#cod:mw2

[celenawrites]

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

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

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

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

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

[cherry-cristal]

Mittens

@soapsdish

[eowynstwin]

a wake-up call / neighbors

previous

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

Three knocks on your front door wake you up.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not fair,” you groan. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I still drunk?” you wonder aloud.

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

You rub your face. “Have I overslept?”

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

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

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

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

John. In your flat. Cooking?

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

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

He gives you a small smile and crosses the threshold. 

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

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

And your previous night’s activities come flooding back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chuckle. “Not quite.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eggs are fine!” you say too quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not—”

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

“Darling, it’s fine—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone rings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right! She’s out. Flu.”

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

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

“That’s awful.”

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

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

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

“When?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

John gazes at you expectantly from over the sink.

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

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

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

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

“For…”

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

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

“I don’t really know.”

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

“John…I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He understands.

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

next

[mssleep]

It seems that I have a type 👀

[ghostgazweek]

Round 3 Prompts

Happy prompt release day!

As a general reminder:

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

feel free to mix and match

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

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

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

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

Center text is on a dark blue background and reads:

GhostGaz Week Round 3 Prompts - NSFW

Day 1 - Down Boy

Day 2 - Tied Up

Day 3 - Chastity

Day 4 - Gender Fuck

Day 5 - Close Shave

Day 6 - Body Swap

Day 7 - Voyeurism

GhostGaz Week Round 3 - SFW Prompts

Day 1 - Good Boys

Day 2 - Quick Escape

Day 3 - Sharp Shooter

Day 4 - Friendly Competition

Day 5 - Close Call

Day 6 - Hidden Talent

Day 7 - Early Riser

/end ID]

[lay-z]

Flight of fancy ~ 1 | call of duty:mw

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah fuck...what? Wha – "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Affirmative, Johnny."

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

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

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

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

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

“Yer alright though, right?”

“Aye, I’m fine... I think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Evenin', Sergeant. Feeling any better?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You're overthinking again, Sergeant"

"I'm just contemplating my answer, sir"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate, embarrassed at last, but nod anyway.

"Affirmative"

"Family friendly?"

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

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

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

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

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

"So, who was involved then?"

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

"MacTavish?"

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

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

"And what did Sergeant MacTavish do to you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anyone else involved?”

“Yes”

“And what exactly did I do to you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir?”

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

To be continued...

[stormshadows-altacc]

:3

[ohbo-ohno]

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

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

Soap tries to sneak out the morning after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Nothing he just said is true.

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

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

He’ll have to show him. 

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s not happening.

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

“Stay,” he tries again. 

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

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

So he does what he can do.

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

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

“I didn’t ru-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“L.t., let me go, what’re you-“

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

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

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

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

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

“No! Why the fuck would I get in?!”

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

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

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

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

“Not laughin’, Johnny.” 

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

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

“But- you can’t-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bruciemilf]

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

[vampire-matcha]

Blood in the Wine-5

Chapter Five: Tannins

A/N: so, uh... it's been a while, huh? yeah... I'm sorry about that. but I'm two months sober, now. I just want to thank everyone who has been checking in and has been offering me support and kindness. I can't tell you all how much i appreciate it. Well, I hope this was all worth the wait! I feel like this chapter felt a little rushed, but let me know what y'all think. Love you! xoxo

Reader x Vampire!141

Warnings: Blood, injury, yelling, SMUT (I know y'all have been waiting for this) oral sex (f receiving), fingering, fem!reader, blood kink

(yeah I had to use the sexy Sleep Token song okay sue me)

MASTERLIST, CH1, CH2, CH3, CH4, CH6, CH7

---

Your feet seemed to move on their own accord, boots sticking in the mud. You tripped over yourself as you scrambled off the forest floor. And then you were running. You heard the haggard breath of the monster behind you, felt the hot puffs from its mouth on the back of your neck, but you didn't dare look behind you. You felt sharp claws graze across your back, tearing through your shirt and knocking you facedown on the ground. Before the monster behind you could completely overtake you, another body rushed past you. Sounds like animals fighting roared out behind you. Once again, your boots squelched in the mud and you got back on your feet. You kept your eyes forward as you sprinted through the forest. 

