaller than you ever have as he approaches, and sets the meal in front of you on the coffee table. 

“Hope it tastes alright,” he says, sitting down beside you. He sinks into your couch cushions, far more dense than you are, and looks quite comfortable doing so. “I made ‘em how I like ‘em, but no guarantee you’ll feel the same.”

You look from him to the eggs, which are golden yellow and steaming pleasantly. “You didn’t make yourself anything?”

There is a softness in his eyes when you look back to him. You’ve seen it before—it’s there every time you hand him a new book. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Just eat.”

You can’t protest when he’s looking at you like that, so you obey, suddenly ravenous once a forkful is between your teeth. The eggs are whipped to a wonderfully soft fluff, salted perfectly, and you think you can taste the barest hint of butter. You can’t help shutting your eyes to savor the taste.

“Good?” John asks. “I’ll admit, I’m not much of a cook, but I think I’m all right at eggs.”

Usually you like to add things when you make the same dish—potato chips, broken up into little crumbs, or a dollop of sour cream and salsa. For once though, right now you’d be disappointed by all that. 

They wouldn’t be the eggs John made for you.

The thought makes your stomach twist again. “Delicious,” you say. “Thank you.”

He watches you eat, and you try not to feel self-conscious. He seems almost—satisfied by this, by feeding you, more than you would expect him to be. But then, this has always been the case with John. You have never understood why the smallest of things you do have such an impact on him, but they do nonetheless.

“John,” you say. “About last night…I wanted to apologize.”

Dark brows crease as you set the empty plate down. “What for?”

“I got so drunk,” you say. You won’t look at him, face heating, strangling your own fingers in your lap. “You—you had to carry me home, and I’m so embarrassed by the things I said, I was so inconsiderate.”

“That’s not—”

“You must have felt so uncomfortable,” you continue, “you were so nice to take me out, and there I was acting like a lush with no self-control—”

“Darling, it’s fine—”

“And then after, the way I—I pawed at you—”

He says your name—fully and clearly, firmly—and it catches you so off guard that your words halt in your throat. You finally meet his gaze.

John’s eyes have always been windows. Portals into the truth of him, freely offered, without hesitance or fear. You think John knows himself in ways few men do—knows every corner, every crack and crevice, and refuses to hide any of it from himself or anyone else. As if he is not afraid of being seen for what and who he is; as if he has seen it all already, and cannot be daunted by it.

What you see now is undisguised. Untempered. John Price wants you. And he has no fear that you can see it.

“Did you mean any of it?” he asks, voice low and deep in his chest.

The question catches you off guard, throwing you with its directness. The only thing keeping you upright is his gaze, the steady certainty of its own intention. Strong even under the weight of suspense. 

You swallow, and take a shaky breath. “John,” you say, “I was so drunk...”

His eyes flash. John moves, leans forward, and you are speared, held in place much the same way you had been at dinner, by his presence alone. “I know. But did you mean it?”

The breath trapped in your lungs calcifies, solidifies into hard, pressing nodules of catalyzed fear and desire that trap the seeds of any response in your chest. You tear your gaze away from him, finally, stare at the empty plate on your table. He does not touch you, but you feel the phantom weight of his hand on your knee. The warmth of his body against yours.

“We hardly know each other,” you whisper shakily. It is a flimsy scrap of an excuse, even to you. “We—we barely know each other at all.”

“Love,” John says, low and soft. You turn to look at him again. His lips part—

Your phone rings.

You exhale hard, strings suddenly cut. John closes his eyes, breathes out, and then leans back again.

You retrieve your phone from where you’d flung your purse last night, off the couch and to the opposite wall where it lays on the floor. When you see the caller ID, you want to throw the phone back across the room, but you take a deep breath and answer anyway.

“Ben,” you sigh, and to your furious embarrassment it comes out as a croak.

“Hey, sweets, Liv is—wait. You sound awful,” comes your coworker—and ex-boyfriend’s—voice through the earpiece.

“Rough night,” you say, closing your eyes against sweets. You then look at John. His gaze is fixed on you.

“Oh, sorry,” Ben says. “Anything I can do?”

He could have not called. “Tell me about Liv,” you prompt him.

“Right! She’s out. Flu.”

“Oh.” You blink, and watch John retrieve your plate and glass. He takes them to the kitchen and runs the faucet low, so the sound won’t interfere with your call. 

You’re not sure how you know that that’s his intention, but you do. 

“That’s awful.”

“And inconvenient. We need another instructor for the trip.”

Can John hear what Ben is saying? He looks up from the sink, lifts one brow when you meet his eyes. There’s humor there, a kind of rueful empathy for dealing with the nonsense of coworkers.

You want to hang up. You want to answer his question right then and there. 

“When?” you ask.

“Two hours. I know! I know it’s short notice,” he says, animatedly contrite. “Sorry. But we’d love to have you, it’ll be fun! I can even pick you up, if you like.”

“No, that’s alright,” you sigh. “But okay, I’ll start packing. Just send me the details, yeah?”

“Sure, sweets,” Ben replies, “can’t wait to see you! I’ve missed hanging out, you know? Even after…everything.”

The gravitational force of John’s presence—the shift and bend of your flat around him—snaps in half. Reality asserts itself like a recurring headache. 

Suddenly you’re in your flat, phone to your ear, unshowered from last night and coated in a layer of grease. The vibrator is a useless weight in your pocket. You are a useless girl hungover in day-old clothes.

“I’ll see you soon,” you say noncommittally, and hang up.

John gazes at you expectantly from over the sink.

“Work trip,” you say, and you wonder if you sound as dazed as you feel. “Last minute, I…I need to get ready.”

John blinks, and then grins, amused. Crow’s feet gather in the corners of his eyes. “You know, I’m usually the one in that situation.”

Suddenly he is too much to look at. You tear your gaze away, look at your phone in your hands. You feel very exposed, ashamed somehow. “I’m sorry,” you say.

You hear the easy drum of John’s boots out of your kitchen, across the room, and then he’s in front of you. His hands are in his pockets, arms slung loose at his sides. “What for?”

“For…”

He steps closer to you. Your heart leaps in your chest, and you have to look up at him, unable to resist the pull he has on you.

The line of his mouth is gentle, and you stare too long at the divot of his Cupid’s bow. Beneath the soft lines of his brows, his gaze is soft, fond. More so than you deserve.

“I don’t really know.”

The long muscle in his neck shifts as he tilts his head. You swallow, unconsciously mirroring the gesture.

“John…I…”

His gaze drops—rests on your lips, and returns to yours.

“Love,” he murmurs, low and humming. “Did you mean it?”

His voice slides across you like physical touch, and every hair feels like it’s standing on end.

