#call of duty modern warfare
lxvvie · 18 hours
Simon never experienced true rest until he met you.
Before, resting was like the calm before the storm. It was ingrained in him as a kid, the apprehension in silence, peace being nothing but an illusion before his father struck fear into the family again.
After that, Simon had to busy himself; he had to stay alert for the next thing coming.
When you came along and offered him a chance to rest in the moment, he warily took it, and over time realized that it wasn't bad. It was just... different.
And now, with your relationship strong and well established, Simon takes every opportunity he can to simply... rest.
And rest he does.
You liken him to a cat, your Si-bear, what with the way he nestles under you, the way he leans into your touch, and the way he'll quietly come and make himself comfortable on you whenever you lounge on the couch. He especially enjoys laying between your legs, his head on your stomach, dozing as you run your nails lightly over his scalp.
Rest, then, becomes something Simon looks forward to every time he sees you or comes home. The intimacy he enjoys with you, broad shoulders no longer burdened with work, is reward enough, and sometimes Simon wonders if he'd go through all the bullshit again just to get to this point.
He feels you shift under him and Simon doesn't wonder anymore.
He just rests in the moment.
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knightjpg · 3 days
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saw @ceilidho saying this looked like Soap so now I have to live with that knowledge forever
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sherriesherbet · 2 days
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As someone who's fucked up and also has trauma I 100% believe Ghost is either hypersexual or almost asexual.
It completely fluctuates without warning, and he doesn't have control over it. Months pass, and he doesn't even register anything sexual at all. The thought puts him off. He's just not interested what so ever. Then one week he gets the urge, the urge to touch himself, to stroke and pull till he's cumming thick hot streaks over his trousers and his vest in the quiet space of his quarters - but then it's not enough. He goes again, pounding at his own thick cock till his tip is an angry red and he's oversensitive, swollen, balls almost aching. But it's too good. When he eventually stops, an hour later he wants it again - his mind is on how his cock brushes against his trousers, how he needs to sink into something soft and wet and warm, tight. He needs to fuck something, anything, he gets desperate. Spends about a week or so like that, fucking his fist any time he can, cumming buckets.
And then he's back to nothing for months on end.
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naholuy17 · 2 days
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I believe in the old-fashioned strange jokes from the Ghost, which he unleashes on loved ones.
I love weird jokes.
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lanialania00 · 1 day
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riviclouds · 2 days
I couldn't find any so I made my own 141 shimejis
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Here's the download link!! Instructions on how to download/use should be in the Google Drive folder with all the little guys :)
⚠️ I also changed the "sit and spin head" animation for all of them, so they each have a unique little animation instead of just spinning their heads!
Enjoy <333
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Price: Why is Simon crying? Y/N: He took a 'which Kortac member are you' quiz Price: And? Y/N: And he got König
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callmec0k3 · 23 hours
I love those COD headcanon posts that are like:
Price: Old and back hurty
Ghost: trauma
Gaz: an in-depth exploration of a unique part of his character that is untouched by the game
Soap: eats sandpaper
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keppylo · 2 days
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Graves is seduc- uhm, i mean recruiting. Join Shadows! (they die too fast..)
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mactavishenjoyer · 2 days
Ghost, getting back from leave:"hi, girlies!"
Ghost:"shit wrong personality."
Ghost:"do you wanna keep your hand? If so you should stop talking."
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bzurk · 3 days
what gets dirtier the more it cleans?
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cw: DUBCON, oral (f recieving), coersion
thursday, week one:
Thursday, with its date circled in red on your calendar, almost nauseates you. Still, with your bank account dangerously close to overdrawing once your credit card bill hits, you have little choice but to return to the mansion.
You arrive at two o’clock and close the garage door behind you this time, and the space is empty. No cars, no occupants. Your heart just about leaps from your chest with relief.
You’re in the middle of mopping the floors when you hear the rumbling of the garage door open. You freeze, instantly tense, eyes darting to the laundry room just past the kitchen where the entryway to the garage threatens to come flying open at any moment. You hear a car door shut, your breath quickening, and you consider your options. Whoever is home knows you’re there; your car is parked outside, and it’s three o’clock on a Thursday. You could hide, but not for long, especially if the new arrival is who you dread it to be.
Left with little else to do, you force yourself to continue mopping. The gentle swings of it are like a second-hand, ticking away the moments before your entire day is ruined. Swish… swish… swish…
Footsteps make themselves known against the cold, hard marble tiles of the entryway, the sound amplified in your panicked state. Each step only hammers one more nail into your metaphorical coffin.
And just like that, he’s there, filling the doorframe to the kitchen.
Your stomach swoops and relief washed over you like a wave. Price. It’s just Price. He doesn’t even spare you a look as he kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the fridge, opening it and grabbing a beer from the top shelf. His nonchalance is refreshing, offering a nod and a smile before taking a drink.
Swish… swish… swish… You’ll finish as fast as possible, get out of his hair.
As you cleaned, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Price, marvelling at how different he seemed from the man you had met on Monday. The cold calculated gaze was still there, but it was tempered with a hint of weariness. You found yourself feeling a twinge of sympathy for him, despite your better judgment.
Price's presence, though imposing, is oddly comforting after the chaos of Monday. His calm demeanour and the way he simply goes about his business without making you feel like an inconvenience help to ease the knot of anxiety in your stomach. He leans against the counter, sipping his beer, and you notice the deep lines of fatigue etched into his face.
As you mop, you try to stay focused on your task, but curiosity gets the better of you. You steal glances at Price, noting the subtle differences in his demeanour. There's a weight to his movements, a heaviness that wasn't there before. He catches your eye once, and you quickly look away, pretending to concentrate on a particularly stubborn spot on the floor.
"You don’t have to look so scared," Price finally says, his voice breaking the silence. "I don’t bite."
You offer a nervous smile, unsure how to respond. "Just trying to get my work done, sir."
"John," he corrects, waving off the formality. "No need for all that 'sir' business."
"Okay, John," you say, testing the name on your tongue. It feels strange, but not entirely uncomfortable.
He takes another sip of his beer, studying you for a moment. "You did a good job on Tuesday. Never seen the place so shiny."
You pause, glancing up at him. "Thank you."
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. "I’m impressed. This place can be a lot. I hope Simon didn’t give you any trouble.”
Simon, Simon, Simon. You nod, not trusting yourself to say more without your voice betraying your lingering nerves and fear. Price’s presence is a balm to the anxiety that had threatened to overwhelm you, but you can’t quite shake the memory of Simon’s smug face and the feel of his touch lingering on your skin, his taste on your tongue.
