#call of duty rudy

[lefttoesucker]

*Throws this at you and runs away cutely*

The card in question:

I hope y'all know this one

[venomous-ragno]

Who fell first and who fell harder? CoD version

Ghost: You fell first but he fell harder

Soap: He fell first and harder

Gaz: He fell first but you fell harder

Captain Price: You fell first but he fell harder

Alejandro: You fell first and harder

Rudy: He fell first but you fell harder

König: You fell first but he fell harder

Valeria: She fell first and harder

Want to see more characters? Shoot me an ask!

[yeyinde]

carried currents | Rodolfo Parra x Reader

He touches you like you're something special—a fine seashell plucked from the sandy shores; raw gold powder dusting his fingertips each time he glides them over your sateen flesh. You think of geometry when his flesh slides against yours—a near-perfect fit—and wonder if soulmates really do exist.

⇾warnings: light, soft smut. worship. religious imagery in connection to sex. just pure Rudy bliss, y'all. ⇾notes: a very slight continuation of this. it is also just shameless self-indulgence. this man makes me so mushy, so soft. ⇾word count: 2,2K

It's dipped in adoration when his lips brush the inside of your thigh; a whispered gospel against your trembling flesh. Dark eyes—burnt caramel, wet cinnamon—gaze up at you. The dips and peaks in those smouldering depths promise nothing but absolution and reverence.

He touches you like you're something special—a fine seashell plucked from the sandy shores; raw gold powder dusting his fingertips each time he glides them over your sateen flesh. It's too much sometimes—the pure love concentrate feels like it might one day swallow you whole, and you burn with the notion of being spat out on the opposite side, dazed and confused. Left bereft of his skin under your hands, his rapturous gaze on you. 

But he won't. 

He made it clear with the black box in his pocket, the one he has yet to present to you. It's been there since Alejandro whisked him away one afternoon, eyes burning fiercer than the scorching sun over the Cerro La Mota, and he came back, body buzzing and effervescent, limbs echoing with the clang of elation through his bones. He swept you in his arms, and you felt something in the canyon of his body. A change. 

You'd felt it in your marrow when he slung his jacket over the back of the couch, rolling his sleeves up as he made his way into the kitchen. 

Want some mole con Chile Guajillo y Ancho tonight, cariño? Alejandro and I went into town and got some fresh pollo y tomate. 

You hummed absently as he moved around the kitchen (no, no, go sit; I'll cook tonight—he says it every night, and you always acquiesce), and reached for his jacket. It fell, weighed down by something in his pocket. 

Your hands tangled in the hem, and you felt the outline of it tucked away. A secret for him to keep. You folded it back where it was, head spooling with molasses-thick love, a tangled web of cotton over your thoughts. It leaked down to your pericardium where it sits now, even still, congealed in the canyons of your chest. 

That was weeks ago. And now—

It's his birthday, and yet he treats the day as if it was yours. Something special for you. 

Alejandro made faces at him over the albondigas at dinner, and you pretended you couldn't infer the meaning in their wordless exchange. 

Steady, like everything else in his life. He commits wholly, entirely. He gives his all to something and leaves nothing spared. 

You don't rush him—the box is going nowhere, and neither are you. A ring on your finger is more so a symbolic object than it is anything tangible. It's not enough to qualify this. 

Rudy sits back, watching you—always, always watching you—and the fine dusting of pink on his cheeks makes your belly tingle with a new type of heat. A warmth that spreads from the capillaries in your heart all the way down to your toes. It's a basking warmth; a glow—like the dull, setting sun. 

"I—"

He shushes you softly, shaking his head. "No. This is about you, cariño. All for you."

You huff, the words it's your birthday stagnant on your tongue. It doesn't matter to him, not at all. He gives everything. Everything. And this is no different. 

His fingers slide under the curve of your knee, opening you up like an offering to Baal. 

The only time his eyes flicker away from yours is to stare, wide-eyed and wanting, at the apex of your thighs where he fits like a puzzle. 

"Eres tan Hermosa, cariño—," the words stuttered out of his chest; a whispered worble drenched in the tinge of worship. 

(Before him, you'd never known what it was like to be revered.)

You gasp his name out in a broken quiver, and he meets you in the middle, groaning your name in the same tone, the same hushed breath. His lips seal over yours, devouring the moans as if he was starved for them. 

Kissing him feels like pressing your lips to still water. Baptismal. You feel the filmed surface against your flesh, hot and heady, and open up for him, eager, wanting. His tongue slides over the seam, chasing the spice that lingers between your teeth. 

He tastes of bayberry and smells of incense. The elixir makes your head spin when he floods you with his potent miasma. You drink in the tang of heliotrope and mewl at the way he takes you apart with just his kisses—his tongue, his teeth. 

"Need you," he pants into your teeth, lips scraping across the ivory. "Need to be inside you."

Your legs spread, ankles locking over his thighs.

"I'm all yours."

And you are. Wholly. Completely. Always. Siempre. 

His cock nudges between your folds, slipping inside of you. Each inch feels like a blessing when it parts your flesh like it was made to fit. 

Your fingers curl into his firm biceps, your anchor amid a storm of pleasure, as he murmurs words spoken in broken English—chopped declarations of love, of completion, of finding serenity between your thighs. 

I was made for you, he says.

And you huff in response, a fractured gasp of pleasure, elation splintered at the seams because you were thinking the same thing. 

I was made for you, too. 

Two halves, joined. 

Rudy slots his hips to yours, bellies flush together, chest to chest, and his lips find yours once more. Interwoven limbs. Connected at all intervals. No gaps in the seams. 

(You think of geometry when his flesh slides against yours—a near-perfect fit—and wonder if soulmates really do exist.)