Yes. Yes, of course you meant it, every word. It feels so obvious to you, so blatant, and the shame of it holds you by the throat. You are not important enough to inflict upon John Price. You are trembling, meek, afraid of stepping outside your own door sometimes. What is that in comparison to him? Him, who comes home shaking off the dust of places you’ve only ever heard of. Him, who you’ve learned can swear in six different languages. Him, who has stuffed more life than you thought possible into only a handful more years of living than yours.

Of course you want him. Moths are always drawn toward flame. How could you not?

“John,” you say in your smallest voice. You hate the way it sounds—like an admission of guilt. “What if I did?”

He doesn’t move, but you see the shift in him anyway. A coiling, almost,  energy banking as he studies you, searches your face. His hands remain in his pockets. He watches you for a long moment, and you can’t possibly imagine what he might like in what he sees.

“Ball’s in your court, then,” he finally says, soft and low in his chest. “Whatever you want from me, love, you can have.”

You want too much. You can’t give enough back.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” you say on a shallow breath. “Our—us. What we already have.”

He steps closer to you. Close enough that his shirt brushes the front of your dress. Close enough that his clean, soft warmth near-envelops you, the exact same way you’d been wishing for earlier. He does not reach out, like he did when he thought you were sick. You cannot decide if this disappoints you or not. You feel shaky without his hands on you, feverish and embarrassed, and you fear desperately that he can see that as he holds your gaze, that you are completely open to him in a way that leaves no space for the truth to hide. 

“You won’t,” he says, steady and solid.  

You take a trembling breath, swallow to clear your throat. “I…”

He withdraws one hand from his pocket, slowly, and brings it upward. Feather-light, he curls his index finger under your chin, caressing his thumb so terribly gently beneath your bottom lip. You cannot help flinching, anticipatory want recoiling from the very thing it was aching for in surprise, and for a split second you are newly scared that he’ll take his touch away.

But he doesn’t. The windows of John’s eyes stay open, and there is nothing but intent behind them. You realize he knows. He knows that you’re reluctant, that you’re unsure, that you are pulled to him like a falling star to earth and also terrified of burning up in the process. 

He understands.

“I’m a patient man, love,” he purrs, and you realize too that he is excited by this, by you. “I can wait. As long as you need.”

next

[mssleep]

It seems that I have a type 👀

[ghostgazweek]

Round 3 Prompts

Happy prompt release day!

As a general reminder:

prompts can be used for writing, art, playlists, collages, whatever your creative hearts desire

feel free to mix and match

be sure to tag your NSFW with the appropriate tags and to use appropriate labels for graphics

use #GhostGazWeek on your posts so we can share them!

We look forward to seeing what you all create for this year's event!

[ID: two images with a light blue band on the top of bottom with 4 stylized skulls wearing blue ball caps with hearts around them.

Center text is on a dark blue background and reads:

GhostGaz Week Round 3 Prompts - NSFW

Day 1 - Down Boy

Day 2 - Tied Up

Day 3 - Chastity

Day 4 - Gender Fuck

Day 5 - Close Shave

Day 6 - Body Swap

Day 7 - Voyeurism

GhostGaz Week Round 3 - SFW Prompts

Day 1 - Good Boys

Day 2 - Quick Escape

Day 3 - Sharp Shooter

Day 4 - Friendly Competition

Day 5 - Close Call

Day 6 - Hidden Talent

Day 7 - Early Riser

/end ID]

[bitchin-beskar]

the taste of scotch and cigars - chapter two

Rating: M

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!Reader

Warnings: relatively light for this chapter in terms of sexy content, but I'm keeping the M rating for the story. fake dating trope, but make it marriage instead, hints of exhibition kink, hints of voice kink, absolute fucking douchebag of an ex, mentions of cheating, descriptions of an abusive relationship.

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: once again I am thirsting for Captain John Price. I have been thinking about this story nonstop, and I've finally had the motivation to write more for it! I was originally going to make this a much slower burn, but I am impatient so we will be getting to the sexy times much faster than expected. in the meantime, enjoy this chapter!

Oh.

Well, if you weren’t flustered before, you certainly were now.

Your teeth began to worry your lower lip out of nervousness, and your stranger, John, stepped closer, letting go of your hand to bring his thumb up, gently pulling the flesh of your lip from between your teeth.

“None’a that, love,” he murmured, his eyes going dark in a predatory kind of way that made your breath stutter. “There we go.”

God, this man made it damn near impossible for you to think, every sense you had consumed by the gorgeous specimen of perfection in front of you. Seriously, there was no way he could be real.

He seemed reluctant to separate from you, and before you could try to contrive some way to ask for his number or something out of pure desperation, he offered you that out.

“Have you eaten, princess?”

You shook your head. You’d been too nervous to eat for tonight, and then at the bar all you’d had were your vodka sodas, something you’d be sure to regret in the morning if you didn’t try to offset the incoming hangover with food.

“If you just wanna go home, I understand, but if you’re interested, I know a place not too far with some pretty good grub.”

It took you a few tries to respond, but you finally managed it, a semi-steady “alright,” making it’s way past your lips as he grinned and gently took you by the elbow and began to steer you down the street once again.

A comfortable kind of silence fell over the two of you as you walked. You took in the area, having been far too frazzled to really pay attention on your way to the pub this afternoon. You’d only been living here for a few months, and there was still a lot you had to get used to. Liverpool wasn’t large, but it was still a stark difference from the southern United States, where you’d been raised.

John’s hand left your elbow, but before you had a chance to mourn it’s loss, his palm settled in the small of your back, just the slightest bit of pressure to direct you, but not any more. You could feel the heat of his skin through your shirt, like a brand. Not for the first time, you wondered what the hell was going on with tonight. Everything felt like a fever dream, and you were half afraid you’d wake up in your bed to find it had all been conjured up by your mind. You decidedly did not think about how devastated you’d be if that were true.

The small little hole-in-the-wall John was taking you to came into view as you rounded the corner. It looked… well, charming, for lack of a better word. You weren’t entirely sure what you were expecting, but this looked like the kind of place you’d try on your own, just because it looked interesting.

John held the door open for you and you ducked inside, taking in the cozy atmosphere. Like the outside suggested, it wasn’t a very large place, maybe half a dozen tables and the same amount of booths, and a bar along one wall. The exposed brick walls and exposed wooden rafters gave the whole restaurant a rustic feel, and soft strains of guitar music floated down from the speakers. John led you towards a booth at the back, the two of you sliding onto the plush, well worn leather seats opposite each other. In the soft golden lighting of the lamp over your booth, you could admit that your earlier estimation of John’s apperance wasn’t quite accurate. The man embodified pure sin, the kind of beauty the preachers in church swore that only angels could achieve, which meant John Price, mortal as he was, couldn’t be anything but the Devil.

You might’ve argued that he could’ve been an angel in human form, but no angel would’ve kissed you the way he did not even half an hour ago.