"Listen," Price says, his tone softening. "If you ever need anything, or if there’s a problem, don’t hesitate to come to me. Alright?"
"Alright," you reply, feeling a surprising surge of gratitude. It’s a small reassurance, but it means the world in a place that had so quickly become a source of stress and fear. “Alright… I might take you up on that, sir- John.”
He finishes his beer and sets the can on the counter, giving you a final nod before heading out of the kitchen. "I have some work to do first, so you finish up here and come find me, yeah?"
"Yes, John," you say, watching him go. As soon as he’s out of sight, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The relief is palpable, and you take a moment to collect yourself before returning to your task.
Swish… swish… swish…
The rhythmic motion of the mop is soothing, helping to ground you. You focus on the floor, on the task at hand, and let the stress of the last few days melt away with each pass of the mop. Price’s words echo in your mind, a small beacon of comfort in an otherwise tumultuous week.
He said to come to him if there’s a problem, he seemed so genuine, but can you really tell him about Simon? About his own housemate, ex-teammate? What if it makes things worse? What if Simon finds out you told? The mere thought of Simon's reaction sends a shiver down your spine. Let alone how John would react. Would he demand the money back? Blame you? Fire you?
You take a deep breath and try to focus on the task at hand, but it’s no use. The encounter with Simon on Tuesday haunts you, and you can’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you, his touch on your skin. Price’s reassurance was genuine, though. Maybe he really can help. You need this job.
As you finish mopping the floor, you glance towards the hallway where Price disappeared. Your heart pounds in your chest, a mixture of fear and determination. You’ve never been good at asking for help, but this situation is beyond what you can handle alone. Simon's presence is a dark cloud hanging over your every move, and you need to find a way to dispel it.
Swish… swish… swish…
You wring out the mop and set it aside, the decision solidifying in your mind. You need to talk to Price. You need to tell him about Simon, about the fear that grips you. With trembling hands, you tidy up the cleaning supplies and make your way to the hallway.
Each step feels like a monumental effort, but you push forward, driven by the hope that Price can help. You follow the the hallway to the office at the end of the hall. The door is ajar, and you can see him sitting at a desk, papers strewn about. He looks up as you approach, his expression softening when he sees you.
"Finished already?" he says, setting aside the documents and covering them under a manilla folder.
"Yes," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve, um, finished all of today’s tasks, so- so I can just leave, if you don’t have time."
Price’s brows furrow, concern etching into his features. He gestures for you to come in and sit down. You close the door behind you and take a seat, your heart racing. This is it. No turning back now.
He stands from behind his desk and comes around to the other chair in front of it, turning the heavy piece of furniture until it’s perpendicular to you. The sound of its legs scraping against the wooden floor fills the silence. He sits down, his presence commanding yet comforting. Up close, you notice the fine lines etched around his eyes, the subtle signs of weariness that weren’t as apparent before. His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a face that’s both stern and kind, a dichotomy that makes you feel both safe and slightly intimidated.
Price’s eyes, a piercing blue, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. There’s a depth to them, a lifetime of experiences and stories hidden behind that calm exterior. He’s dressed in a simple, yet elegant manner, dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
The room is silent except for the faint ticking of an antique clock on the wall, each second amplifying the weight of the moment. The atmosphere is dense, charged with the unspoken tension of what you’re about to reveal. You can feel the steady thump of your heart, each beat echoing in your ears as you try to steady your breath.
His palm lands on your knee and you jolt. His eyes narrow further, and his hand squeezes for a moment before backing off. He leans in further, elbows resting on his knees, and hunched over he’s eye-level with you, sympathetic, earnest.
“Look at me, love.”
You hadn’t even realised your eyes had screwed shut, your breathing rapid and your fingers curling against the armrests.
“Breathe, alright? Deep breaths f’me. Can you do that?” His voice is silky smooth, rumbling and deep, but it doesn’t carve into your chest like Simon’s does, whittling down your ribs. Price’s voice is soft, rounded, gentle, but it’s so confident and authoritative that you have no choice but to listen. His voice is an enveloping blanket, warm and disarming, but you know it has the potential to become suffocating. “It’s just you n’ me, love.”
You don’t know if that’s comforting or not.
You yelp loudly when you feel your chair move, grinding against the floorboards, and your eyes flash open to take in John’s hands around the armrests, easily turning your entire chair to face him, the display of sheer strength enough to force your brain to pause.
Gently, he guides your shaking hands into his, his skin warm and calloused, but it is a comforting heat, a reassuring touch. He slowly uncurls your fingers from the armrests when your breathing evens back out, his grip firm but not crushing.
“Now, what’s gotten you so spooked?” His voice is a low rumble in the quiet room, and you feel yourself open up under his touch, his thumb gently brushing back and forth over your knuckles.
Here goes nothing, you think, glancing away and back. You can’t find it in yourself to meet his eyes. “It’s... It’s about Simon.”
His thumb, stroking back and forth, doesn’t pause. A metronome, so calm and unfailing, a direct contrast to your heart that feels like it’s flailing about in your chest. He nods for you to continue and gives your hands a comforting squeeze.
“I would like it if he wasn’t in the house when I’m here.”
Price’s eyes narrow, his grip on your hands tensing ever so slightly. He doesn’t say anything, and the silence that follows is suffocating. You can practically hear your heart thudding in your ears, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and even the buzzing of a fly by the window seems to reverberate off the walls. He’s going to fire me, you think as dread sinks like lead in your stomach, replacing all other feelings.
“I-I mean, I just don’t feel... safe around him?” you blurt out, tone lilted up at the end like a question, and he raises an eyebrow at you. You’re digging a deeper hole for yourself - your grave, perhaps.
“Simon’s a big man, love, I know that he can seem intimidating, but I promise you he means no harm,” he finally speaks, and you begin to shake again, crossing and uncrossing your legs and nudging his in the process. You don’t want to explain why you’re afraid of him, you want to hope that he will just listen to your one request.
“No, I- he-”
“Want me to have a chat with him? You can come on another day if you’d like to, doesn’t have to be Tuesdays and Thursdays, but he’s home most days, love. Doesn’t like leaving the place.”
Tears are blurring your sight now, and you can’t stop the way you hunch in on yourself, palms slick and sweaty and he just holds onto you tighter. You don’t want to say it, to admit it, to confront what Simon had done to you, but the air is suffocating and Price is just staring at you, waiting for you to open up and you have no out.
“He paid me for a blowjob.” You blurt out frantically, and ice rushes through your veins.
The weight of your confession lingers, the fear you’ve been carrying now laid bare between you. The atmosphere is charged with an electric tension, a mix of dread and relief that leaves you feeling exposed and fragile. The rich scent of leather and aged paper fills your lungs, a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions swirling within you.