It's a coalescence of pleasure. Silhouetted bliss. You syphon Nirvana from the blunt head that presses into your gummy walls, and suffuse it into his joints until he melts into you. Liquid. Pliant. Giving, always giving. 

Another first—you'd never known what making love was until Rudy. Until he split you apart like an old bible, hands running down the scripture of your flesh like it was meant to be followed earnestly and unequivocally. He slips inside genesis and finds Arcady in your pores. 

It's a lesson in completion. Devotion. 

Each brush of him inside of you feels like whispered matins in a hushed hall. The clang of the organ strummed through the dome of Sainte-Chapelle. It reverberates through you until your bones sing with the aftershock. 

You cling to him, echoing his vespers into the plush, warmth of his lips, etching your gospel into his marrow until his eyes darken with empyrean thunderclouds, drenched in his fervour. 

He's a slow, methodical lesson in piety. Soft rolls of his hips, cock filling you to the brim, until ichor leaks from the corners of your eyes, and your mouth falls open against his, voice ringing with the shrill song of your unfettered dulia. 

He leads you up a staircase into the aether where the cosmos seeps into your flesh, igniting you with stardust and clouds of nebula. It's a steep incline; a meshing of atoms and molecules until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases. Until you're joined together; an elliptical galaxy, a merger. 

Rudy sinks into you deeper, his eyes misting cosmic dust that coruscates like fine copper in the radiant ochre haze that leaks in from the open window. He's stunning in bronze, and you're starved for the sun. 

Your fingers thread through his damp hair as he ruts into you, pulling him closer into your embrace until he's glued to you. Every atom touches, sparks. He reeks of fougère accord, olibanum, when you breathe him in, gasping in pleasure as he burrows deep inside you, blunt head kissing the seal of your womb. 

He speaks hushed words, offerings to Hēdonē, as he splits you apart and makes you whole again with each cosseted roll of his hips. 

His name tumbles from the seal of your lips, whispered into the gaps between his teeth. He bites down on it, an answering call that lures you in. Closer. Closer. 

His palms are slick when they lift from your hips, catching your wrists in a loose, warm grip. Your fingers spread when his slot between the gaps, hands tugged, and dropped to the pillow above your head. 

"Ahhhh, cariño—," his words are a low hiss, a feverish whimper. You swallow it down, and bask in the tang of his surrender. His eyes peel open, gazing at you. Perfect creosote circles, cresting in bliss. "I need you to cum from me—I need you to—"

It brims in your veins, liquid nirvana. He takes you to the edge of the galaxy, and watches as the cosmic wonder flashes across your eyes, hands linked with his as you meet samsara together. 

The divot in his brow is drenched in pleasure. Your hands grip his tight as he moves—a gentle current, a cascade—and the valley of bliss carved out in the wrinkles of his forehead makes you ache, make you mould your body, pliant and liquid, into each crevasse carved from porphyry. 

He pulls you along, sweeping you through the motions with each steady rock of his body against yours. Full, and soft, and pleasure drunk on a heady elixir of this, of him, you mewl his name, an orison, and find yourself flowing through welkin clouds. 

Ecstasy bleeds, molten and liqueur-rich, from each gorge in his canyons, pouring over you, and filling in the gaps that remain. Sealed in euphoria, together in perfect symmetry, he drags you to the very brink until the waves crest, Seabreeze clings to your skin in glimmering droplets. 

The clench of you around him, the utterance of his name when it slips through the gap of your teeth, make him groan, make him call out to you in the same tone, the same taste of Elysian Fields on his tongue. 

Rudy cums with a bitten-off whimper. A moan, low and satiated, when he spends himself within you. Liquid heat, potent and brassbound in devotion. 

It's poetry when he cums, you think, dazed and edging into that precipice of madness and euphoria, hysterical on the slow simmer of fine wine coursing through your veins. 

It's scripture, gospel when his eyes drop, mouth pressed tight to the corner of your lips, panting your name in a hymnal chant over and over again as he ruts further and further inside the haven of your body. 

You drink him in, catching the fleeting taste of incense on his tongue when he presses his lips to yours, fervid and quivering. Each shudder of his large frame rattles through you like an echo through your hollow valleys, shaking your bones until you're humming with the same tune. 

"Cariño," it's a tumultuous quake, an aftershock of potent devotion.

He says nothing else—simply content to enjoy the moment lolling through you. 

You huff, tongue sweeping over the sweat beading beneath the curve of his lower lip. Salty-sweet. Lemon zest and cinnamon sugar. You drink him in, eyes heavy set and puddling with the warm ochre glow of his body glued, stuck, to yours. 

Your legs lock around his waist. He peppers you in messy, sweaty kisses that make you giggle at the way it tickles your flesh. 

It's sunkissed heat. Moments stolen on the veranda in the mid-morning dew. The weight of his hand on your shoulder, the soft ardour in his gaze when it flickers to you. Sipping coffee over a shared plate of huevos rancheros, and watching the sun break through the plume of clouds low over the distant mountains. It's his hand slipping into yours. His arm around your waist when you walk through the streets. His eyes on you, always.

Sneaking kisses just because he can. Touches and brushes of his fingers over your skin until you feel bereft of comfort without his fingerprints on your flesh. 

Its—

"Love you," you murmur into the crease of his nose. "So, so much—"

He presses his sweat-slicked forehead to you, eyes burning with the smouldering heat of his love, and says: will you—

You cut him off with a kiss, whispering always into his enamel. 

The cut of his grin is drenched in adulation. The sunset over empyreal blue, dusting the Cerro Potosí peaks in bronze. It's superlunary bliss in the palm of your hands, and you echo it with your own. 

(You think of cyclicity when he slips the ring on your finger, a perfect fit. His hand in yours, fingers spooled in red thread. You know, then, that soulmates really do exist.)

Alejandro greets you with a tight hug around your middle, head tucked into your neck. 