The waitress wandered over, grinning and greeting John by name. He responded in kind, asking her how she was and how her degree at university was going, and it brought a small smile to your lips. How people treated servers and other wage workers was usually a good measure of character, and you were pleased to see that John Price was the kind of man to treat them like his equals.

The waitress–Clare, she’d said her name was–asked for your order, and John looked to you for a brief moment. You gestured for him to order for the both of you.

“I trust you know what’s good here?”

Clare chuckled, and John looked a little sheepish. “He’s here enough to,” she said, laughing. “I’ll bring out the usual. Lemme know if you need anything else.”

As she walked back towards the kitchen, you looked to John to see his eyes on you with a soft look on his face. “If you don’ mind me askin’, what’s the story with that prick at the pub?”

You let your head tip back, a frustrated sigh leaving your lips. “That, John, is a long story.”

“I don’ got anywhere else ta be, love.”

You weren’t sure what it was, but something about this man made you want to tell him what had happened. Something told you he’d be a good listener, something you were honestly in desperate need of. Maybe it was the lingering effects of vodka. Maybe it was the sincerity that laced his voice. It didn’t really matter in the end, as you opened your mouth.

“I grew up in Bumfuck Nowhere, USA,” you started, a wry grin crossing your lips. “We had about 250 kids at my high school. My graduating class was about 40 kids, if that gives you any idea of how small the town was. Everybody knew everybody, which was more a curse than a blessing, if I’m honest.”

Clare came back out with waters and a basket of chips while you were talking, and you paused to take a small sip.

“I’ve known Christian my entire life. Pretty sure my momma decided she wanted him as a son-in-law when we were still in diapers. She spent my entire childhood pushin’ the two of us together, and I swear when he asked me out right at the start of high school, she damn near started crying. Went ‘round tellin’ everybody her little girl was datin’ the Christian Abraham Beauregard III.”

You stopped when John abruptly choked on his water, coughing roughly into the crook of his elbow. You winced when he pinned you with an incredulous stare.

“Come again?”

“You heard me,” you said, shrugging. “The Beauregards founded our town, and damn near everybody worshipped the ground they walked on. I cannot tell you how many nasty notes I got in my locker and jealous stares I received when it got around I was goin’ steady with Christian. We dated through high school, and he proposed after graduation.”

Your voice was bitter with old pain. You’d wasted so many years trying to make everybody around you happy, and all it did was make you miserable. You’d never had a plan for after graduation, not because you hadn’t wanted one, but because you’d been told over and over that once you married Christian, you’d be expected to stay at home and do whatever he required of you. You didn’t need a university degree to be a good housewife. You’d tried so hard to force yourself to be happy with that.

“We were married for two years. I was fuckin’ miserable. He was always gone for work, there’d be days that went by where I didn’t see him. I couldn’t do anything right. I didn’t clean enough, my cooking was shit, I was a bore in bed, I didn’t tell him I loved him enough, the list went on.”

You paused to take a drink of your water to try and calm yourself down from the familiar fury that had risen up in you. Christian had always had a way of getting under your skin, and it infuriated you even now, all these years later.

To your surprise, John reached out and grabbed your hand before you could pull it back from your glass and place it back on your lap. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, gently soothing away your ire. How exactly a man you’d met not even a full hour ago had managed to find such an easy way to calm you down and settle your heart was lost to you. He looked like he wanted to interject, but he held his tongue, merely nodding at you as a gesture for you to continue.

“Then, one day, I’d been out running errands but I had to stop at home because I realized I’d forgotten my phone. I walked into our bedroom to see Christian-” you spit the name with venom dripping from your tongue, eyes blazing with fire. “-balls deep in my best fucking friend. Who was wearing my lingerie, if the rest wasn’t bad enough.”

John growled, the sound low and rough in his throat. It startled you slightly, hearing him make a sound so inhuman. And yet, you weren’t scared. Quite the opposite, in fact. You wanted to know how that growl would feel with his mouth pressed to your skin, his teeth sinking into your flesh, if he’d feel more animal than man.

You shook yourself from the daydream. “I divorced him, to the horror of damn near everybody. My mama was furious with me. All the gossipy old birds tutted and shook their heads at me, shaming me for darin’ to go against the Bible’s teachings and leave the bastard. My friends, if you could even call them that, all sided with Christian over me. My grandmama was the only one who was ever on my side, but she’d been in the hospital with a broken hip, so she couldn’t do much.”

You paused, needing to take a second to shove down the old hurt from being abandonded by essentially everyone in your life in one fell swoop. To your horror, your eyes are starting to water, and you roughly swipe at them with your free hand.

“Hey.”

You focus back on John as he gently grabs your attention. There’s a furrow in his brow, and he looks both heartbroken and furious at the same time. But surprisingly, there’s no pity. Whenever people have asked, or inadvertedly learned some facet of your life’s story, there’s always pity in their eyes. It’s something that endlessly frustrates you, and eventually you just stopped telling people altogether. But in John’s gaze, there’s nothing but understanding, and it throws you.

“You don’t have ta keep goin’ if ya don’t want to, love.”

God, could this man get any more perfect? Honestly, this is only cementing the idea in your head that somehow, someway, John Price is a figment of your imagination, because such a perfect man can’t possibly exist in real life.

“Ah, s’alright, John,” you say with a wry smile. “Figure you deserve an explanation for being acosted and propositioned by a stranger in a pub on a random Friday night.”

“Well, it’s certainly been a more interesting start to a weekend than I’ve had in a while.”

You snort, not expecting that from him. He chuckles with you, and as the two of you pull yourselves back together, Clare arrives with your food. She’s brought fish and chips, as well as bangers and mash. She sets the food down, and your stomach grumbles a bit at the delicious smells. Still, you give John a bit of a look.

“So you’re a proper Brit, huh?”

He gives you a wicked grin. “Proper isn’t usually a word used to describe me, love.”

Fuck, this man’ll be the death of you.

You take a break from the impromptu trauma-dumping you’ve been subjecting John to in order to eat, and damn if he wasn’t right in saying that this little pub had good food.

“This might be some of the best food I’ve had in the UK so far, John.”

He scoffed at that. “Clearly you’ve not been havin’ good experiences then. I’ll have to recommend some more places to ya’.”

A pleasant little buzz swirled low in your belly. Maybe that means you’ll see more of him? Maybe some how you haven’t managed to scare him off with your fucked up life story so far. Small mercies.

After taking a bite of his own food, John fixes you with a look. “So, how’d a southern belle like you end up in fuckin’ Liverpool of all places?”

You couldn’t stop the bark of laughter at his incredulous tone. “Quite the change, isn’t it? After the absolute disaster that was my divorce, I couldn’t stay in that little town. Every single person knew what’d happened, and not a single one aside from grandmama was on my side. I was drowning.”