You can feel the warmth of Price’s hands, a steadying presence that cuts through the fear. The stillness of the room is profound, the kind of quiet that demands to be felt, not just heard. Every creak of the wooden floor, every distant sound from the outside world feels muted, insignificant compared to the gravity of this moment.
Price doesn’t speak immediately, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough for you to catch your breath. His calm, composed demeanour is a balm to your frayed nerves, and you find yourself clinging to his presence like a lifeline. The soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock is the only thing filling the frozen silence, and five audible ticks pass before your brain restarts.
He’s calm. Why is he calm? Did he know already? Does he hate you, is he disgusted? No, no, he’s still holding onto you, tightly- why won’t he say something?
“Please, John,” you plead, the tears spilling over your cheeks, and you do not doubt that you look pathetic to him. “I need this job, please. I’m sorry I said anything-”
“Was it not enough?”
His words hang in the air like a sharp, unexpected knife, slicing through the momentary calm. The shock hits you first, a jolt that sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches in your throat, and the tears momentarily stop, your mind racing to make sense of his question.
The room seems to constrict around you, the walls pressing in with an oppressive weight. The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different, thick with a new kind of fear and unease.
Price’s face is unreadable, his expression of sympathy and care a mask that betrays nothing of his thoughts. The warmth of his hands no longer feels reassuring but instead adds to the confusion swirling within you, instilling a new fear, and they almost resemble shackles in your mind, chaining you to this moment.
You try to process his question, the implication behind his words twisting your gut with anxiety. Was what not enough? What did he mean? Did he think you were exaggerating? The uncertainty gnaws at you, leaving you adrift in a sea of doubt and fear.
The silence is excruciating, each passing moment stretching into an eternity. Your mind races, replaying the confession, trying to find where you might have gone wrong. The fear that you’ve made a terrible mistake claws at you, a suffocating weight that makes it hard to breathe.
Price’s steady gaze feels piercing now, as if he can see straight through you, past your defences and into the heart of your fear. You feel exposed, laid bare under his scrutiny, the fragility of your position starkly illuminated. The room feels colder, the rich scent of leather and paper now tinged with the acrid bite of panic.
You swallow hard, trying to muster the strength to speak, but the words fail you, your mouth opening and closing dumbly.
“What he paid you. Was it not enough?”
The world comes rushing back in and slams into you like a wave. The cogs of your mind become violently unstuck and your lungs are full of air again and the afternoon sunlight is too bright streaming across the polished wooden floor.
The security blanket that was Price’s presence is now tangled around your limbs, and you’re choking. The hypoxia is making you stupid, rendering you immobile.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” You blubber, the taste of tears salty on your lips.
“What’s the problem, love? What’d Simon do?” You can feel the bones and joints of your hands creak under his grip when he squeezes again. “He didn’t pay you enough? Was he too rough? Did he force you?” He hums, deep and rumbling in his throat, the growl of a predator before his brows jump and he sighs, “Bet he didn’t return the favour, did he? Selfish bastard.”
The disbelief of it all is enough to make your head spin. You can’t believe the twisted meaning he’s just given to your confession.
“N-No- That’s not-”
“Think I get it now,” he says as his back straightens and his arms reach out, wrapping around your forearms with a gentle but firm grip and tugging until you lurch forward, and he easily tugs you into his lap, his hands trailing down your torso to rest against your thighs. “You’re just pent up, aren’t you, love?” His actions only further muddle your thoughts, as he cradles you like a child against his chest, rocking you gently back and forth.
You try to pull away, the panic rising again but his grip tightens. The way his fingers dig into your thighs is possessive and tight and it stings but not nearly as much as the look in his eyes when you finally meet his stare again. There’s something feral there that you’ve never seen before and it makes your blood run cold enough for gooseflesh to break out on your skin.
“Don’t have to be so scared. You just say the word and I’ll let you leave, don’t have to come back again. But I know you talked earlier about how you really need this job... You stay, be good, and I’ll take care of you.”
He didn’t need to say it outright. You know what he means, the threat underlining his words.
You swallow the bile that creeps up your throat and try to focus on anything but the way his hands are roaming so close to places they shouldn’t be. You can feel him against your hip now that you’ve stilled. Your mind is still reeling from the sudden shift in the conversation, trying desperately to make sense of it all. You stay, you let him do what he wants, you keep getting paid. A man, a very wealthy and attractive man, offering to ‘take care of you’ and pay you handsomely for it? You’d be an idiot to pass it up.
So why do you feel so gross?
“Y-Yes,” you mumble, cursing yourself for stuttering but you can’t help it when his grip tightens around your thighs and he hums again. “Please take care of me, John.”
His nose presses against the underside of your jaw, whiskers tickling and you shiver, “Good girl.” So quiet, so close, his voice is a growl. His hands begin to inch their way up your thighs, and you shudder, closing your eyes. “Takin’ such good care of the place, let me return the favour.” His hands deftly unbutton your slacks, tugging at the waistband until you lift your hips for him, rolling them down your thighs until they fall around your calves.
You let out a small sound of surprise, but he quickly quiets you with a gentle shush, firmly grabbing your thigh and pulling it open until the stretch aches, his other hand coming to rest on your hip as he guides you to turn in his lap, squeezing the flesh of your waist when you settle your back to his chest, curved and nestled into him. You can feel the strong thrum of his heart against your back, the way his chest rises and falls, so steady and confident compared to the way your heart flutters like a hummingbird. It’s calming, a metronome, forcing your breaths to align with his.
“Relax,” he mutters, and you shudder again as you feel him press his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your earlobe and his beard scratchy and coarse. His voice is almost a purr, low and sensual, and you feel yourself clench around nothing.
He must feel the way your breath catches, realizing at the same time that you do that you’re enjoying this. His hands skimmed up your stomach and over your breasts, squeezing and kneading them through your blouse like he owned them, like he had every right in the world to touch you like this. In a way, he does- your livelihood cradled in his hands. He noses along your throat, following the pulse of your heart down until he reaches the space where it meets your shoulder, pressing a feather-soft kiss against the skin. A long breath rushes from your lips, and he hums against your skin, a sound you feel more than hear - the vibration against your skin, the rumble in his chest against your back.
His mouth on your neck distracts you from his hands, easily undoing the second and third buttons of your shirt until your chest is bared to the cool air. His hands find their way underneath the fabric, and you squirm in his lap as he runs his fingers under your bra and cups your breasts in his calloused grip, his thumbs circling your nipples and the feeling is so foreign you continue to writhe atop his thighs until he groans behind you. Your breathing hitches as he rolls a nipple between his fingers, and you can’t believe how turned on you are by this, by him.