"So, he finally grew some balls, eh?"

He pulls back, slaps Rudy on the shoulder, eyes glowing under the tinted glasses he wears. Rudy meets his gaze, a smile wider than you'd ever seen tugging on his lips. It wobbles. Both of theirs do. 

Alejandro sniffs, and turns his head, but it does nothing to stop the mist that gathers along his lash line. Rudy shakes his head, his wrist digging into his eyes. You turn, tucking the private moment into the folds of your heart when you see another wordless conversation play out between them. 

After a moment, Alejandro jerks his head around, grinning. "You'll finally be señorita Parra."

Rudy's cheeks dust vermillion. The tension in his shoulders ease as if this, too, was a moment he was savouring. 

Your smile is the first touch of sunshine after a monsoon. "I would have waited forever."

"I wouldn't have made you wait that long." His hands are reverent on your waist when he pulls you close, lips glued to your temple. "Aquí estoy, mi alma. Siempre."

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Pillow Princesses: The Vaqueros

I'm not quite happy with Rudy because his model is not the best but...

Also, if you don't like the term I use for the series, which I chose as a light joke... just go away. I don't care about your opinion tbh.

[sourpatch-boy]

Rudy is...

❂ caring (he's putting your needs first and is gentle with you always)

❂ traditional (he cooks a lot of his favorite Mexican dishes for you, works hard to make sure you have what you want, and always says he loves you)

❂ obsessed (when you've got a new perfume/cologne/body spray, he's using it, especially when either of you is away for more than a couple of hours)

❂ sappy (he loves to write you little love letters every week, especially when he has to be away)

[alwaysshallow]

boys trying to survive nnn with their partner (141 + los vaqueros + könig x f!reader)

a/n: if it wasn't for @blissful-bunny, there wouldn't be nnn. LMAOOO i hope y'all will enjoy, it's my first time doing something like this... and i think i don't hate it as i did before!

mdni, as always. nsfw below + keegan's version here

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Being around Ghost durning this time is funny, to say the least. You know about this bet from Gaz, when you invited the whole Task Force 141 for dinner. There wasn't much of a reaction from you, just a nod and a hum that's interesting to hear that. Nothing more, until your boyfriend's friends went home, and you stayed with him, washing dishes.

"You think you're gonna last?" you ask, and you pretty much can't stop yourself from laughing when he gives you a side eye.

"'s just a month." he grumbles, and you know, you somehow irritated him. Or, the bet did, you're not really sure. "Been through worse."

Theoretically, it is true. He's military, he has seen things that you won't ever see, something so stupid like this challenge shouldn't be something hard to do.

Practically? Practically, he takes every fucking chance to get closer to you. You're making breakfast, showering, washing the dishes? He's gonna be right behind you. It's not surprising at first, he liked to be near you always, but it has a malicious intent to it, when he drags his clothed cock up and down your ass, grunting right into your ear. He gets you worked up, and you're pretty sure he's gonna lose, but he stops right before he cums.

You can't really decide if it's funny or sad to see him like this. It's his pained expression that he gives when he bites on his lower lip, grumbling something about watching you touching yourself, so it will be better. You can't really say no to a man starved, so you put out a show for him, thinking how so much better his fingers would be in your pussy.

If it would depend on you, you'd kneel and relieve him, but what can you do, when he has this ridiculous challenge of his?

He breaks after two days, when he sees you in your shared gym, exercising. It's unexpected, when he puts down dumbbells you were working with, doing squats; you want to ask what's wrong, but when he lifts you up, your back hitting the wall, you just know. You even forgive him when he doesn't prep you enough, and he just thrusts into you without much thinking of it, his balls heavy.

You know you won't leave this gym for a long time.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

"You're participating in what?"

To say it was weird, was one thing. To say that Kyle does it, was even weirder, especially that he was straight from two months of deployment. Needy. You knew it, as you were with him almost three years by now, he had always spent hours in bed with you because he missed you like a madman. These two months were pretty much the longest you've been separated with him, so, you can imagine your surprise, when you learned about the challenge, when you two were cleaning your apartment. He was touching you every now and then, giving you little kisses, and now he was talking about something like this.

"I'm—"

"—No, I heard you" you chuckled, shaking your head. "I'm like… trying to understand who convinced you to do so."

"Bet with Soap. Lad thinks 'm not gonna last with you." he murmurs, and you just know that this motherfucker made this as a personal challenge. So, you just nod your head, to Kyle's surprise on his pretty face. "That's… all you're gonna say?"

"What else I'm supposed to say?" you raise your eyebrow, amused. "That I feel sorry for you, this will do?"

"That ain't funny."

"It is, kind of funny." you grin, as you kiss his forehead, at which he closes his eyes, so you repeat kissing his forehead a few times. "I'm gonna support you in this, yeah? So it's gonna be easier."

It wasn't easier. You could see that he glances at you every now and then, when you are doing domestic things around the house, giving him little, encouraging smiles. Little do you know that Kyle's bulge is growing larger and larger every time he looks at you.

Gaz is pretty calm, at least until he sees you in his t-shirt (that is way too big for you) and just panties underneath, sitting right beside him with a bowl of popcorn. You two planned to watch a movie, but your boyfriend quickly brushes it off, as his hand wanders under the hem of your panties.

"Kyle, you—"

"I know." he almost growls, as he puts you on his lap.

The moment he feels your wetness, he's a gone man; he makes you ride him, and the challenge is just a fading memory, when his lips attack yours.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Soap is absolutely offended when everyone in Task Force 141 tells him he's gonna lose the challenge. He can't shut up about it for an hour straight, as he lays with his head on your lap, telling you something about celibacy and being true lover, not some "horny arse like the others". You listen to it with a small, amused smile on your lips because as much as you love your boyfriend, everyone is right about it.