You paused to take another sip of your water. “I needed an out. I needed an escape. And then I saw an ad for an international student sponsorship program in the UK, and it was like a sign from the Lord Himself. Offering a full ride to international students if they attended UCL and then joined the workforce in the UK for a minimum of five years. Best damn decision I ever made.”

John furrowed his brows. “I’d imagine it’s mighty difficult to transfer credits, ‘n all that.”

You laughed bitterly. “Didn’t need to transfer shit. I wasn’t allowed to go to uni in the states. I had to fight to get my momma to let me get my damn high school diploma. Apparently, Christian had wanted to propose even earlier, and she was all for it, but I wanted that diploma. I’d earned it. But higher education? A housewife doesn’t need that. Don’t need a fancy degree to play house, and that’s the only career I’d ever been told I was allowed to have.”

The look on John’s face was explosive. “Tha’s fuckin’ bullshite,” he growled, and again, the tone of his voice sent shivers down your spine, in the best way. “It ain’t up to them. ‘S your life.”

His words damn near made you start crying again. How is it that this man understood you better than every single person in your stupid little town that you’d grown up in? They’re the ones who’d known you for near two decades, and yet, the image of you they wanted to believe in was about as far from reality as one could get.

“That’s a small, southern town for ya,” you muttered, twisting a napkin between your fingers. “Backwards and misogynistic and fuckin’ racist.” You paused. “Well, not always. There are plenty ‘o towns that are jus’ fine in the South, filled with wonderful people. I just wasn’t lucky enough to be born in one of them.”

John nodded sagely. “Tha’s true of damn near everywhere, love. For every good person, seems like there’s four bad, unfortunately.”

You shook your head. “Anyways, I grabbed what little belonged to just me, and left town as soon as I could. I had a small amount of savings from doin’ odd jobs for the neighbors, and it was enough to pay the fee to apply to UCL. I don’ know how, but I got in on the sponsorship, and I was on the first plane outta the states I could get. I got here broke as hell, with half a suitcase to my name, but for the first time ever, I’d felt like I was in charge of my own future, you know?”

The look he gave you was so tender it just about broke your heart. “Oh, princess,” he sighed, reaching out with one hand, palm up. He waited until you placed your hand in his, fingers brushing across a calloused palm before he continued. “You always should’a been allowed that choice. I’s a damn shame you weren’t. But the fact that you were strong enough to break free? It speaks volumes. I don’ gotta wonder how you got into UCL. They’d’ve been fools to reject ya.”

You covered your mouth with your free hand, trying desperately to hold back the sobs. “I swear I’m not usually this emotional,” you protested shakily, trying to wrest back control. “Shit.”

John abruptly stood up from the booth, not letting go of your hand.

“C’mere,” he said gruffly, tugging you to your feet and into his arms. You went willingly, letting him wrap you up in a strong embrace. One arm banded around your waist, pressing you tightly against his chest as his hand settled low on your hip. The other hand came up to cradle the back of your head as you buried your face in the hollow of his throat. Your fingers twisted in that light blue henley that felt so damn soft under your touch. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, and just held you.

Giving up the fight, you let some of your tears fall, letting the old pains and sorrow that tonight had resurrected fade away. The last time you’d been hugged like this had been when your daddy was still alive, but he’d died when you were just a little girl, and it’d been so long since you’d felt that same safety and comfort you’d felt in his arms.

“I mean every word I’ve said, love,” John whispered into your hair. “Every damn one. I work with some o’ the toughest bastards you’ve ever seen, and you’ve got every single one’a them beat. You’re one o’ the strongest women I’ve ever met, survivin’ what you have. Don’ let anyone tell you any different.”

The conviction in his voice stunned you. Once again, you were struck by the thought that maybe you’d fallen and hit your head and were in some kind of hallucinatory dream state. People like John Price didn’t exist outside of the pages of romance novels, and there was no way you were lucky enough to stumble into the physical embodiement of the kind of man you’d dreamt about rescuing you from your sad, pathetic life for years.

It was a foolish hope you’d held during your brief marriage and the tumultuous divorce. That a knight in shining armor would come to sweep you off your feet and take you away from everything bad in the world. Eventually, you’d decided that you couldn’t wait for a wish upon a star, and had taken the steps to save yourself. And you’d done it. You’d made it. You’d become more than what they’d planned for, but somehow you’re still having trouble believing you’ve come across the exact kind of man who would’ve saved you, if given half the chance.

You held on tightly for a few seconds more, letting yourself relish in being held in what you could imagine was a loving embrace. Then you took a step back, wiping at your eyes as you tried desperately not to let your embarrassment show.

“You’re probably the kindest man I’ve ever met, John Price.”

He smiled down at you, his own eyes bright. “Nothin’ less than what you deserve, princess. Now, c’mon an’ finish the rest o’ the story.”

You both took a seat again, and it took you a few seconds to remember where you’d left off and what question you were actually answering.

“Uh, yeah, so I went to UCL, worked my ass off, and managed to get my degree in two and a half years. I spent another half a year with the university as a teaching assistant, before my professor gave me a job recommendation for a consulting firm out here. I’d been living in dorms, so I didn’t have much. Makes moving easy when you haven’t set down roots. I found a small flat overlooking the river, and started at my job. I’ve only been in Liverpool for about six months now.”

John shook his head. “You’re goddamn incredible, you know that?”

You felt your cheeks burn at the compliment, and took a sip of water to try and not make it obvious just how affect you were by his words.

“I’m serious. Fuckin’ incredible. The only thing I don’ get, is why the fuck your ex from Bumfuck Nowhere, USA is here. Can’ imagine Liverpool bein’ all that attractive of a tourist destination for a lil’ shit like him.”

You sighed. “It’s a stupid class reunion of all things. Was originally supposed to be a five year reunion that ended up getting cancelled because a bunch of them got sick. That’s the problem with living in a small town. When one person gets sick, the whole fuckin’ town gets sick. But Christian wanted to go all out, and sent out a big invite to our whole class, all 40 of us, declaring that he was funding a trip to Liverpool for the class reunion.” You shook your head. “Don’t know why Liverpool, my only guess is that he thinks it’s ‘exotic’ or some such bullshit. Most’ve them have never left the state, let alone the country.”

John scratched at his beard pensively. “Did he know you were in Liverpool?”

You felt dread pool in your gut, ice cold and terrifying. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that Christian could’ve chosen Liverpool because you were here. You just figured he was being a stupid, uneducated idiot, choosing a random city and country to fly to just because he could.

“I-I don’t know,” you whispered. “I cut off all contact with everyone back home, but I didn’t exactly keep my plans a secret. My momma knew I was taking off to Europe. She still worships the ground Christian walks on, if he asked her, she’d absolutely tell him.”

John scowled. “Maybe he wants another chance?” But before he could even finish the thought, already you were shaking your head.