You should've been lost in a maze of trees and underbrush, but something in the pit of your gut told you where to go. The dirt pounding under your feet guided you, the trees whispered to you their secrets, and you followed the road of their roots systems until you broke out into the clearing once again. 

You squinted as the moonlight flashed in your eyes, so bright compared to the pitch blackness of the forest, and ran straight into something firm, but soft. Something familiar. You felt arms wrap around you, and your brain tried to tell your arms to fight back, but you froze all over again as a voice called out loudly next to your ear. 

"I've got her!" The voice was familiar. 

"Get her inside, now!" Someone else called from the other side of the clearing. Before you could register who was speaking, you were moving- or rather, you were being moved. The arms around you lifted your weight easily, and the world around you seemed to flash by in a slideshow of blurry snapshots. Your surroundings morphed into one another until your feet were planted onto the floor of Price’s study. Vertigo threatened to overtake you, but someone strong held you steady. 

“I've got you, love. I’ve got you,” the rich voice crooned. 

“Gaz?” you asked. Your whole body was shaking from adrenaline and your head was still spinning, but you recognized the voice. It was him. He shushed you gently. 

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. You’re alright.” He seemed to be convincing himself as much as you. His hand stroked the back of your head, and the other held you securely against him. Your heart was pounding in your ears, and you were willing to bet he was listening to it, too. 

“Gaz, what the hell was that thing?” you asked into his neck where your face was still buried. 

“Don’t-” then the study door burst open. You flinched, and maybe you screamed, expecting that Dead face to be the one to greet you, but instead it was one equally chilling. Price slammed the door closed behind him with a look of unrestrained fury trained on you. 

“What the FUCK were you thinking?” he roars, taking long, calculated strides at you. “You stupid, stupid girl. I give you one rule to follow, ONE RULE, for your own safety, and you can't even listen to that?!” Gaz, to his credit, does his best to physically shield you from Price’s rage, pushing you behind him; but he can only do so much. Your mouth opened, and you tried to find the words to defend yourself, but they got stuck in your throat, blocked by the terror you couldn’t get ahold of. 

“John, please, just-” Gaz starts to try and diffuse the situation, but Price shoves him away with a snarl, leaving you bare and exposed to his wrath. 

“Do you understand you could’ve been killed? Do you not understand how dangerous the night is here? He would have ripped you apart, had you stayed out there a second longer.”

“Wh… who?”

“You’re lucky he had enough self-control not to tear into you then and there in the woods. No, instead he sunk his teeth into the next moving thing he saw, which just so happened to be Soap.”

“What? Is he okay?” Gaz interjected, concerned for his- boyfriend? What were they to each other? Now wasn’t the time to think about it. 

“He’ll be fine… he’ll heal,” Price answers, scrubbing at his beard and screwing his eyes closed. “You…” he started, pointing a finger and taking a dangerous step closer. His eyes were dilated and he licked his lips. There was no doubt he could smell the blood seeping out of your back. “Now, what are we going to do with you? Hm? I trusted you, gave you freedom to wander. I thought you’d be smart enough to heed my warnings, but clearly you’re not.” He raised a hand, seemingly to grab at you, but stopped himself short when you flinched away, clenching the hand into a fist and forcing it back down to his side. He shook his head. 

“Should I put a collar on you like Soap? Hm? Or should I chain you up in the cellar? Maybe a bedroom is too good for you.” He was leaning into your face at that point.

“John, stop.”

“I tried doing this the easy way- Tried giving you a choice. But if you want to act like a prisoner, maybe I should-”

“John, that’s enough!” Gaz interrupted once again, putting a firm hand on the older vampire’s chest and pushing him back. Price looked at him, stunned. You assumed Gaz standing up to him wasn’t a common occurrence. “Look at her, she’s scared out of her mind already. You’re making it worse.”

“She deserves to be scared.”

“She deserves an explanation. She deserves answers.” Price considered him, chest still heaving in anger. 

“Fine. You want to give her answers? Go ahead.” he motioned between Gaz and you. “But for fuck’s sake, don’t let her out of your sight.” he looked at you once more, swallowed hard, and then stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him again. 