He's not gonna last, and he knows it personally too, but you say nothing about it. You just listen to Johnny's ramblings, until his eyes are on you, observing your reaction so casually.

"What do ya think? 'm gonna beat it? Be the best?" he tilts his head like a puppy, squinting his eyes. It's an icy ground you're standing on right now.

"I think… it's gonna be hard." you answer; slowly, reluctantly. It's not something that he wants to hear though, as he groans, shaking his head with displeasure. "What? You asked!"

"I ken it's gonna be hard. 'm askin', if 'm gonna beat it" he emphasizes his last words, and you can feel he barely holds himself from rolling his eyes.

"…well, baby, as much as I have faith in you in other things…"

It's not a good answer for him, nor for a challenge, considering that you end up getting fucked by him – it's some kind of punishment, he tells you, when he folds you in half. He tells you that he also didn't lose the challenge, technically, as you had sex November 1st , at 3 a.m. You nod, hesitantly, so you could go to sleep without causing him to ramble about it again; you are exhausted.

It takes him three days of fucking you in various places to finally come into the conclusion that the challenge isn't for him. Three days of promising and hearing him whining that it's gonna be 'st the tip, baby, to feel you good.

"Good that you've figured that out." you say with a small smile, in restaurant's bathroom, his forehead against yours, as his cock is still buried deep inside you.

"Lasted longer than lads. Sure of that."

John Price

You want to think of your husband highly, when you hear of this stupid thingy. The authority, someone that leads the Task Force 141, setting the example for his younger proteges with his willpower. Someone who actually cares about engaging in challenges, even if they're stupid, even if he shouldn't even look at something like this.

Yet, you know John, you're married to him, for God's sake – and you know his sex drive. When this man is home, nothing and no one stops him from getting what he wants, and that's on you. In your mind, there's a core memory of him saying that he absolutely loves your pussy, multiple times.

So it's not a surprise that he doesn't participate in this challenge. It's not a surprise when he babbles about having kids with you while he fucks you wherever he can; kitchen counter, under the shower, your couch. His obsession over kids grew over this month more than ever, and you were happy to meet his expectations in a middle, since you thought of having a little angel in your small family for a longer time now. Having a dog wasn't enough.

A surprise comes when he proudly admits that he won in the end of the month. Boys are pretty much shocked by this, considering that their Captain didn't even look frustrated once, and he was in better mood than usual. Yet, they don't have a place to complain, so they accept the defeat with a frown on their faces, and a quick comment from Soap that he for sure cheated.

"You didn't win, honey." you laugh to him, sitting at his lap, when he's in his office, alone.

Price arches his eyebrow in amusement. "I did."

"That's not really—"

"Listen, we were tryin' for babies, weren't we? It wasn't egoistical fuckin'." he explains, completely serious.

It takes all in you not to either gasp or laugh again. "So, if it would be without the intention of making babies, you'd lose?"

He gives you a quick nod. "Exactly, missus. Exactly."

Alejandro Vargas

It's easy to last a few days for Alejandro. Maybe even a week, or a bit more. With his kind of work, being a Colonel, you often didn't see him for days, or even weeks if it was a bad time. Right now, with working over destroying a Mexican cartel, being home was rare for him. Was it saddening? Of course, but you knew what you were doing when you married him, you've talked with him about it for days, maybe weeks, even.

So, maybe that's why he didn't really think much of a challenge when he agreed to it, one of the nights he was drinking with Los Vaqueros. Just for fun, just to make a fun memory in this mess they were in. Days were passing in the blink of an eye with the same routine; a few hours of sleep if he's lucky, patrol, documents, action and repeat. Nothing too fancy, nothing too new for a man of war like he is, he got used to it all.

Harder was the moment he came home to you, where you were waiting for him with your open arms, all needy for his presence, for his touch, but somehow, somehow he managed, giving you the best orgasm of your life with his mouth only, even if he was in need too.

"Cariño?" he calls you, confused, when he doesn't see you in bed in the next morning. In his sweatpants only, he goes to the kitchen, following the sound of pan that sizzles lazily in the background.

"Makin' breakfast, Ale!" you reply, looking behind your shoulder with the biggest smile that slowly falters the moment you see his eyes darkening in the span of seconds. "What's with the face?"

He approaches you slowly, caging you between his arms. "Just… appreciating" he says, as he starts kissing your neck "my little wife. Who's been really patient with me, gone for so many days. And now, you're making me breakfast—" he groans, shaking his head. You can feel his growing bulge, as you grind your ass against it.

It's obvious that Colonel lost the challenge, after he arrives to his work with his wife, his arm possessively around her. Why? Maybe it's your neck covered in hickeys, your trembling legs, or his arms visibly scratched, but no one says anything about it in the base.

Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra

You have a kind of forbidden romance with him; you're the one of Los Vaqueros, and the romance is absolutely prohibited here, to prevent the collapse of the squad. Not to mention that he's a right hand man of Alejandro, so he has to follows the rules directly. Maybe even more than anyone here, to be honest; setting an example that he's not a exception to the rule.

It doesn't help that you're so kind. That you nod every time you see him as a silent greeting, and then you rush to do whatever you have to do today. It doesn't help him that you're helping everyone around you with a smile that could light up the whole town, and he smiles every time he sees it, too.

Everyone pictures that Rudy would win the challenge easily, since in their heads, his head wasn't occupied with anyone, and he could easily withold himself with his desires.

And maybe he would. Maybe he would, if you weren't the one guarding the base with him, if you weren't the one who was smiling at him with those plump lips of yours.

"If you'd only know how much I thought about… hah—" his breaths are ragged, as the pace of his hips gets quicker. His lips finds yours, as he kisses you with such hunger, you know without a doubt that he means what he says. It automatically makes you smile.