“That nice?” he teases, a knowing lilt to his voice as he pinches the other nipple between splayed thumb and forefinger. You gasp again at the sensation and arch into his touch. He tugs at the band and pulls it down until your boobs tumble free, held up by the material. “Anyone touched you here?”
He punctuates his question with a harsh pinch to your nipples, and you squeal, “No one!”
“Do you?” He purrs, giving your nipples a break to knead at the flesh, his left arm sliding across your sternum like a bar, holding you against him as he squeezes your opposite breast. His other hand trails down, splaying over your ribs, fingers drumming impatiently against your skin.
“Some- hah- sometimes,” you pant, hands resting against his arms where they surround you in some twisted facsimile of affection.
His hand leaves your ribs and you whine, but it only moves lower, down your stomach, skirting dangerously close to where you ache. He dips a finger past the waistband of your underwear, resting at the apex of your thighs. “What about here?”
“Tell me, sweetheart. Do you touch yourself? Right here?” He pushes his index finger between your folds and you moan even as you deny it, hips bucking against his hand. A bright trace of pleasure jolts through you as a result, and your eyes flutter for a moment as you try to resist the urge to repeat the motion.
“Y- no, I don’t-”
He chuckles, “Liar.”
He groans at the warm heat of you, the little flutter of invitation that greets him. It’s enough to startle a wanting little moan from you, craning your head a little, unintentionally baring the bare flesh of your neck to him. John’s mouth presses against the skin there and lets his tongue go flat over the spot he’s seized before he seals his lips over the spot and sucks. His finger, coated in slick, drags back up until he can again tease your clit, circling the nub until your entire body is tense with need. The wavering, licking flame of lust inside you blazes brightly at the sensation, shuddering as the heat pulses low in your core, slick and warm and empty. You moan as he pushes a second digit inside of you and then pulls them out, repeating the motion until your hips are rocking against his hand of their own accord, your ass grinding against Price’s cock below you.
“That’s it, love, right there.” He hisses in your ear, sucking another bruise onto your skin before hooking his chin over your shoulder, watching the way your panties bulge and move with his hand, a dark, wet patch obvious, highlighting the movements of his fingers. “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you? All f’me?” His voice is like honey and yet it grates against your sensibilities, grating against your every instinct. You want to hate him for this, for reducing you to a quivering pile of need in his lap. But you can't seem to find it in yourself to care anymore. All you can think about is his fingers inside of you, the way his touch sets your body on fire, how good it feels. His fingers reach so much deeper than yours, calloused and rough and thick.
"John," you moan, voice rough with lust as he withdraws his fingers, leaving you aching and empty.
"Not yet," he teases, sucking another hickey onto the column of your neck. "We're not done yet." You whine as he helps you up off of his lap, but any protest that might have passed your lips dies on your lips as he stands and crowds himself against you, hands squeezing your hips and pushing until you stumble, ankles tied together with your pants, and you hiss in pain as your ass collides with the cold wood of his desk.
"Shit!" You exclaim, more shocked than hurt, but his hands are already tugging at your underwear, thumbs hooking in the sides and pulling them down until they're resting with your pants around your ankles. John takes a moment to run his eyes up and down your body, pausing on your breasts and between your legs, before he sinks to his knees. “What- what are you doing?”
“Said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” He hums, lifting your legs until they rest on his shoulders, his head nestled between your thighs, eye-level with the place your body weeps for him. It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—
Your head lolls forward, chin to your chest, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The white-hot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit. A needy gasp tears from your throat. Your hips buck. John clamped down on your body, leaving deep dents in your thighs. His wide, flat tongue strokes from bottom to top in languid laps. When he reached the tender nub at the top, you jolted again. He paused and swirled over the area a second time.
And then his lips are on you, his tongue lapping at your folds with enthusiasm that borders on animalistic. You make a noise in the back of your throat, awful and wet and choked. You can’t seem to take a fucking breath around all the hoarse cries coming out of your throat. It honestly sounds like you’re sobbing, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you lifted your hand to find tears forming in your eyes. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words. It slips in more. The full length. You keen, arching, hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his tongue, nose glued tight to your clit. You cry out, hands flying to his head, nails digging into his scalp as he teases you with abandon. Trembling legs clenched around his shoulders, burning him in a vice grip of quivering thighs.
His fingers find their way back inside of you, curling and twisting in time with the movements of his tongue, and it’s enough to bring you back to the edge. His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, seals his mouth over you and sucks. Your nails score tracks down his scalp as you come apart in his mouth, pussy clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you like an ocean tide.
“Such a good fucking girl,” he pulls up your panties from between your legs before standing, still between your butterflied legs, and now that the ringing in your ears had quieted, you can hear him, the wet schlick of his hand around his cock - the hand he was using on you. “Fuck,” he groans, wedging his cock beneath your panties until the wet, hot head rests just above your clit, further darkening the wet spot you’d left. His hand continues its up and down on his cock, the movement jostling it against your still tender clit and releasing a pathetic, overstimulated whine from your throat.
“‘s too much, John,” you mewl, your hands slapping against his thighs weakly, and he growls again, deep in his throat, before a splash of heat coats your pussy and stomach, soaking into your panties.
He smears the head of his cock through his spend, painting it into your skin, and you yelp when he taps it against your clit one last time before pulling out from your ruined panties, tugging them up and into place again. His cum is warm against the lips of your pussy, and you can’t hold back the wince at the feel of the slick mess.
He holds down your thighs as he steps out from their embrace, a smug smile stretching his cheeks and crinkling his blue eyes, the cat that got the cream. He wiggles your pants up your legs again, over your hips, zips the fly and buttons them up, grabbing a handful of your ass before stepping back and slumping into one of the chairs. You refuse to move, to acknowledge the combined mess pressed into your skin. You’ve never been more glad for your black wardrobe.
John must see the disgust etched onto your features, and he just laughs, huffy and airy and quiet, “Couldn’t make another mess for you to clean, love.” You take a hesitant step toward the door, eyeing John, who seems to relish in your discomfort. “Best get yourself home before the boys return, eh? Wouldn’t want ‘em asking too many questions.”
You jolt at his words and hurry to the door, pointedly ignoring his laughter and the way your skin slides against your panties.
“Don’t forget to check your pockets when you make it home, sweetheart,” John cooes, and you make sure to slam his office door loudly once you pass the threshhold, but you can still hear him call after you. “Use it to buy something cute for next time!”