“Christian never loved me. I’m not sure he’s capable of it. But I was supposed to be his, we’d grown up hearing that, and when I divorced him, it was like taking away a toddler’s favorite toy. He threw some pretty epic tantrums in court.” You took a deep breath. “He doesn’t want me back because he missed me, or wants another chance. He just wants ‘what’s his’, or something else equally stupid, I’m sure.”

You ran your fingers through your hair, frustrated. “What the fuck am I going to do? They’re holding the damn reunion in the town I live in. Even if I didn’t go to the events, I’m sure they’ll find ways to fuckin’ harass me. And I can’t afford to take a vacation anywhere right now.”

John hummed in agreement, a thoughtful look on his face. He tapped his thick fingers against the rim of his water glass as he looked at you, and you felt very suddenly like you’d just let a fox in the henhouse.

“I’ve got a… proposition, love.”

You nodded slowly, suspiciously. “Go on?”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “What’dya say we continue our performance from earlier? It’d be damn hard for him ta harass you into gettin’ back with him if you’ve got your husband with ya.”

[lay-z]

Flight of fancy ~ 1 | call of duty:mw

SUMMARY: Sometimes dreams can become reality. PAIRING: Ghost x f!Reader x Soap WARNINGS/INFO: 18+ ONLY | smut; strong language/cussing; threesome; some fluff; praise kink; size kink; unprotected sex; soft!dom/sub; non-canon/pre-canon

The intense throbbing between your legs and lower belly, accompanied by your increasing heart rate, make it harder for your subconsciousness to keep the grip on the intense scene you are experiencing.

The rough touch of gloved fingertips tickling along your arched spine and squeezing your heated flesh, sounds of your swallowed moans and needy whimpers, the feeling of a man, thick and warm, deep inside you as he takes you from behind – all of it real, forbidden, and so very sinful. The Sergeant says you must be quiet but does everything to make you mewl in the same breath. It makes your toes curl, dig into the floor, and tears well in your eyes.

Then, there is another strong hand grabbing your chin, squeezing it lightly while his gloved thumb strokes your lower lip before you open your mouth oh so eagerly. The Lieutenant shouldn't be here, but he is, of course he is. You hear a low chuckle, muffled by his skull mask, as he towers over you, watching with a kind of hungry intensity that causes you to tremble.

The Sergeant joins in the teasing. They say something, mutter praises and profanities to you; filthy things you hear but cannot quite make out. He's next in line, judging by the outline of his large erection straining against his dark combat pants. Your pussy clenches around the cock inside you, and the man behind you sputters curses under his breath.

Images and figures start blurring together into surrealism, no matter how much you try to cling to them, while the delightful pulsing in your groins lingers when your eyes start fluttering, regaining sight as you eventually wake from a deep, heavy slumber.

You squint your eyes against the dim light of the room, sniffling as you notice the tip of your nose is numbed by the cold while your body seems to be burning up. It takes another few seconds of absentness before you realize someone's been shaking you by the shoulders.

"Ah fuck...what? Wha – "

"Steamin' Jesus, lass, what kinda nightmare were ye havin’?”

Soap kneels at your side and helps along as you struggle to sit up straighter in the tattered armchair; now painfully aware of the slickness between your thighs and thus your soaked panties sticking to your pussy. He was inside you, fucking you throughout, just a moment ago; what the hell is he talking about?

You rub your eyes more forceful than necessary, until the delicate skin on your face burns from the contact, and the young Sergeant's eyes study yours for a moment, not missing your flushed cheeks and heavily dilated pupils while you avoid his worried gaze.

"Those pills knocked ye out good, huh?" Soap snickers to himself as he grabs the canteen attached to the side of his belt. "Here, have a drink", he says and unscrews the flask before holding it up to your lips.

You swallow hard and notice how dry your mouth has gotten. It was just a wet dream. A fucking wet dream! Your stomach drops as reality finally hits you like a Humvee going full-speed, and you hope Soap doesn't notice the shaky breath you exhale. You’re on a bloody mission, you caution yourself; sex should be the very last priority on your mind right now!

"Thanks", you mutter swiftly before taking a big gulp of water. The coolness calms your heated body and edgy nerves enough to collect yourself momentarily; you let out a profound sigh as you hand the canteen over again.

"Remind me never to touch that stuff again, yeah? Fuckin’ hell!", you cuss, rubbing some feeling into your frozen nose tip.

Soap chuckles as he gets up, now holding his gloved hand out to you, and you seize him up involuntarily, wondering for just a fleeting moment, if his touch on your bare skin would feel the way it did in your dream, if his cock would fill you up as deliciously as it did then. However, you force the thought away from your mind, ignore the shudder running down your back as you grab his hand, and Soap pulls you up effortlessly while he talks into his comms.

"No need to worry, Lt. She's fine, all clear."

"Affirmative, Johnny."

Ghost' response comes just a second later as if he has been waiting for that info.

"You told the Lt. that I was having a... nightmare?", you ask tentatively, brows furrowed in mock amusement to mask the discombobulation arising behind your meticulous façade of professionalism and toughness; one you have built for yourself after years of serving as a SAS operator and working with TF-141 especially.

Soap sees right through your bullshit though as you see the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.

"Course I did. Thought ye were havin' a seizure or stress-related episode or somethin’ like that", he answers nonchalantly, adding a shrug. "Lt.'s on watch, so I had to tell him, no? Besides, ye looked pretty ah... restless."

Then Soap turns his back to you, saunters over to his corner in the living room of the abandoned single-family home, your makeshift hideout for the night, and flops down on the ragged couch, crossing his arms behind his head. He doesn't bother taking off his tac-vest first, or any other gear nor armour for that matter.

“Yer alright though, right?”

“Aye, I’m fine... I think.”

You sink deeper into the armchair as you briefly think about recounting your dream to him, though as soon as it crosses your mind, you bite your tongue to keep yourself from telling on yourself.

“Mind if I, uh, step outside for a moment? Get some air?”

Soap drapes one arm over his eyes then and gives you a thumbs-up with the other.

“Turn the light off when ye leave, aye? Am pure done in.”

You smile to yourself as you put your gear back on and grab your rifle before turning off the small, dimmed camping lamp in the corner of the room.

The fresh night air clears your hazy mind and seems to grant you a boost of new energy with each deep breath you take.

There is no sign of civilization here, the next road is some klicks away from your position, the next village or town even further and the only sounds surrounding are those of wildlife you can only assutheis there and the wind blowing through the old, wooden window shutters.

Yet you notice the presence of another human being lurking in the deeper shadows, someone who naturally becomes one with them, and even though you know who it is, the thought of Ghost stalking you makes your blood run hot and the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention.

"Evenin', Sergeant. Feeling any better?"