"It's fate that binds us, then" you say, your fingernails clutching at his arms; you're sure that you're the creator of bloody crescents here, but you can't care less about it. Not when the man of your dreams is fucking you.

He smiles at your words.

Rudy never been a good liar, and you painfully learn it, when Alejandro asks him why he's so happy; as you stand nearby, you hear the whole conversation. It's cute in some way, the way he's a blabbering mess, without any sense of it.

It takes Colonel's one look at you, and he knows.

You never walked faster to your work, neither did Rudy.

Konig

If you think he's gonna even try playing at this, you're in deep denial. Maybe if he'd be alone he could try of a genuine curiosity, but not when he has you. Such a pretty, obedient girlfriend, that he has wrapped around his finger, and a girlfriend that is pretty much at his service every time he wants.

He's a man to laugh about that challenge with his squad, telling them that they're filthy, and he would last the whole month, maybe even longer, if it weren't for you. Because he's such a caring boyfriend, he listens to your needs, even if you're whiny.

At least, that's the story that his squad knows.

He tells you about this while he folds you in half, that he needs to act a little grumpy around his squad, to put a facade that he's hungry because it's the right thing to do. When you suggest that he could even try, he barks a low laugh, while he pumps his cock before thrusting into you.

"Schatz, as if. Not gonna play the kids game." it's all he says, kissing you with affection on your swollen lips. "I do not intend on torturing you like this. You wouldn't survive a day without my dick."

There's some truth to it — but you're truly wondering if that's you who wouldn't survive without his dick, or he, that wouldn't survive without your pussy and sex, considering he is even more of a maniac than you are.

dividers by cafekitsune

[lxvvie]

Y'all know that whole trend that was going around social media with women calling their significant other by their full name? Yeah, that one. Yet another conversation was had, this time it was about the reactions your favorite babygurls would have if you called them by their full government name because of reasons. Maybe.

Capt. John Price - He's, uh, startled but not enough to drop his cigar this time. Does take a puff of it, though, before addressing you like it's the calm before the storm. Isn't too fazed because he heard it enough from his own mom growing up and he figures he's suave and diplomatic enough to placate you.

Gaz - Pointedly ignores you while giving you side glances here and there which is a major indicator that he's gotten into some shit. Probably. More than likely. Yeah... it was Soap's fault.

Alex Keller - Actually did get into some shit. Does not answer the call of duty.

Soap - You hear 'ah, shit', heavy footsteps, probably a crash, and Soap's peeking his head out from the other room. Has a deer-in-headlights look about him. It was Gaz's fault, goddamnit. He's so adorable. It's enough to make you giggle.

Ghost - You get a grunt. And then it hits him. He stops doing whatever it is he's doing. Fuck, he knows that tone. Simon turns to look at you and he stares into your soul or something like that. What in the hell kind of made-up middle name is that? You spend the better part of a good minute staring each other down before you're all, "I love you ♥️," and Ghost groans and rolls his eyes and goes back to whatever it was he was doing. But not before he grunts out a "Love ya, too." in return.

Alejandro - This is one of the few things that'll actually faze the man. Will damn near break his neck turning to face you to see what's wrong and his eyes will be wide. Oh, the last time he heard his full name called like that was from his beloved grandmother and he'd gotten into some shit then, okay?

Rudy - Ducks his head. Doesn't show his face; he can't bear the sternness of your voice, your gaze. It wasn't him this time, he swears; it remains, though, the way you say his name, an echo in his mind: Ro-DOL-fo. Why'd you have the emphasize THAT part of his name, huh?

König - König.exe stops working. Actually does break something trying to get to you. His eyes are fucking saucers, okay? Oh shit, what did he do this time, Schatz? Are you getting him back after that one time he snuck up on you to surprise you and you dropped dinner? Did you find out about the time he accidentally messed up the laundry and the white clothes came out pink? WHAT DOES HE HAVE TO DO FIX THIS?! Oh, you... just needed him to grab something off the top shelf for you.

Horangi - Also did some shit. Is unapologetic about it. Hits you with a nonchalant, "Yeah?"

Graves - STAYS IN SOME SHIT, OKAY? Saunters in like the smug bastard he is. Smirks and winks at you. "Haven't heard that name in a while, darlin'. What's your fancy?"

Valeria - Pulls a Uno Reverse and calls you by your full government name. Wait―

[yooo-lets-go]

Roach in Las Almas what will he do

[smutstationchoochoo]

Desperate

COD Men x FemReader

Hear me out: a sex pollen fic where reader isn’t affected but he is and he is gone.

Word count: ~3.6k

A/N: It’s just the poorly written sex pollen drabble of my dreams, it’s fuck or die lads. Insert your favorite COD man here. Please forgive me for any spelling/grammar mistakes and my complete lack of knowledge regarding military things, all I know is that these men are hot and I love them.

Warnings: sex pollen, unprotected PIV (wrap it up), overstimulation, dubious consent (consent is sexy folks)

Banner credit: @cafekitsune

You all had been briefed at 0200. The flight to Berlin left at 0300 where the team would be infiltrating a terrorist hideout, a suspected manufacturing site for a new chemical agent. You were told that as long as you didn’t ingest it, you would be fine.

The fact that it had been made airborne was not in the fucking briefing.