191 notes · View notes
bunnys-kisses · 11 hours
Hi hello good day! May I order an extra spicy mille-feuille with a side of mocha coffee for John Price please?
bakery menu
want to order your own dessert? the bakery is still open! always accepting prompts especially from call of duty and formula one! get kinky! get sexy! order up!
mille-feuille (“that’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.”) + mocha coffee (breeding kink) served by capt. john price!
cw: smut/pwp, breeding kink, rough sex, wife!reader, husband!price, age gap (20s/40s), doggy style
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price had a pretty wife! price had a pretty wife! johnny said in a sing-song voice when price returned to base after a "sabbatical", the other men knew what was up the moment he took off his gloves and there was a shiny gold band on his left ring finger.
captain jonathan price of task force 141 had bagged himself a missus!
while johnny's comments were juvinile, it was all in good fun. price never talked about you a lot on base. off base, the boys of 141 had met you and eaten your cooking. but, price kept you close to his chest.
he didn't want anything to happen to you.
when johnny gave him a shove of congratulations, price narrowed his eyes at the younger man, "i am still your captain. don't forget that mactavish."
"of course sir!" johnny laughed as he scratched his jaw, "just 'appy for ya!"
"so what's the plan now?" kyle asked as he gave his captain a firm handshake. in all fairness all three men were curious. you had the house, the ring, what was next for the price's?
price leaned back a little in his chair and shrugged, "well, we're tryin' for a kid when i get back. she's worried by the time i finally retire all her eggs will have dried up!" then gave a hearty laugh, "feels good bein' married to my wife. she a good woman!"
price was anxious to go home the second he left home for the next mission for the task force. so the day he got to return to his wife, he was all smiles as he took his belongings back home.
his cock was also painfully hard. he hadn't had the chance to relieve himself in a few days, so his cock was aching for a release. and no better place to put it than in his pretty wife.
he pulled up to the house that you two had been living in before you got married. he got his belongings and headed to the front door. when he knocked on the door, he heard the yapping of your dog.
"pumpkin! stop! down!" he heard your voice and smiled. when the door finally opened, he was instantly met with your arms around him. he held you as best as he could.
"hello, love." he smiled.
you kissed him off the lips and took his boonie hat off. you put it on your head before you giggled and took his hand. you brought him inside and price got a full view of what you were wearing.
the tank top was too tight and the sleeping shorts were too short. he made a face and said, "you've been wearin' that while i'm gone?"
you looked at him and said, "yeah? and the ring too!" then burst into laughter, "i'm joking, honey. i put this on for you. i was excited to see my husband."
price knew from the moment he met you, that he could never say no to you. he just loved you so much, it was almost an ache when he was apart from you.
he knew very well that you were leading him upstairs to the bedroom. he gave pumpkin, your german shepherd a pet and a promise they'll watch coronation street when he was done with her "mama."
price waved to the dog who was sitting there confused what her mama and papa were doing. he closed the door and you were on the bed, the tank top and shorts were off. leaving you in a cute mismatched pair of bra and panties.
you looked so adorable. it made price's cock twitch in his pants. such a pretty little wife. a wife he wanted to dick down and breed until you were nice and round with his children.
oh, he hoped you weren't stopping at one price baby. he was thinking at least three, maybe five if he can stick a pair of twins into you. (irish twins would just have to do if that didn't work! price was a man of many plans!)
he got out of his clothes, his hairy body made you drool. along with the strength in his muscles. you swallowed when he invaded your space and took off your under garments. it was like opening a present.
"my beautiful wife." he said. he took you and got you on your elbows and knees, even getting your pillow to put under your head. he took in the sight of you, back arched for him. ready to accept all he'll give you. he rubbed your ass “that’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.”
you whimpered against the pillow and felt your husband behind you. you held onto the covers under your head and sighed contently. your pussy was wet, he could clearly see that.
usually he had a cup of tea when he got home, but this was just as good. if not better. he knelt behind you and stroked his cock a few times at the sight of you.
his tip was leaky and his balls felt heavy. such a pretty sight, a submissive little wife (it was the only time you were actually submissive. price knew he married a firecracker!). he rubbed the slick tip up against your slit.
"pretty girl." he purred, then slowly sank into your sweet pussy. his hands on your hips as he pushed in. he heard a sweet moan and watched your back arch more.
"john. please." you panted as you held onto the covers.
"i got ya, love. always got ya." he started his pace, his thrusts were hard but steady. sex was rough, but it made it all feel so good in your bones. it felt like two parts of the same whole.
you were perfect for one another, even when he was breeding your sweet little pussy. he thrust against you, watching your ass jiggle at the force of his movements.
he felt the sweat dip down his back as he moved against you, his heart raced as he felt snug in his wife's pussy. you were just perfect, the most amazing little thing he had ever laid his eyes on. a gift from the heavens for him.
his sweet woman.
"john. please, i love you so much. i can't wait to start a family with you. you're perfect, i love you. you've made me the happiest i could be!" you whined into the pillow. you held onto it under your head.
"i love when you say my name, love. sounds so right on your tongue." he laughed as if he didn't have the most common name in the world. but the way it rolled off your tongue while he was balls deep inside of you made him feel good.
you whined in between your giggle as his soft words. even if his thrusts were hard. he melted you to your core and made you hot all over. it was erotic and it made you sweat.
the two of you continued to move together, his calloused fingers dug into the meat of your hips, enough to leave bruises.
"such a pretty girl."
the sex became harder, like a carnal need for the two of you to reach climax. for him to breed you, he pressed his chest against your back and wrapped both of those strong arms around your middle.
you whined and he panted heavily in your ear. he ached all over for you. his cock bullied into you and his breath was ragged.
"my girl. my wife." he purred and it sent you over the edge. like fire in your veins.
you clutched onto the bed under you, your back arched and you climaxed. you felt it take the air out of your lungs as he continued to batter your pussy. all in the name of growing your family.
your core throb as his continued movements. you panted heavily and let him get close to his own orgasm. his forearms clenched around you as he
he finished inside of you, and dropped his arms from around you waist. he slowed down and then pulled out. he took you into his arms and kissed at your sweaty neck.
"mmm, my good wife." he said with love in his voice. his cock was still painfully hard. one round wasn't going to make sure his little missus got knocked up! he rubbed his slick cock against your back and said, "perfect for me. we're gonna make a big family, love."
you smiled while still panting and held onto him tightly. you could feel your husband's love as he spooned you. he kissed your neck tenderly and you said, "get me some water and we can go again."
you rubbed your achy middle when you felt your son shift against your kidneys. you then poked your belly, "you calm down there." currently he was known as john jr. but you were convincing your amazing, lovely, handsome husband that there were more names than just john.
for now, he was known as peanut. you checked the noodles for the pasta dinner while price was chopping up the mushrooms for the sauce. his sleeves were rolled and those strong arms were on display.
you made a face,
you looked at pumpkin who was seated by your feet, waiting for her chance to have just one noodle. you chuckled and looked at price while you bent down a little to feed the german shepherd one of the penne noodles before you went back to the noodles
"i saw that." price said with a chuckle even if he back was turned to you. he was smiling however. he wouldn't expect anything different from you. when he finished with the mushrooms, he slung a bulky arm around your middle and kissed your cheek.
you turned your head to look at him and giggled, "i love you."
he kissed you on the lips then said, "i love you more. now and forever."