The Lieutenant's low, baritone voice cuts through the silence along with his heavy footsteps coming towards you. Him and you have established an awfully formal and gratuitous way of speaking to each other on missions.

You spot the white of his skull balaclava before anything else.

"I'm fine, yes. Thank you", you lie through your teeth, now glad for the darkness covering up for you. You can still feel the evidence of your arousal with every step you take, though you try to ignore it. It feels like a dying flame too eager to be lit up again; all you need is air, someone gently blowing on it.

"Wanna talk about it?", he asks gruffly as he comes to stand next to you, scouting the darkness ahead. To outsiders, it may not sound like it, but Ghost genuinely cares about his people; he's just always so serious around you.

You consider your options, every possible outcome, and perhaps you're silent for a brief moment too long, or Ghost knows you too well already.

"You're overthinking again, Sergeant"

"I'm just contemplating my answer, sir"

He scoffs quietly and you feel his piercing gaze on you though you don't dare to turn your head to look up and make sure.

"Should I be worried then? We're in the middle of a mission. I need ya to be focused, but if you're having any troubles then –“

"No, sir", you cut him off sharply. The last things you want any one of your comrades or superiors to do is worry or question your abilities and mental state. "I... I wasn't having a nightmare."

He seems taken aback for a moment, or simply pissed at you for disrespecting him. Either way, he silently waits for an explanation, or so you think and you cringe internally, biting the tip of your tongue, as you crumble like house of cards under his sheer presence.

"It was quite the opposite of a nightmare", you blurt out eventually, and you can only imagine the huge question mark now floating above his head.

"Answers, Sergeant. This ain't no children's Q&A", he demands.

"Perhaps not, but if you want to know, questions would make it easier to talk about", you insist, fully aware you're making a big mistake though your mouth seems to move on its own now.

Silence again, and then you think your comms crinkle to life as someone, perhaps Soap, tries to radio in, but nothing follows.

"It was a good dream then?", Ghost asks then, fully ignoring the sound that came through both your comms.

You hesitate, embarrassed at last, but nod anyway.

"Affirmative"

"Family friendly?"

"No, not at all", you answer, shaking your head as you try not to laugh. What an odd way of phrasing that question, you muse.

"So, let me get this straight, you had us worried 'cause you had a wet dream? Like a bloody teenager?"

There's a hint of amusement in his voice, professionally covered by the sternness of his tone. You clear your throat awkwardly, busted after all.

"Basically, yes, but I do appreciate your concern, Lieutenant"

The matter is done for you, you shouldn’t be playing with fire that openly anyway, though you notice the sudden tension in the air around you, and when you try to ask him if you should take up on guard duty next, he cuts you off this time.

"So, who was involved then?"

Now you're the one taken aback by that question, and Ghost notices right away, but he insists.

"MacTavish?"

You swallow hard as memories of your dream flash before your inner eye; Soap eating and fingering your pussy to prepare you for his thick cock, licking your juices off his wet gloves and slathering his shaft with them before sliding in with one firm thrust of his hips. Him bending you over the nearest table and fucking you until your vision gets blurry with ecstasy.

"Affirmative", you reply meekly and clear your throat once more. He doesn't react much, but his voice becomes lower, huskier, as he continues his interrogation.

"And what did Sergeant MacTavish do to you?"

"He took me... from behind, uh, doggy style, and we had to be quiet because we couldn't get caught doing it... obviously"

"Ah, yes, good ol' policies and regulations, innit?", he mocks wryly. "And did you enjoy it? Soap fuckin’ you doggy?"

You cringe and hesitate; you’re not used to the Lt. using such colourful language in that context, though you must admit, it only adds fuel to your unfortunate state of horniness.

"I mean...yes. I guess my subconscious mind did enjoy it. A lot actually, according to the evidence in m–"

Stopping yourself before the words can get past your lips, you ignore the way your heart skips a violent beat and try to regain your composure instead. That’s one too much inappropriate info, you figure.

Albeit, it seems Ghost has taken another step towards you because now he is practically towering. The way he's standing in front of you, mask on his face, assault rifle in his mammoth hands, a permanent aura of authority surrounding him – this man is nothing short of an enigma. Yet again his presence is enough to make you talk.

“Anyone else involved?”

“Yes”

“And what exactly did I do to you?”

It’s the clichéd quiet breath that hitches in your throat when the Lieutenant asks so very smugly, and then you’re gritting your teeth to resist the urge to rub your thighs together. He must be smirking, you judge, there’s no way he isn’t, as pleased as he sounded though his reaction is once again carefully hidden by his balaclava.

“You... you caught us”, you stammer eventually.

“How unfortunate for you, Sergeant”, Ghost replies with the slightest hint of a chuckle.

The sound gives you flashbacks, and suddenly, you have the phantom feeling of his gloved hand gripping your chin, his thumb stroking over your bottom lip, and the sound of his combat pants unzipping echoes in your ears.

“Yes, sir, very unfortunate”, you dare to tease and watch his reaction though there is none; Ghost simply accepts your response. Perhaps he didn’t pick up on your sarcasm...oh, well.

“You should get back inside, catch some sleep maybe. We’re leaving before sunrise. Price contacted me, I got new orders for us”

His voice is dry, strapped from any humour or undertone; he rolls his broad shoulders and adjusts his stance before nodding at you to go ahead.

“Yes, sir”, you affirm as you straighten your own shoulders, gripping your rifle more firmly again before turning on your heels. Back to business it is.

“And Sergeant?”, Ghost calls out to you after you’ve passed him by a few paces.

“Yes, sir?”

“Better keep your hands off those sleeping pills from now on.”

To be continued...

[stormshadows-altacc]

:3

[ohbo-ohno]

i saw somebody somewhere say "ghoap noncon puppy play" and blacked out. now ~2k of this exists. enjoy <3

cw: kinda kidnapping, noncon puppy play, gags, dark!!! it's noncon!!!!

Soap tries to sneak out the morning after.

He must not know Ghost’s awake (doesn’t know about the nightmares, doesn’t know it’s a miracle for him to have slept as long as he had) and lets out little groans and moans when he rolls away.

Ghost doesn’t realize he’s leaving at first, thinks he’s just getting more comfortable. When he sits up and his feet hit the floor, Ghost is up in the blink of an eye, hand locked around Johnny’s elbow keeping him from moving another inch.

“L.t.?” He asks, voice all rough and sleepy.

“Where you goin’, Johnny?” Ghost rumbles back. 

He squirms a little in his spot, free hand reaching up to rub anxiously at his hair. “Aye, Ghost, need to get ready for trainin’ yeah?”

“Get ready in here.” There’s no reason for Johnny to leave now. No good reason for him to ever leave Simon’s side again, actually.

But he makes a little noise in his throat, one that seems instinctual. “Listen, Ghost,” he starts, head dropped low to stare at his lap. “I know you don’t want anythin’ here, yeah? Can you please just let me make this easier, get us past the… weirdness faster?”