The team had been split into pairs, you and he took the North side of the suspected warehouse. The size of it should have tipped you all off. Everything was running smoothly until 3 combatants had come from the door at the end of the corridor. He called for cover and ran ahead. You dropped two before he even got a stride in. The other he disarmed in seconds and then with a deafening crack, both men slammed through a door and into the resulting room. A brief struggle then silence. You heard him start to call the ok, his voice in the comm sounding clearer than earlier, then a noise, a pop, and the sound of air. You froze, watching a gas spill from the open door and dissipate immediately. Just when you started moving again, a growling, “Don’t,” tore through the comm. Then, the sound of ripping Velcro and something hard (his helmet you realized with a sickening drop) hitting the concrete floor echoed out to you. Soft murmurs that grew into angry outbursts of fuck fuck fuck transformed into one that became a groan of what sounded like complete and utter pain. You didn’t even have to think, the severity of the situation settled in. “It’s a gas,” you barked into the comms, “Northside hit, need medevac in 30, going dark.” You waited for confirmation, seconds after getting it and receiving news that the warehouse was almost cleared, you went to find him.

You knew what it did, you all did. Jokes had been made, smirks shared, but you all knew how bad it was. You weren’t even close to prepared. He was sitting against the far wall or rather pressed into it using it to keep his now shaking frame upright, gear strewn around the room, combatant on your immediate left with a mask (his mask, the masks you all were wearing just in fucking case) gripped in a dead hand, an empty canister mockingly sitting in the middle of the room. 

You gripped the combatant by his legs and dragged him to the hall, before slamming the door shut upon reentry and grabbing a near chair to jam the door. You immediately began stripping yourself of your outer tactical gear until you both matched in only your boots, pants, and base shirts and then you turned your attention to him. Now kneeling by his side you took him in, looking for any other injuries noting nothing serious. That almost made you laugh with relief until you saw the front of his pants and him frantically palming the growing outline. You swallowed and quickly looked at his face shocked back to the reality of the current situation. The usually stoic, always larger than life, incredibly strong man in front of you was reduced to tears dripping from his now blown and hazy eyes, falling down flushed cheeks and landing on the front of his shirt that clung to his hyperventilating chest. You knew he had been shot, stabbed often, and left for dead a time or two, but this…

Shiny and new neurotoxin, you remembered the brief, attacks the nervous system, causing the mark to feel intense arousal and as if they have been lit on fire, specially formulated not only to cause pain but a complete and utter breakdown of will as victims often experience hallucinations and loss of self. If left in the system, it raises the core temperature until convulsions set in, and then heart attack occurs. Do not touch it.

No one had to ask how it was worked out of the system. Then again, they all believed they were too smart to touch the shit. Couldn’t do much about breathing it in when your mask was ripped from your face though.

  Your hand pressed to his slick forehead now radiating heat, and feeling as if it could burn you like an open flame. At the touch of your blessedly cool hand, he hissed a low fuck through his gritted teeth, keening into your touch. You swallowed, hand tilting his cheek to look up at you when you asked, “Can I help?”  His hair was sticking up at all angles from the helmet being hastily pulled from his head, and he looked up at you and gave one weak nod, “Please.”

Upon looking at the desperation pooling in those dark eyes (those eyes you often were caught staring at) any small reservations evaporated from your body under his burning gaze. You swiftly reached out, mercifully helping him escape from the now too-tight pants, the bite of his zipper. The moment your skin brushed against the head of him he was bucking up against it. You had to reach the other hand out to steady yourself against his shoulder, another touch that jutted his hips and had him twitching into your grip.

“Is- is this helping?” you croaked out, struggling to swallow, struggling to contain the wave of arousal that was threatening to course through you. He nodded, chin slack against his chest as he watched your hand work against him, moving up and down against the veins seemingly trying to break through his skin. No thoughts went through his mind other than the knowledge that you were jerking him off and that it felt so good that he could cry in relief. But then something shuddered within him, something loud and fast like a wildfire, burning just as much, and hot thick ropes of cum spilled over your hand. He couldn’t even cry out, it happened so fast. His breath was coming out in loud pants, when a new thought, the thought that he had just come in maybe thirty seconds flashed through his mind but it was quickly replaced with the horrible realization that the feeling of being on fire wasn’t going away. It was getting worse, out of control, containment measures failed. At this, he let out a sob as his hips moved of their own volition into your still soothing grip. It wasn’t enough, he knew, you knew, it wasn’t enough.

 You stood, and he whimpered at the loss of your touch but all sound stopped in his throat when he watched you decisively unzip your pants and pull them down to your ankles underwear included, kicking off a boot, and one pant leg. When you straddled his lap he desperately pulled you down onto him, your exposed core grinding down where he wanted you, where he fucking needed you, that’s when he began to talk. Begging you to help him, saying that he’s sorry over and over, that he needs your help, incoherent babbling from a breaking mind, please it hurts so bad, I-I don’t, I can’t- fuck, I need you... All cool, calm, collectedness burnt to fucking ash. Just a man reduced to pure longing and want. A longing and want that might be what was threatening to kill him, not the toxin, just the build up over the days, weeks, months he had been around you threatening to crush him. He almost wants to die, this was never how it was supposed to be. He wanted it to be good for you, you deserve that, you deserve better, he could have given you better-

But now what was he? A heaving chest under a sweat soaked shirt beneath eyes that watch you like some feral animal. Hands wanting to claw at the clothing now so heavy, hot, and itchy against his burning skin, but instead were gripping onto your hips like it’s going to save him from burning to a crisp. The broken moans tearing their way from his throat when you line up his painfully hard cock to your entrance makes you throb, and then his choking cry as you slide down on him punches the air from your chest.