185 notes · View notes
cowyolks · 2 days
Whassup it’s your girl from the depths of the comment section coming to answer your request with yet another request
I give you: Price who meets you at a bookstore and the both of you are new readers and he suggests you two go this new cafe in town he’d visited before to discuss books together and he gives you the address by typing it into your phone but he messed up and didn’t realize it had autocorrected with the wrong one and you end up in a jacked up part of town at this deconstructed warehouse while he’s sitting at this nice cafe getting more and more worried when you don’t show up and he has to come rescue you
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Pairing: John Price x Female Reader
Prompt: You’d been frequenting the bookstore for the last month, finding solstice in the atmosphere. Or maybe it was a coverup, to catch a glimpse of the blue-eyed soldier who happened to be reading the same book as you.
Words: 3 K
Warnings: None, this is pretty much all fluff! Maybe slightly mentions of gunshot wounds.
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You’d nearly died of shock the second the brass little bell rang throughout the dusty aisles, echoing and shrill.
The sound was enough to quip your curiosity, rarely anyone came inside the bookstore, let alone this early in the morning. The sun was just starting to peak over the overcast sky, sending faint glowing oranges and yellow tints across the pages you had been reading.
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
A book you were drawn to first as you started your journey of reading literature. It was your third time reading it, the pages worn from the gentle press of your fingertips. Yet, you still managed to bring your eyes up from the pages to pinpoint on the gruff stature of a man.
He was built like an ox, even as you glanced only at his shifting backside. He had a broad back that thinned into a muscular waist with strong legs. A Tall and looming structure with a dark beanie resting on the top of his head, also obscuring his facial features from your line of site. Based off the soft-shell jacket he wore and the blue jeans, he was here causally, not for a business call some came into the store for.
Just an ordinary man on an ordinary weekday.
That was until he turned around, catching your stare; He was anything but ordinary. Your cheeks burnt in embarrassment as he met your stare in a clash. Your eyes averted, but not before you caught a glimpse of his face. He held a stern but kind expression, cerulean eyes glowing against tan skin. He had a beard the color of golden chestnut, trimmed nicely and well taken care of.
You turned back to your book, picking up where you left off, but still peaking at his tall form over the cover. His footsteps thudded on the creaky floors, alerting you that he was, in fact, coming closer. Your heart pumped faster when his form stops in front of your desk, a soft clearing of his throat used to gather your attention, as if he didn't already have it.
“Miss… do you happen to know where the return box is?” His gruff voice startled you but warmed your skin at the same time. His voice reminded you of warm tea on a rainy day.
He held up a flawless copy of his book, the title immediately catching your interest.
Jack London’s Call of the Wild. A classic in itself, something that spoke great values of his character based on what he read. He was fierce nature, just based on the white scarring on his knuckles, and the warm smile that concealed it.
Your eyes darted over to the wooden return box as you swallowed.
“To your left, near the romance section,” you informed with a small voice, a quick grin pulling at your lips in greeting.
He nodded, a small grin curling around his lips. “Right, thank you.” He held up the book again, as if to explain himself. He studied your space, picking up on the worn cover you had placed down on the walnut desk and the steaming cup of cinnamon chai you were nursing.
“You’re welcome.” You inhaled, smelling the heady scent of pine and tobacco from the stranger. He nodded in a goodbye, turning to the box. Yet, before he could take another step, he turned to you again.
“Shelley? She any good?”
“Excuse me?”
He huffed in amusement, clever eyes settling on the well-loved paperback you held in your hands. “Your book, that’s upside down.”
Your eyes shifted to the pages, cheeks burning in embarrassment as you caught onto the upside-down font. “I-uh…” you choked up, not knowing what to say to curb the raw embarrassment coursing through your veins.
“S’alright, love. I’m messing with you.” He spoke in an orthodox: such kind words that didn’t fit his gruff voice. Based on his wafting scent, the scratchy tone was a result to the tobacco he smoked.
“Shelley is actually way beyond her years.” You squeaked, hoping to make up for being caught ogling and not to be seen as a brainless creep.
“Well then, you convinced me, I’ll give it a go.” His finger tapped on his novel. He gave a brief grin as a goodbye, turning as he slipped his book into the return box.
“Wait!” You found yourself announcing, before your brain could catch up to the beating of your heart. The man turned, eyes sparkling in curiosity. “I never caught your name?” You deflated, realizing just how lame you came off as. It’d been a good long time since you had a proper conversation with the opposite sex, men your age loved to say things that made your nose curl in disgust.
“John. John Price.”
You nodded, the name fit him well. In exchange you offered your own. He repeated it, as if engraving it into his mind.
“So, I’ll see around?” You asked, secretly hoping it wouldn’t be the last time you’d admire him.
“Yeah, love. See you around.” He nodded politely in farewell. His copy of Frankenstein held tightly in his grasp as he left the shop, head tilted downward to avoid the sprinkling rain.
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The next time you saw John, he was limping. He shuffled into the bookstore with a barely noticeable wince, settling into a chair with a quiet ‘hmff’.
You found yourself up on your feet before your brain could even tell you it was a bad idea to approach. Most came to the store to revel in the quiet and peaceful atmosphere, and here you were, clearing your throat and breaking the silence.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here again.” You quipped, attempting to sound casual and failing as his gaze burnt holes into your flushed complexion. He looked undeniably tired, dark circles under his eyes that oozed exhaustion. It made you wonder if his exhaustion was contagious as your own hand reached to your mouth to stifle a yawn.
“It’s been a while, got caught up with work.” He held up his copy of Frankenstein, a couple chapters read but no huge dent in it. He either had been busy or found the book boring.
You wanted to pry but found it in yourself to restrain your burning questions. You settled for a question about the book rather than his life.
“Not your style?”
His throat bobbed, as if thinking over the question. He pushed a wooden chair opposite to him with his good leg, gesturing for you to sit next to him. Your lips twitched upwards as you shifted to sit.
“It’s different than what I usually read, but it’s not bad.”