A moment passed in silence. Gaz stared at the door with a look of disbelief. But then his eyes snapped back at you when a terrified sob clawed its way out of your chest. Your eyes were unfocused and your arms trembled as you hugged them close to your body in an attempt to shelter yourself. Gaz took a tentative step closer, holding his hands out in front of him. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay. You're okay," he cooed, speaking to you as if you were a wounded pet. Your body flinched away at first, but with more gentle words, you relaxed enough to allow him to place an arm around your shoulders and guide you to sit on the couch in the center of the room. "Hey, look at me." 

Your eyes snapped shut and you turned away from him at those horribly familiar words. Look at me. How could you ever look at him again? He sighed and placed a hand on your cheek. 

"I'm not going to compel you again. I promise." You choked through a couple more sobs. You couldn't trust his word. He'd betrayed your trust irreparably. Even still, his voice sounded so sincere. But didn't it always? You opened your eyes. 

"There she is," he said, smiling softly. "Just breathe for me, okay? In and out. With me." He did his best to guide your breath, and tried to calm you as much as himself. He kept swallowing, his mouth watering at the smell of your freshly-spilled blood. "Nobody's going to hurt you in here," he told you, but you still felt like prey. 

"I c- I can't!" You gasped. 

"Yes, darling, you can. Please, your heart's racing like mad." You knew. You could hear ot pounding in your ears. It would have drowned out Gaz's voice if he weren't so close. And goodness, he was close. 

"Price is gonna kill me!"

"No, he's not."

"Yes he is!"

"He can't hurt you! He can't!" You shook your head, but he continued. "He literally cannot hurt you, love. Listen to me." You quieted yourself the best you could, the rush of blood in your ears quieting minutely. "Once we entered the pact with you to keep you as our familiar, a bond was made. Your pain became our pain. Everything you feel, we feel, too. Price can't hurt you without hurting himself and the rest of us."

"But Ghost hurt me out in the woods."

"And he felt it. We all did. Trust me. He was blinded by his bloodlust, he didn't have the mind to stop and think. He held back as much as he could." 

"How are you holding back, then?" you wondered out loud. Would he pounce on you at any second? Was your time running out? You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the same tension you held in yours with every stinging throb of the shredded skin on your back.

"With great difficulty,' he answered through gritted teeth. He met your eyes, his pupils blown. He swallowed. "Can you please turn around so I can close the wounds?" 

"Close the… you're gonna feed on me like this? Now?" you asked. Your legs tensed up, getting ready to run for your life again. 

"No! No. Not really. I mean, technically, I'll still be- well- consuming your blood, yes. But just what's leaking out already. I won't bite you, I swear. Just- please, you're dripping all over the couch, love.” He tentatively pushed on your shoulder. “And the smell, it's driving me mad. Please just turn around." The desperation in his voice was clear, close to begging. And the stinging behind you was getting harder to ignore with every passing moment. 

You turned around, exposing you bloody back to him. You reached behind you to tug the tattered fabric up your back, but Gaz was quicker than you. 

Rrriiip!

You gasped at the obnoxious tearing sound, suddenly feeling much too hot and much too cold all at once. The remaining fabric of your shirt fell down your shoulders and you crossed your arms over your chest to prevent it from falling off altogether. 

"Gaz!" You scolded, but your admoniment fell on deaf ears, and you gasped once more at the sudden feeling of his soft tongue gliding up your back. 

He licked up the dripping rivulets of scarlet blood that wound down the canvas of your exposed back, before fixing his mouth on the five slashes. The sharp pain subsided to a tingling as one by one, with each swipe of Gaz's tongue, the wounds sealed themselves. His tongue and lips felt so soft and plush. 

You'd never thought to consider the space between your shoulder blades to be an erogenous zone, but as Gaz kissed and licked his way all over you, taking his time to clean every drop of your blood, you found yourself panting with want. His breath was so hot against you, heightened by the wetness of his spit left behind. 

It must be their venom. It has to be some kind of aphrodisiac. 

Gaz kissed his way up your spine and into the scoop of your neck. His lips lingered there. He promised not to bite. 

"I swear, you're the best thing I've ever tasted in both lives," he whispers into your skin. Your body flushed with another wave of heat. 

"What does it taste like?" You asked, voice equally hushed in anticipation- for what, you didn't yet know. His fingertips brushed up your arms. 