“Does this feel ok?” you panted out after a moment, struggling, trying not to drown in the pleasure of him stretching you, filling you. He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t even nod. His forehead falling to your shoulder in utter relief, mouth dropped open as he repeats your name over and over like an apology, a thanks, a goddamned prayer. How all he can do is sit there on the floor of some warehouse, back against a wall, the only thing resembling his usual strength is that ironclad hold he has on your hips as he helps you drag yourself up, then, accompanied by the tortuously obscene sounds of your wetness, back down. Brokenly pleading with you not to stop, don’t stop, fuck p-please don’t stop. You feel like molten heaven against his cock, your moans like angels (or devils, he’s too far gone to care at this point) singing through the blood rushing in his ears. One of your hands again steadies yourself on his shoulder, the other steadying him, an anchor point, with your achingly gentle hold on the nape of his damp neck (so gentle that it breaks his fucking heart, he wanted to give you more, you deserved more) as you ride him. Your hips rock once more, twice more, before his body seizes up with electricity that ricochets up his spinal cord and reverberates through his skull. His fingers dig into the soft skin of your hips, teeth grinding and eyes slamming shut, as he releases inside of you with a shattered cry. The sound of you gasping, now clutching, raking your fingers into him, has his hips continuing their rutting up into you, pushing his cum as deep as he can within your walls.

He stills for 10 seconds at most, panting breaths thunderous between you two, before pulling you into his chest, his hips slamming up into you, hard and hot as if he didn’t just fuck you until he could see every neuron firing behind his eyes. His hot open mouth finds your shocked one in a perfectly surprised “o,” more apologies pushing from his lungs and into yours between loud wet kisses as he listens (is blessed with thank you God) to you beginning to come apart. You couldn’t help it, as you ground down into his thrusts, even though you knew the threatening climax was going to be terrifying. Your breathing was ragged now as well, the air becoming harder and harder to drag into your lungs in between you cursing and moaning, and then- fucking hell- you’re at the precipice. Before you can even utter a syllable you are being flung over the edge. The pleasure rips through you, waves breaking against the rocky shore, with such intensity that it hurts, causing you to dig your nails into his skin, and bright spots to dance behind your closed eyes while the distant feeling of wetness registers from between you two. He explodes again with a gasp, feels you clench around him like a vice, his name, his real name, forcing its way from inside you and into his mouth with every pulse and it tastes so so good that he can’t stop, he never wants to stop, just filling you up until it drips from you, filling you with him because you’re his, his. Even when you both whimper and shudder with overstimulation, his arms shaking in their grip around you, he can only press his forehead to yours, rolling it desperately, as he begs for your forgiveness. I can’t stop, it won’t stop, I’ll make it good, please next time I’ll make it good.

“It is good,” you whisper to him with hitched breath from each thrust, trying to reassure him, “It’s ok, it’s ok.” You don’t know if he can hear you, his eyes are wild and don’t seem to even register that you are actually on top of him, that he’s inside of you, that he has made you yell out his name over and over and over. You don’t think he even knows what he is saying. Next time.

 His own voice comes to him from somewhere far away, through the flames licking at his mind, please- fuckin’ hell please, just a little more- I just need one more, I need you, please don’t stop, I don’t want to stop nearly unrecognizable as he comes inside you again and again and again.

It isn’t until the medevac came and he was sedated that what just happened began to sink in. For a week, a fucking week, he’s in critical condition. No one talks about it, at least not in the way you all did before this. You saved him, you’re told. You don’t want to think about it, if you think about it then you think about how good it felt, how fucked it is that it felt good, and how everything is gone. If you think about all he said, you’d overthink, give meaning where there was none. He probably won’t be able to look at you anymore. You went to see him that first day. You sat next to him for mere minutes before bolting, the fear of him waking up and looking at you with disgust, telling you to get out in that icy voice you knew so well, sent you running straight to the mats to train until you wanted to scream. That’s all you did now, and that was where you decided you would stay until you died. That is until someone came and found you, told you he was awake, and that he had asked for you. The whole walk to the infirmary had adrenaline coursing through you, you wanted to run, to fight, to freeze right there in the hall and never move another fucking muscle. The thought of losing him, him being there but not wanting to be near you anymore made you feel sick. It had been so long, so long of repressing those feelings that flared in your chest when he smiled at you during sparring, the feeling of him seated next to you on a flight, his eyes catching yours just so you could stay with him. Well, you thought with dripping ire, that had literally and figuratively been fucked now hadn’t it?  

You knocked, heard his gruff voice, and entered. You stopped dead in your tracks three steps into the room after mistakenly looking up and finding him staring at you from where he sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed, looking like he was about to head out on another call. You were desperately trying not to shake but your hands gave you away. You could take on a man twice your size without batting an eye but this?- you were terrified.

The moment you walked into the room, all his time that morning when he first woke thinking about what he would say to you, how he could face you, was knocked from his mind. You had saved his life. He never wanted that. He wanted to give it to you, it was yours after all. He didn’t know when it had become yours, every single part of him, but if he had to wager a guess it was the moment he found you in his life. And it might all be ruined.

The memories had started coming to him immediately after waking up, almost more clear and real now than in the moment.  It jolted him awake so hard that the attending ran into the room for fear that his hammering heart had in fact given out. Once his breathing had calmed a little, he tried to sift through the fog. His recall of the smell of you, the arousal dripping from between your legs, mixed with your sweat and the familiar scent of your grapefruit and ginger shampoo, nearly pulled a groan from his chest. The soft touch of your hands, cool and strong against the fire that spread through his blood, had brought him back. The feeling of you breaking, the soft whines, the way you said his name… the things he had said, he couldn’t just shut the fuck up could he?

He had to bring his hands up to cover his eyes, willing the images to go away, just for a moment, please, he just needed some time, if only he had time- next time. Next time, he had told you. A desperate promise, a reassurance, trying to tell you that it wasn’t just the chemical coursing through him, it wasn’t just his hijacked nervous system. Did she know? Did she understand? That’s when he asked for you, without thinking, just wanting to see you, to explain. He had never been good with words unless it was biting sarcasm across comms or coolly delivering ultimatums in an interrogation. Then he remembered, the thing that sent his heart barreling through his chest for the second time, the machine next to him screaming. It is good, you had said, it’s ok, it’s ok, you had whispered.  