Well. Nothing he just said is true.

There is something here. A part of Ghost is pissed off that Johnny isn’t acknowledging that, but that’s not the most pressing part of his sentence. Ghost is never again going to let it be easy for Johnny to get away from him.

But he can’t say all that. How do you articulate the feeling of finally giving in to an obsession that’s crawled your bones for months?

He’ll have to show him. 

Next time he fucks Johnny - and there will be a next time - he’ll show him he doesn’t get to just leave the next morning. 

-----

Poor Soap hardly makes it a week before he’s begging for cock again.

It’s cute, the way he goes all dumb and drooly. Eyes wet and dazed, staring up into Ghost’s like he holds the secret to the universe. 

The sex is just as mind blowing as the first time, just as world-shattering and axis-tilting. Ghost knows he would sleep well that night, if he let himself sleep. But he’s got something to set up for Johnny, so he eases his way out of the bed and leaves his boy all warm and sated. 

It’s hours later, when the sun is just about to rise, that Johnny shifts around in bed and starts making those little grumbling noises.

Ghosts slips behind him, sitting up as he does and moving to sit next to him.

“Stay,” he says, low and quiet even in the safe silence of his room. 

Johnny can’t even look at him. Just stares down at where his hands fidget in his lap, poking the tip of his tongue past his lips and worrying it with his teeth. Ghost wouldn’t mind doing it for him, but that’s not what his focus needs to be on. 

“Ghost…” Johnny sighs, finally looking up at him. He’s got this desperation in his eyes, clear to see even in the dark of the room, that plainly says don’t make me explain this. Just let me do it.

But that’s not happening.

When Johnny gets up this time, Ghost follows him, locking a hand around the nape of his neck and squeezing his fingers just a bit. 

“Stay,” he tries again. 

Johnny makes a low little noise in his throat, staring up into Ghost’s eyes like he’s waiting for words Ghost doesn’t know how to give.

He’d give Soap anything. Move Heaven and Earth for him, fight the devil himself to keep him alive. But he can’t give him whatever words he expects, because he can’t fucking figure out what they are.

So he does what he can do.

When Soap moves away, Ghost’s grip turns harsher. He muscles the smaller man over, getting only the littlest bit of fight as he bends him over stomach-down on his dresser.

“Johnny,” he warns, low in his throat. “You’re not runnin’ away this time.”

“I didn’t ru-“

“Do you want me to be nice to you? Huh?” He growls, shaking Johnny’s head and leaning over him to breathe in his ear. “I won’t be nice much longer, Johnny. You decide how you want to play this.” 

Soap’s silent for a second, breathing gone heavy and spine tense. His eyes are wild where they lock on Ghost’s over his shoulder, and for a second, just a heartbeat, he feels a little bad for how Johnny’s about to spend his day.

But he gave him a chance. Practically begged Johnny not to walk away. He’s got to realize that Ghost is serious, that he’s not letting him fucking go. Not now, not ever. 

So when Johnny rears up, hands and feet planted solidly to try and break free of Simon’s hold, he doesn’t feel bad. Not when Johnny clearly needs the lesson.

Johnny’s a big man, strong and willing to fight. But he doesn’t really want to get away, and that’s what gives Ghost the advantage.

He’s rough about shoving his face to the wood of the dresser, leaning his weight against his back to hold him still while he pulls out his first gift from where it was tucked in the back of his pants.

He locks the collar around Johnny’s throat quickly and efficiently - one second his throat’s empty, the next he wears a clear sign of Simon, a sign that says taken.

“Wha’- “ Johnny mumbles, one hand giving up on pushing at the dresser and reaching to paw at his neck. “What the fuck is that?”

“Your collar,” Ghost rumbles, hold not loosening as he nuzzles into Soap’s shoulder.

“Collar? Why the fuck would you put a collar on me?”

“‘Cause you're mine,” he says simply. It’s really not much more complicated than that. “Now, are you gonna be a good boy and stay where I tell you to? Or you gonna make me punish you?”

A whine crawls out of Johnny’s throat, without his permission if the way he tenses is anything to go by. But he still doesn’t give in, head tossing back into Ghost’s shoulder in what's probably an attempt to headbut him.

“L.t., let me go, what’re you-“

He sighs, loud in Johnny’s ear. “You don’t get it. I’m not letting you go, Johnny. You’re not running from this. I won’t let you.”

He grabs his boy by the back of the collar, dragging him over to another corner of the room where Johnny’ll be spending his day.

The extra large dog crate should send the right message - trapped, but comfortable. He’s laid a small but plush mattress at the bottom, stuck in pillows and blankets and a few little fidget toys so his puppy doesn’t die of boredom.

Johnny’s struggling grows more frenzied the second he lays eyes on the cage. “Steamin’ Jesus, Ghost, what the fuck is that?!”

“What’s best for you, Johnny,” he responds, pushing the boy to his hands and knees with relative ease, the cage door already propped open and easy for him to start shoving a confused Johnny into. “Get in.”

“No! Why the fuck would I get in?!”

Well, it doesn’t quite matter. Johnny’s putting his back into fighting now, gone fully into defense-mode and trying to hit any spot on Ghost he can. Luckily, they spar often, and Ghost knows all the tricks Johnny falls back on when lost in panic. 

Only moments later, Johnny’s flat on his back in the crate, door closed and locked behind him. Ghost crouches at the side of the crate, fingers laced through the bars as he watches Johnny slowly come to terms with what's happening. 

He’s on his knees only seconds after the door closes, head nearly touching the top of the cage as he leans toward Ghost.

“Ghost, what- what are you doing? C’mon, let me out of here. It’s not funny, ok?”

“Not laughin’, Johnny.” 

“Then- then what the fuck! Let me out, are you insane?! I’m not staying in a fucking dog cage!”

“That’s exactly where you’re staying. Until I come back tonight, you’ll stay right here in your crate. Safe and sound.”

“But- you can’t-“

“I can. And I am.” It’s almost pathetic, the desperation in Johnny’s eyes as he stares up at Ghost. Like he still can’t quite understand what’s happening. Ghost takes pity on him, pushing his fingers further through the bars to stroke at his boy’s cheekbone with the backs of his knuckles. He leans into it, precious thing that he is. “It’ll be ok, Johnny. This is just what you need, this’ll make you understand, yeah? Now, are you gonna be a good boy and stop barking, or do I need to muzzle you?”

That sets him off again, sends him launching to the other side of the crate. “You can’t fucking- you can’t fucking muzzle me, you big bastard!” 

Ghost only sighs as he stands, grabbing the black muzzle from where it rests only a few feet away. It’ll be difficult to get it on with Johnny kicking up a fuss, but he should be able to manage. 