“I’d tread carefully waters; this is my favorite book.” You jested, finding it easy to speak to him despite the embarrassment you felt, or the heat from his undivided attention. His gravely chuckle echoed through the dusty bookshelves, his hips shifted, settling further in the chair and growing closer to you at the same time. Rich tobacco and bergamot wafted your nostrils, making you wish you could bury yourself in the mouthwatering scent.
“I just finished chapter four. Victor is quite the obsessed bastard, isn’t he? Locked in a lab away from all else. Fresh air, friends, his wife, all second to his monster.” John spoke, tapping his finger against the copy’s cover as if it offended him.
“It bothers you that he spends so much time in his lab?” You question, buzzing with curiosity to find someone to share opinions with. To grasp a different view was everything.
“The muppet trapped himself, his own mind fueled by one thing. It’s how psychopaths are made. How monsters are made I presume.”
A smooth hum left your throat, eyes twinkling. “You don’t like being trapped do you, John?”
His head shook, large hand grasping a stray hair that escaped his neatly trimmed beard. He was calculating and precise, organized and intelligent. Perhaps you liked him more than you should for only meeting him twice.
“No. Suppose I don’t. About lost my mind today actually, if they would have kept me in that hospital one more hour, I’d have walked out, love.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, gaze directing you to his leg that he was favoring. You took it as in invitation to ask questions, despite the subtle voice in the back of your mind telling you that it was none of your business.
“Hospital? What happened?”
“Bullet. Damn near got my artery.” He supplied, his face flashing with amusement by the way your mouth fell open in shock. Perhaps you should have been more careful approaching him, not many people were shot and those that did were typically violent. Internal warning bells sounded, making you twitch uncomfortably in your chair.
“Bullet?” You squeaked, barely able to speak.
“That’s right. I’m on leave as of now. So, I have plenty of time to read this book.”
Leave? Then it clicked. His straight posture, the aged eyes, callous on his hands. He was a fighter. A soldier. Relief flooded your system knowing you weren't keeping conversation with a serial killer.
“I see. You’re in the military, then?”
“Yes.” He didn’t seem inclined to say more on the matter, so you dropped the personal questions with only mild disappointment— he was just so interesting, afterall.
“Must be weird, going from looking over your shoulder every moment to being expected to fit back into everyday boring life.”
He chuckled, “boring isn’t so bad. I get to sleep in, eat good food. The best part is stopping, having a moment to just breathe.”
“You’re welcome to breathe with me anytime.” You spoke softly, cheeks flushing as you nearly bit your tongue at the forward invitation. You were trying to be nice, not forward. You blamed it on his incredible ability to profile, but he didn’t look disturbed by the comment, as if he knew just what you were thinking.
“Do you live around here?” He asked, thankfully not jesting on your previous comment.
You shook your head. “No, I moved here for uni and stayed ever since, I teach literature.”
He hummed, low and sweet. “I should have guessed, you don’t have the ugly Scouse I’ve got.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“I don’t think it’s that bad.” You muttered, before embarrassment crashed once more, “the accent I mean, not just your voice.” Your hands waved, “not that your voice isn’t nice.” You shrunk in your seat, snapping your mouth shut so fast your teeth clinked.
“Would you like to go out for coffee sometime? I know a place.” He surprised you with the question, his fingers tapping upon his novel. You blinked, then one more time, half tempted to pinch your arm to make sure you weren’t dreaming.
“Uh, sure. I mean— yes!”
His eyes softened around the edges, letting you see his crow's feet more prominently as he relaxed. After an exchange of phone numbers, you took your leave, waving goodbye as he promised to text you the details of where to meet the following week.
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Fingers tapped on the table, the rhythm growing more frantic the more he watched the second hand of his watch. You were fifteen minutes late, which made Price chew the inside of his cheek in nervousness and disappointment. He profiled you as a punctual person, but perhaps he was wrong.
You were kind and didn’t push him to answer questions of his personal life too fast, something that detoured him of dating in the past. He was scarred, both mentally and physically and questions pried open more of his flesh to bleed.
He cracked his sore neck; glad it was his spine that was hurting instead of the previous gunshot wound. His leg was nothing more than a dull, aching pain, healed to the best of its ability. He was always sore, his muscles fatigued and aching. He’d often think about retiring, of hanging up his hat and living somewhere in the countryside. The dream was a hole in his heart, wanting to be filled, but still so far out of reach.
He knew from the moment he decided to dirty his hands with blood and ash that he would never see the comfort of a home, of warm hands, of tender innocent laughter. But there was always a time when he got to dreaming.
A big sigh escaped his lungs, causing the floating steam of his coffee to fly astray. He had been here for far too long, his mind running on foolish hope. No date ever went well with him, as soon as he told them about his job, they tucked their tails and ran, knowing better than falling for a man who was addicted to gunfire far more than them.
Pursing his lips, he finally stood, groaning slightly as he stretched. It was pointless to wait on a woman that wasn't going to show. He peered out the large window, studying the rain drops that raced down the glass. He should have brought an umbrella; the cold mist had advanced into a heavy downpour as puddles filled the streets.
Setting his jaw, he pushed open the door to the shop and stepped out into the falling rain. He had faced worse weather on the field, this was nothing. However, the side streets seemed to be lengthier than when he was heading to the tea shop.
Then like a beacon of hope, he felt the steady vibration of his phone in his jacket pocket. He could sense it was from you, even though it was highly likely it was work, it didn't stop him from shuffling in his pocket and sidestepping under an awning to avoid the rain.
He swiped, bring the phone up to his ear.
"John?" You answered almost immediately, alertness ringing in your voice that had his hairs standing up on end.
"What's wrong?" He growled, not realizing his voice had taken the stern tone it had when it came to being a captain with orders. He winced.
"I... know...am." Your voice cut out, silence falling in between words. "...by Warehouse." your voice spluttered due to the connection error.
"Hey, try again, you're cutting out." John spoke calmly, although his body betrayed him, his back was straight, hand holding too tightly on the device.
"You texted...address...wrong."
Immediately he brought his hand down, powering on the screen and opening the message he had sent you from earlier today. He had been preoccupied filing reports when you texted him, but it appeared he did mess up the address of the homey tea shop.
His heart sunk, and all past feelings of disappointment faded into determination.
"Uber.... Stuck now." You still sputtered on as John put the phone up to his ear again. "Stay where you are, I'm coming to get you."
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You should have known the second that the city streets became littered with construction and blocked off roads that you were not in the right place. Still, you felt far too bothersome to ask the uber driver to turn around, so you stepped out into the downpour in shivering distaste.
You popped your phone out of your purse, wiping the raindrops from the screen as you peered at the address John had sent you. It was all wrong and you were running out of time. With a click, you tried to zoom out and see the map of the nearby coffee shops, only to sigh in defeat when there was no service.