"It's hard to describe… it still tastes like blood, that hasn't changed. It's more like our perception of it changes. Imagine going your whole life hating chocolate, and then one day you wake up, and suddenly it's all you crave. And everyone around you smells like chocolate. 

"Some of them smell like cheap candy melt chocolate," he says, pressing another kiss to your bare shoulder, "others smell like Godiva." He kisses you again, working his way up your neck. "And you, my love…" His lips touch that sweet spot under your ear. "You taste like the whole damn sweet shop," he whispers directly into your ear. His hand grips your arm, guiding you to turn back to face him. His mouth and chin were ruddy, stained with the remnants of your wounds. 

"Like the finest artisanal chocolate this world has ever seen." His eyes are fixated on your lips. Those dark, crimson eyes that you'd pretended were brown because you couldn't help but want to get closer to him. You were closer, now, that much was certain. 

His chest was pressed against your back, the fabric of his shirt a little too rough against the raw, sensitive skin. He really was close. Your breaths, panting in synchronicity, mixed together to form a tiny hurricane in the centimeters between your lips. 

"Bitter and sweet, rich and full." He licked his lips and your eyes darted down to the movement of it; slow, swiping along his bottom lip, collecting your lingering taste. "Addictive. I don't think I'll ever get enough of you." He smiled. "You'll rot my teeth right out of my head, you're so sweet." 

And then he kissed you. And God, you let him. His hand found itself cradling the back of your head, and you turned to fully face him. You tasted your own blood on his lips again and it was dizzying. 

This paradox of a man. Feeding off of you, draining you, but you'd never felt so alive before. Here in his arms, you were electrified. The terror of hardly an hour before was now long forgotten- a lifetime away. You found life again in the lips of a man who'd lured you to your near-death. 

Your ruined, bloody shirt slipped off your arms onto the floor. His palms rubbed up your sides as he devoured your mouth, though less literally as he did your blood. His tongue had made its way into your mouth at some point, and yours into his. You fell into a rhythm together, somewhere between tender and desperate. God, your heart was racing, and he could feel it. Every thumping beat rattled his ribcage as if it was his own; as if his dead lump of muscle had come alive again, fed by your crimson drippings. 

Your hands, trembling, fisted themselves in his shirt for a moment, then they fluttered like birds to his neck, pulling him closer against your chest. His shirt was still there. You wanted it gone. 

As if he read your mind, Gaz disconnected your mouths to discard his shirt, also wet with your blood, and tossed it on the floor with yours. He stopped to take you in, his eyes gliding over the ink in your skin, and then froze at your breasts: pierced. 

Gaz moaned. He glanced up at you, waiting for your permission. You answered by grabbing hold of his wrists and guiding them up your sides, to the front and finally onto your tits. He looked as if you'd given him the best gift he'd ever received. 

He squeezed your malleable flesh in his hands, rolling them, massaging them. He lit a spark in your cunt, and when his mouth attached itself to your nipple and sucked, the spark caught fire. You grabbed desperately at the short curls of his hair and whimpered. Gaz took this as encouragement, and nibbled lightly on the bud. You jumped, feeling his sharp canines graze your tit, but it never broke the skin. His tongue twisted around your nipple, and then he moved to the other breast.

The cool air against your spit-wet tit made goosebumps erupt under your skin while Gaz gave the same treatment to your second nipple. There was no hiding it: you were wet. His maroon eyes looked up at you while he sucked and you knew that he knew. 

He abandoned your tits to chase after your mouth again. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you tight to his chest. The kiss was sloppy: wet with spit and tinged with blood. 

Gaz guided you onto your back. The leather couch was cool and soothing to your feverish skin. 

"Let me taste you," Gaz pleaded. His hands left their positions on your tits and glided down your body. You arched your back into them, until they landed on your hips, the tips of his fingers just barely hooking into the waistband of your jeans. "Please- fuck- please I need to taste you."

"I thought you already did," you said, unable to resist a little teasing. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at you. 

"I want. To taste. Your fucking. Pussy." He looked you dead in the eye as he said those words, making sure you understood each syllable. Something misfired in your mind, and you suddenly were unable to speak. This wasn't compulsion, though. This was pure arousal that weighed down your tongue. All you were able to do was hold his gaze and nod. He tisked his tongue at you. 