He’s careful to block the opening as he opens the crate door, but shows no hesitation as he reaches in and grabs a panting Johnny by the hair. He’s quick about the process, gets the internal attachment of the gag stuffed into Johnny’s mouth before he can really start struggling.

He scratches at Ghost’s hands and arms, kicking desperately at the soft bedding to try and gain leverage to push away.

“Calm down,” Ghost growls, bent in half over the smaller man to lock the gag around his head. His fingers struggle to get the small buckles in place with the way Johnny throws his head back and forth. “The more you struggle, the longer you stay in here. That what you want, Johnny? Thought you wanted out?”

There’s a loud whine beneath him, something plaintive and sad and scared.

But Ghost can’t comfort him right now. This is a lesson.

So he gets the gag secured, leans out and locks the crate door before Johnny can fully realize what’s happened. He lays there on his side, eyes dazed and confused. Ghost just stares down at him.

He’s slow once he finally starts moving, shifting to his knees and hands coming up to feel around the edge of the muzzle. It’s a comfortable leather that wraps around the entirety of the bottom half of his face, leaving only his cheekbones and above visible. It’ll be uncomfortable to breath if he works himself into another panic, but not impossible. 

He tries to work at the strap, but it doesn’t do anything. Ghost has thoroughly tested this particular gag, knows it’s only coming off when he wants it off. 

His hands fall to rest on the blankets a moment later, eyes moving up to stare into Ghost’s where he towers above the cage. He can see Johnny’s jaw working, knows he’s chewing at the part of the gag that rests inside his mouth. A whine slips through, just loud enough for Ghost’s heart to skip a beat.

“I’ll be back later. If you’re a good boy, you can sleep in bed with me tonight.” He lays a hand over top of the cage, scratching at a dazed Soap’s scalp. “Try not to make a mess.”

And then he turns away, off to find Price and tell him Soap’ll be out sick for a few days. 

[jaycestaliss]

JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, (2022)

[evis-gossip]

Simon and secretary!reader

I know, I know, so overdone! but in my defence, I was bored in my flight!

Trigger warning: harrassing (not by Simon tho), misogyny I guess, Simon being a knight in shiny armor (or more like skull mask) (not me being unfunny)

Unbetad!

Price hired you to help keep up with paperwork, meetings, reports and whatnot.

Obviously the entire TF141 noticed you, but Price started treating you like a daughter and they preferred to just back off. That old man can be scary protective.

Still, Simon found himself drawn to you. Lingering when handing over mission reports and trying to read your coffee order in your paper cup.

Most times you would pack your lunch and have it alone in your office, or the captain’s, or however that works.

You avoided interacting with soldiers more than necessary. Some of them were intimidating, and you’re just a secretary.

But then…

There was this one time you woke up late and didn’t have enough time to pack your lunch. Which left you eating the disgusting mess hall food.

Your hands were shaking as you took your tray, and your steps unsure. 

You didn’t even notice the testosterone fuelled new recruit’s obvious stares and hushed comments.

Ghost noticed though (he was watching too).

He let you hold your own, not wanting to intrude.

But then, you sat down alone, away from everybody, the far edge of a long bench, those same recruits on the other side.

It didn’t take long for the hollering and catcalling to start, and soon enough, the entire hall turned to look at you.

You glowed red in embarrassment, taking small bites of your tasteless food, wishing to disappear.

Ghost had enough.

He picked up his empty tray and walked where you were seating.

His tray slamming in front of yours almost made you jump. You looked up to his massive stature, the menacing skull balaclava snug over his face.

He wasn’t even looking at you. He was busy staring down the recruits. Unlucky them, for he had training duty that afternoon, and it looked like some of them were gonna be running laps until the though of ever harassing anyone ver again vanished from their brainless heads.

If you had looked at them, you’d have seen their faces pale in horror.

Simon sat down in front of you and you looked down at your food, taking more confident bites, not before muttering a quiet “thank you”, to which he grunted something akin to “any time”.

He just didn’t like bullies.

So he started watching out for you.

Simple things really.

No one else messed with you ever again.

You want back to having such alone anyway.

He was quiet and so were you.

So he found a way to spend lunch with you.

Something about needing your help with filling a report (not really) and buying you lunch as a compensation for your time and help, his treat, he insisted.

And then he needed help with reports on recruit training.

And then he always needed help with something.

Finding crazier and crazier ways to follow you around like a lost puppy.

You were just so… normal.

And somehow, you weren’t scared of him

Took a lot of encouragement from his Sargents and a single pat on the back from his captain to ask you out.

But the story is better told a different time.

(and thta story will prob never get told cuz I get bired with part twos)

[celenawrites]

before y'all boo me off or whatever, just hear me out......

Captain Price and how his age is catching up to him. Years of military and constant substance abuse causing his body to ache all over. And then his pretty missus (or fiancée, if he hasn't made a wife out of you yet for some unfathomable reason) begs him with her doe eyes and kissable lips to quit smoking 'cuz she wanna spend the rest of her life married to him......

And fuck, if John isn't a man of his word.

Although keeping his word to his darling seems to be a lot harder than he thought. Unable to satiate his desire to smoke (he had foolishly thrown out all the cigars, even the fancy ones as he thought he wouldn't need any backups), he feels his fingers twitch out of habit and he breathes heavily to control himself. Deciding to get his oral fixation from elsewhere, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your soft waist as he kisses up your neck. You whine at him, telling him to not distract you from whatever dish you're working on. He scoffs at you, turning off the stove and spinning you around till you face him - reeling you in for a nasty kiss that is all tongue and teeth.

You can feel your lungs burn by the time he lets you go, instead going for your bare neck again as he marks you up with sharp canines, murmuring gentle praises as if they were salve to all the loving bruises he was inflicting on you.

Bringing you into the bedroom, he strips you bare and he just cannot resist putting his mouth everywhere and marking you up until you're singing his name for all to hear. It's not long until he's making love to you, each languid thrust aimed against that special spot that made you see stars, and once you're done, he urges you to clean up after yourself and finishes it off by licking your juices off your fingers.

So the next time you get guests in your humble abode and you bring them refreshments, Price is all too happy about reminding you of that time by grabbing your wrist and leaving skittish kisses against your fingertips, making you shudder with warmth and nervousness. The guest coo at the sweet gesture, none the wiser of what it means to you as you quickly exit the lobby with the excuse of making a hearty luncheon, with a skip in your step as you anticipate the next time John might need your help again.

And as his betrothed, you are more than happy to indulge in his oral fixations whenever he craves you.

[cherry-cristal]

Local DILF Captain done with his sons soldiers' antics

Im back

[bruciemilf]

I think it'd be beneficial for COD to revive Tommy Riley, because Simon's life would be 10x harder with a baby brother who's the cuntiest, most insufferable homosexual God spat out