You wished you would have decided to wear a jacket instead of the hoodless cardigan you huddled against, attempting to warm yourself despite the thick raindrops that pelted on you. Reaching an open area near a marble fountain, you hoped it would be enough to reach out to John, despite you already being late.
With a whoop, you successfully were able to send the call. John was on his way, and it was an instant remedy to the anxiety you felt from being lost.
Shivering, you took shelter under an unfinished metal foundation, scanning the streets in search of the soldier who seemed all too familiar with searches and rescues. It was nearly enough to make you laugh. You had always scoffed at the damsels in distresses in books, and now here you were becoming one.
"Love?" A gruff voice called out, making you perk up in relief at the sound of John's voice.
"Over here!" You called, a small smile curving on your lips as you saw his form turning the corner. His gaze caught on yours, relief instantly glossing over his stare. He approached, stopping just in front of you as his warm hands gently circled your biceps, turning you slightly to make sure you were not injured.
"I'm so sorry." He murmured, running his palms up and down over your arms, feeling the uncomfortable texture of wet wool. You laughed, genuinely laughed at this whole situation.
"There's no need to be sorry, you should blame it on my horrible directional skills, I am the one that got lost." You shivered, admiring from above as raindrops got caught in his beard. He opened his mouth, likely to say it was his fault, but your finger beat him, the tip pressing to the warm velvet of his lip, effectively stopping him in his tracks.
"Do not blame yourself. Besides the date isn't over, we can still grab coffee, and my book is likely not ruined in my purse." you scolded, feeling bolder than you have in ages. John was the first good sign you had in ages, and you wouldn't possibly let this go.
You dropped your hand when you felt a gentle kiss press on the delicate skin of your fingertip, effectively short-circuiting your mind as your arm fell limp to your side.
"Alright, love. But next date I’m picking you up.” He insisted, bring you closer into his side, filling you with temporary warmth that made you nudge even closer. The scent of pine and tobacco encased your senses as you began to walk in the direction of the shop.
You leant back for a moment, taking a glance at those pretty blue eyes that matched his face perfectly. “What makes you think we’re going on a second date?” You teased, watching as your soldier looked on with barely contained adoration.
“Who else would talk to you about classic literature, hmm?”
149 notes · View notes
wrylu · 3 days
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little price doodle for the ones who feel down :]
[transparent vers(x2) under the cut!]
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dt: @butchersflower <3
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reds-skull · 2 days
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I realized I didn't change my pfp for like a year and a half, and that I could do better, so I did
+some sketches of Soap in the red team mask that didn't make the cut
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mi-i-zori · 16 hours
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When Silence is No More
CoD - Astronauts!141 x Cosmic Horror!Reader
SYNOPSIS : A quick thought about the 141 being stationed on a space station and catching the eyes of a cosmic horror.
WARNING : None. But this is intended to be a subtle kind of horror, so it might be unsettling. The x Reader part is very subtle, but it’s here !
Author’s Note : I was daydreaming, like I always do, and started to mix Space and Sea in a same setting again. So here you go.
I do not allow anyone to translate, re-use or re-publish my works, be it here or on any other platform.
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Contrary to what people might think, a space station isn’t really quiet.
First, there’s the constant humming of the machinery. They tend to forget it a lot, having gotten used to it echoing day and night in the back of their heads. There’s also their own voices - bantering, chatting, laughing, yelling, cursing. When they work on whatever machine needs maintenance at the time, the clinking and banging of tools also adds itself to the subtle cacophony that surrounds them on the daily.
Over the years, they’ve come to find it comforting. It’s the reason why, when repairs need to be made on the outside of the station, the cosmic silence sometimes makes them even more uneasy than it should ; especially when exhaustion weighs heavy on their bodies after months of floating away from the world, in a void where Mother Earth and the Moon both linger on the infinite horizon.
Those daily sounds bring them peace.
Until they don’t.
It comes slow, at first. It takes them a while to realise why they’ve all been feeling like something’s wrong. They couldn’t say how long, but after days of anxious fidgeting, awkward and confused silences, and constant checking of the machinery inside and outside of the station, Kyle abruptly interrupts himself in the middle of a sentence, a look of strange understanding on his face.
« Do you hear that ? » He says, and it’s when they finally all focus on their surroundings that they hear it.
There’s a peculiar melody floating in the air. A mesmerising song made of laughter, coos, and other sounds they’ve never heard before. For a moment, they think they left a CD player run somewhere in the station, close enough for them to hear - but they quickly realise that it’s not the case, and the confusion only gets stronger as they rattle their brains in order to find where that music could be coming from.
Simon mentions that it sounds like it’s coming from outside. A crazy thought. But the more time passes, the more it seems to be true.
The cosmos is no longer silent.
Then come the lights, adorned with colours they can’t bring themselves to describe. They light up the corridors of the station in the strangest of hues, creating new shadows in the corner of their eyes. Unfamiliar silhouettes giggle and dart in front of the windows, taking a second to cut the streams of light before immediately disappearing.
Are they inside the station ? Or are they outside ?
Johnny is the first to mention the dreams. But they all have them.
They all describe the same strange, almost fish-like creatures they see dancing in the blaze of supernovas. The same voices, high and low at the same time, calling them from the abyss of black holes. The same feeling of drowning among comets and asteroids, suffocating under the force of cold, invisible currents before suddenly being pulled away by scaly limbs.
They always wake up in the middle of the night, sweating bullets and cursing at the same, distant vision of round, slitted eyes and glowing fins. One that keeps haunting the back of their minds during the day.
Price doesn’t know if he should mention it to the team waiting for them at home. He could swear his daily check-ins with the base back on Earth keep getting interrupted by a strange rhythm of static, even though there seems to be no problem with the comms.
There’s a strange pressure in their stomachs now, that keeps growing with every new event. When they don’t instinctively hold their breaths as if they were underwater, they can hear the harmonious remnants of waves in their ears, feel an unfamiliar taste of salt on the back of their tongues. Sometimes, it becomes impossible to know whether they’re still dreaming or not, and they have to pinch each other’s cheeks to the point of bruising to realise they’re wide awake. It all looks, sounds, tastes, smells and feels so real. Every single one of their senses is constantly filled to the brim with waves and waves of strange sensations.
The more time passes, the more they feel like they’re being watched. As if they had suddenly become a prey in the eyes of a being they are unable to see.
The radars, however, never show anything.
Are they having a collective hallucination ?
Or is there really something lurking behind the stars, watching their every movement, and tasting their fear with hunger in its eyes ? No matter what they do, the song never seems to stop.
And it’s the same thing with the growls.
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