"Say it, love," he commanded. He kissed your lips again. "Go on, tell me what you want. 

"Taste me," you relented. The corner of his mouth twitched upward. 

"I thought I already did," he threw your words back at you. Two can play at this game, apparently. But you could play it better. You spread your legs for him and arched your hips against his hands. You leaned up and whispered into his ear. 

"Eat my pussy, Gaz." His body shuddered above you. His hands found your button and fly, and he pushed your jeans down your legs until they were stuck around your ankles above your boots. His brows scrunched together in irritation as he struggled with the laces. His eyes glanced up at yours at the sound of a soft giggle escaping your lips. He rolled his eye at you and in a flash, your boots were off and scattered across the floor. He smirked up at you. 

“How did you…?” you began to ask, and his smile grew wider as he rolled your jeans down and off our legs. He kissed his way up from your calves and nipped at the soft fat of your inner thighs. 

“Don’t worry about that right now, love. I’ll answer your questions after I make you cum on my tongue.” You shuddered at the low tone of his words. His eyes scanned over your body, moving down from your eyes to your chest, and finally to your dripping cunt. He lapped at the wet spot on your underwear with closed eyes and moaned into the fabric. He breathed in deeply through his nose, inhaling your musk. He cursed under his breath, already intoxicated on you. 

His hands rubbed up and down your thighs as he licked and lapped at your cunt, teasing you until you whined his name, begging for him to hurry up, to give you more. Finally, he took pity on you and hooked his fingers into your panties and tore them off your body, throwing them into the growing pile of scrapy, ruined fabric on the floor. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, looking down at your glistening pussy. He was mesmerized at the way it glimmered in the flickering firelight. He teased two fingers through your folds and spread them open. He touched you like the pages of a holy book: with reverence and awe. He took his sweet time studying the way your pussy moved under his touch until once again, you had to snap him out of his stupor. He glanced up at you for the briefest second, and then dived in. 

He licked into your lips and moaned aloud, finally getting a taste of your wetness. You whimpered when the tip of his tongue prodded at your clit, and he took notice right away. He licked it again, once, twice, and then latched onto it, determined to pull more of those perfect sounds out of you. He gazed up at you through his eyelashes, and you couldn’t look away. The fire in his eyes sent a fresh wave of pleasure down your spine. And then you felt it: how easily he slipped a finger inside, and you threw your head back in pleasure.

He curled it into you slowly, pressing up inside you at a spot that made your thighs shake. You couldn’t be bothered to keep quiet, and Gaz couldn’t get enough. He added another finger and shuddered at the way your pussy practically sucked his digits inside. He started to build a steady rhythm, gaining speed and intensity with every thrust of his fingers, every lick of his tongue, every suck of his mouth on your clit. 

You could hardly get enough oxygen in your lungs. Your chest almost burned with need, the tips of your fingers started to tingle. Your moans got louder and louder, until your shouts were reverberating off the walls of the study. Your fingers scrambled for something to hold onto, something to steady yourself, and locked onto the curls atop Gaz’s head. His name tumbled from your lips. A prayer, a warning, a plea. You were close, and he knew it. He could tell by the way your walls fluttered and gripped his fingers; by the way your hips bucked against his mouth; by the way your back arched and your thighs twitched. He watched you, studying the way you writhed from him. His cock twitched in his trousers. It was him that had you moaning and coming undone on this couch. 

Your orgasm knocked the wind out of you. A sound that was halfway between a moan and a scream left you as your legs locked around Gaz’s head. You threw your head back, your pussy clamping down on his fingers, and gushing over his forearm; your cum added to the puddle of blood and slick beneath you. He groaned, lapping wildly at you, licking up as much of your taste as he could manage, drinking you up like communion wine. Sparks lit you up inside from your belly up your spine. You writhed against his mouth and hands, grinding your hips against his tongue until it was too much, until you felt like you’d burst. 

He lifted his head and let you catch your breath. He watched you twitch from the aftershocks and sucked his fingers clean of your sticky cum. When you finally opened your eyes, you saw him already looking down at you. He took his cue and crawled up your body, kissing your stomach and chest and finally your mouth. He slipped his tongue past your lips with ease and you moaned at the taste of your own cum. His hand cradled your head and the other wandered up and down your body. He settled himself between your legs and grinded his bulge onto your cunt. 