He ripped the monitors off his chest, ignoring the doctor's protestations, found the clothes that had been brought in for him and got dressed. Now that you were standing here before him he was unsure. You looked scared, and he could count on one hand all the times he had seen you in such a state.

His staring was unnerving, more unnerving than if he had shouted, yelled, grabbed you, anything but this, this was fucking torture. You had to leave, just get off base, go somewhere, anywhere but here- the sudden sound of your name shook you from the reverie. The tone had your eyes finding his immediately.

He stayed seated, scared that if he stood, if he made his way to you, you would run, and you both knew that you were much quicker than him. If you ran, if you left, he would never catch up.  Only when his knuckles began to ache did he realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the mattress in an effort to keep himself there. It was hard to look at you and not remember the way you had looked when you pressed your hand to his forehead, when you had thrown your head back in pleasure, when you had grabbed his face when he was too exhausted to continue but thankfully no longer felt like he was burning alive. It was hard to remember and not stride across the room and hold you. He took a breath and forced his shoulders to relax in a way that he had done so many times before.

“I-,” he started, his voice cutting through the room, his normal voice, the one you recognized as him and it set you slightly at ease from sheer familiarity, “I’m so sorry.” Now he had to turn his eyes downcast.

“What?” Your response, the shock in your voice, forced him to look at you again. Your hands itched at your sides, confusion rippling across your face.

His eyes narrowed, he knew you so well. Always blaming yourself. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I’m sorry that happened, I’m sorry you were put in that position,” the word choice made him nearly cringe. He continued, “I never-I didn’t want it to happen that way.”

Your brain jolted, standing there in shocked silence, his words thundering through your ears accompanied by the pleading of next time.

He pressed on, desperately trying, “I know you, you’re going to think this was your fault. It wasn’t. There was nothing either of us could do, thank you for your, uh, help. Just- fuck, please just say some-,”

Shock still swept through you, the words escaped your mouth before you could think, “Did you mean it?” You figured by the way he leaned back that he knew what you were talking about. Then he held out a hand, palm up, an offering. Before you knew it, you had crossed the room, putting your hand in his and letting it gently pull you between his legs. His giant frame meant even sitting on the gurney that his gaze was level with yours, and those eyes searched your own when one word sounded through the room.

“Yes.”

This word broke you. One fucking word, one word that answered every glance between you two, every smile shared, a word you brokenly whispered into the night when you had a hand between your legs thinking about him knowing you shouldn’t. You hadn’t cried all week, but now the giant tears rolling down your cheeks felt like a release. When his free hand, warm and rough, swiped them away you couldn’t help leaning into it, just as he had done. All tension, all fear, dissipated from the room. That hand continued to just below your ear, cupping your neck, and gently pulling you forward to press his head against yours, eyes shutting, just resting there against each other in the moment.

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” you sighed.

You could feel the smirk that you knew was slipping across his mouth.

“Well, I did say next time.”

This time when you rode him with the small bed creaking beneath the movements, he stopped you any time you tried to speed up (it was your turn to beg and plead), keeping you at a languid torturous pace. That way the bastard had all the time in the world to whisper into your mouth, letting you taste each word, all the things he would do to you next time and all the times after that.

Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think! :)

[lefttoesucker]

They call us Los Vaqueros... Cowboys

And all of them individually <3

[ave661]

inspired by @rxvengxrl on tikok more operators below♥

[blingblong55]

Committed- 141&Los Vaqueros

Reader was kidnapped but somehow made it out under less than 24 hours for a specific reason

Price: we know what this group does to people in our team...

Ghost: if we don't find them in 24...we notify the spouse

Gaz: can they even make it?

Ale: they will

Rudy: they have to

*Soap comes running into the room*

Soap: GUYS!GUYS!CHECK THE NEWS!

-On tv-

News reporter: and are you sure this isn't some prank?

R/N: I'm telling you...i escaped, they choked me..to death...woke up in some coffin, my phone is at 1%...but i can't break my duolingo streak...I'm learning Mexican because my wife is spanish

-everyone looks at Rudy-

Rudy: they're learning spanish for me?*water eyes bc..#proudwife*

[callsignmarz]

Texting the COD Men

POV : They’re jealous

MDNI | 18+ | NSFW

[curlygirlybitchachos]

Gaz: do you ever think about why Ghost wears the mask?

Alejandro: maybe because he is ugly?

Soap: nah. He is definitely handsome.

Price: you kids are annoying as fuck sometimes. Leave that man alone.

Rudy: we just curious about it. Yes Y/n?

Y/n: my biggest fear is that one day he takes off the mask accidentally while I'm around him. I saw his face and the next day I'm gone.

*Everybody, horrified*

Y/n: but I'm with Soap. He is definitely handsome.

+bonus

Ghost feeling comfortable around Y/n, taking of the mask: do you mind if I...

Y/n: NO NO YOU HANDSOME FUCKER! I WANNA LIVE! *runs away*

Ghost, confused: what the fuck...

[cod-dump]

Soap is chatty, he talks a lot. More than once someone has told him they ‘learned to tune him out’, that they’re able to ignore him because they’re used to his chatter. It hurts, he admits that to himself but no one else. He’s not used to someone fully paying attention to what he’s saying (Gaz) or actually loving hearing him talk even though they’re not fully understanding everything he’s saying (Ghost).

He was talking while working with Price in a meeting room when he realized he had been talking a lot, so he stopped. Then Price looked up and asked him why he stopped.

“What?”

“The party at your cousin’s, with the weird green cake.”

Gaz and Price fully listens while he talks, taking a moment to ask questions or acknowledge when he says something. Ghost half listens and just enjoys hearing Soap talk even when he’s not mentally there, asking questions to keep Soap talking because he loves his voice. It was almost overwhelming having that acceptance and care towards him.

[bucketyd]

Two idiots in love