“Please,” he begged into your mouth. “Please, let me fuck you.” You dragged your nails down his abdomen, scratching the sparse coils of chest hair and the hard muscles on his stomach, past his happy trail and down over his pants to grab his hard cock through the fabric. He moaned lowly. 

“Yes,” you panted. “God, yes.”

---

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[bitchb0ybunny]

Lil Captain Price headcanons..

because this man is living in my head rent-free..

-Price definitely listens to old-ish music, not because he's old, the man is only like 38 (maybe like 42, but still), but because it's what he grew having his parents play. Elvis Presley? Yessir, he listens to Devil In Disguise at least once a day, typically in the morning when he needs a pick-me-up while waiting for his morning tea to steep. It reminds him of his mum. Another one of his favorites, more from his own time but still considered older, is Ain't No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell.. I Second That Emotion by Smokey Robinson & The Miracles is also something on his morning playlist, and his workout playlist.

-Price definitely is the type of person to, if given the chance, adore having kids around. Definitely a family man in secret, really wants to settle down with someone and have a couple kids, but gave up on that after becoming a Captain for the 141 for two reasons. One, he's too busy to be there for anyone and too confidential to form bonds (trust me, he's tried when he was younger), so relationships have never worked out and he'd never have time to keep up with his kids if he had any. And two, he's too scared for their safety. If someone found out that Johnathan Price, Captain of Task Force 141, had kids..? It wouldn't go well for anyone. His family could he used to blackmail him or something, and he wasn't about to let that happen. Not over his dead body.

-Price definitely likes to dance, but with his injuries and sore muscles from the military he doesn't get to dance that much anymore.. Doesn't have the time, either. His Mum and Dad probably taught him dances from their days, like swing dances, but also had him enrolled in either a waltzing class or a salsa class when he was in secondary school.. Dancing classes definitely made him popular with the ladies at School dances, which leads me into my next headcanon-

-Price was definitely a ladies man when he was younger, before he got all grumpy because of the military. Had women fawning over him when he was younger, had a few people call him a "Lady stealer" because of how polite and romantic he was with everyone, was a huge flirt in his youth.. He still has it, lots of women nowadays love a rugged man like him, but he doesn't use his flirtin skills anymore. Most he'll give it a smile that flashed his teeth, that were definitely just ever-so-slightly stained from his excessive consumption of black teas, or a bit of a mildly suggestive comment if he thought the person was really pretty.. Or if he really wanted a discount at the shops. In his later years, he discovered that he doesn't really care what gender someone is as long as he thinks they're attractive and nice, he'll flirt with just about anyone if they're cute enough (or if he wants a discount bad enough).

-Price has a nice singing voice, but doesn't sing often. It's soft, definitely like the type of music he listens to, and will often mumble-sing along to songs he particularly likes whenever he hears them. Doesn't matter if he's in a public space or not, it just keeps him occupied and helps him focus a little better.

Because of that,

-Price definitely listens to music while doing paperwork. He'll be sat at his desk, filing a report on a mission, listening to Wichita Lineman by Glen Campbell or Please, Mr. Postman by The Marvelettes, or something along those lines. Mumbling along to the lyrics softly, sometimes getting a little carried away and ending up singing along just loud enough for someone outside to hear his voice muffled by the music from his speakers.

"And I need you more than want you.. And I want you for all time, and the Wichita lineman.. is still on the line~"

[celenawrites]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[cherry-cristal]

Local DILF Captain done with his sons soldiers' antics

Im back

[eowynstwin]

I’m curious and I want to know:

(No judgement if it’s a yes. God knows that franchise will make money with or without anyone on tumblr buying it.)

Please reblog for a larger sample size!

[unmotivatedartistry]

⁂ click for better quality ⁂

Doodles.

[ghostgazweek]

Spread the news! GhostGaz Week Round 3 is taking place this summer from July 13-19, 2025. Prompts will be released on June 1 so you have plenty of time to prepare whatever fanworks you might create for this event. We will be hosting the event here on tumblr as well as on Bluesky.

Looking forward to seeing what you all will create!