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villainofmyownstory · 5 months

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Day Zero

chapter 1: The First One

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pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x plus size fem!reader

summary: Ghost and his dog Riley regularly patrol the city. A man has his own routine, every day, for almost 2 years, has to look the same. The man knows that he cannot change his behavior because deep down he still feels that someone will answer his radio signal. He doesn't lose hope. However, exactly 730 days after "Day Zero", no one shows up at the transmitter mast. Just when you finally get there. You've been trying to get here for weeks, seeing a tower in the distance. You needed electricity, and the tower had a source of light every night. And so each of you, individually, still thinks that you are the only one alive.

Chapter 1: The First One

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Day 729

Ghost & Riley

5:43 a.m., the black Gamin watch on the man's right hand started ringing. In exactly 25 minutes, the sun will rise and Ghost will be able to leave the safety of his home and begin his daily routine.

This morning is definitely warmer than the previous ones. Getting out of bed, the man decides that in the evening he will cover some of the solar panels, so that excess energy for heating will no longer be needed. He preferred to keep some panels unused in case others failed. He couldn't find any more panels in the city, so unfortunately he had to settle for the few he found in recent months.

Riley ran to the man's leg, growling quietly, he had been extremely excited since the morning.

“What's up Riley?” Ghost stroked the dog behind the ear and spoke softly to him.

This dog had been the only living thing he could talk to for almost two years. It was actually a monologue, but Ghost knew that his beloved dog understood him and even though they didn't speak the same language, they understood each other perfectly.

The man also knew that he had to try to remain civilized, speaking, listening and behaving as he had before Day Zero. After years in the army, he remembered what soldiers released after years of captivity looked like. Who were locked in isolation for long months in small, dark cells. They were quickly losing their minds.

And he had to remain human. Despite everything.

Every day, after getting up and taking a quick bathroom break, Ghost would do some exercises to wake up. And be in good shape all the time. Unfortunately, his supplies of black tea were slowly running out and surprisingly there were few tea lovers in this damn city. He never drank coffee, so physical activity had to be enough for him to overcome sleepiness.

Once he put on his old military clothes and took his gun from the safe, he headed to the kitchen, taking a few military biscuits that he used to eat during his morning routine.

"Riley come on, it's time for patrol" the dog wagged his tail and ran to his master, waiting for Ghost to put a tactical harnesses and leash on him.

On his way out, Ghost checked the surveillance cameras he had installed around the house. The area looked like any other day. Intact. For a split second he felt disappointed, he was under the illusion that he was not the only one alive in this world.

Getting into the black Ford Ranger pickup truck, he checked the gas level in the canisters in the back and the air in the tires. Everything was in order. When Riley jumped on the back trunk and Ghost checked if the dog was safe, he got into the car and slowly drove away, looking around the surrounding area. Today he was going to the eastern part of the city, there were a few houses on the outskirts that he didn't check. As the days were getting longer, he could afford to travel further and plunder new abandoned houses.

When he reached one of his checkpoints, Riley on the trunk started barking and wanted to jump down to the ground. The man, concerned about the dog's behavior, quickly stopped at one of the dead ends. The dog barked and wagged his tail, staring as if in a trance, his attention focused towards the west.

“Riley calm down, Riley!”

Ghost quickly jumped onto the trunk and grabbed the dog by the collar, trying to calm animal down and direct its attention to himself. The dog barked louder and louder and suddenly growled in a way he had never heard before. Ghost froze, he had never seen such aggression from his dog before.

“Riley, sit down. Riley!”

man's voice trembled with growing fear, despite this he tried to pronounce the commands in a loud and decisive tone. Ghost was afraid that the dog might have gotten sick, maybe he had been bitten by some sick animal during one of the patrols in a new area and the wound was so small that Ghost he missed it. Even though he checked Riley every day after every patrol. He couldn't lose his only family member. Only friend.

Suddenly the dog calms down. He sat on his hind legs and, panting slightly, looked at his owner with peace in his eyes

“Bloody hell Riley, what the fuck was that?”

Ghost shook his head disapprovingly, looking up at the dog, patting it on the belly and stroking it for a while. After making sure that the dog had calmed down, the man returned to the car and drove again, glancing at the dog in the rear-view mirror from time to time. Fortunately, the rest of the journey passed peacefully, without any strange incidents.

Ghost drove in silence with the car windows open, looking around the suburbs. The eastern part of the city was mainly inhabited by elites, wealthier people from the upper classes.

Was.

Ghost, remembering his old life, felt that he didn't miss it. Money, power, fame. He never aspired to it and didn't need it, but in connection with his work he often had contact with rich people and it was difficult for him to come to terms with them. He could never get along with them. So now, after so many days since Day Zero, looking at the empty large villas, he smiled to himself. People had so much in the past, they were concerned with getting rich, making more and more money. And what did they need it for? Now they were all dead. And large houses and expensive cars stood empty, deteriorating under the influence of the seasons.

When the former soldier reached the house he had last checked, he parked close to a large tree so that the car was hidden in the shade. He opened the trunk lid for Riley to jump down and search the front and back of the house first. Nothing really bad ever happened, no evil awaited them during the day.

But Ghost wanted his four-legged friend to feel important and appreciated. If only his life would be no different from the one before Day Zero. Even though the man was not sure whether the dog had previously served in the army, from the first day they met the man checked and was happy to find that Riley was well trained. Its previous owner must have taken care of it. Ghost was very grateful to this person.

Whoever that person was.

When the dog returned happily wagging his tail and meekly stood next to the man's right leg, it was a signal that the area was checked and safe. Ghost took a bag of raw meat from his tactical vest pocket and gave a piece of it to the dog as a reward

“Good boy” as he said this he patted the dog affectionately on the head and added

“Watch the door Riley, I'll be right back.”

Ghost easily entered the white house, which was small compared to other houses in the area. Knowing that the owners would not come back to it anyway, he simply broke the glass in the door and turned the lock from the inside.

It took him less than 10 minutes to search the house, and as he thought, unfortunately for him, he found nothing important. It was one of those houses where wealthy owners come for a few days a year when they had to do something in the city. Ghost found some bandages, batteries, two cans of beans and a package of pasta. He packed everything into a backpack and took a large pillow from the couch.

Something for Riley.

Leaving the villa, he looked around the area, the sun was shining more and more strongly and Ghost basked in the sun for a few seconds, closing his eyes for a moment. Waiting for Riley to run up to him. However, none of this happened.

"Riley, come on..."

Ghost said calmly, patting his thigh to encourage the dog to come to him.

Silence. No movement.

“Oh, come on boy, I've got something for you..” the soldier opened his eyes and stepped off the porch, looking around the front lawn.

For the first time in over 700 days, Ghost felt panic rising.

Riley was nowhere to be found.

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Day 730

You

The next day of walking was so tiring that you took each step slowly with a grimace on your face. Your feet are so injured that your white Converse shoes are not only dirty with dust and brown soil, but also have red stains on them.

You don't have the strength to walk anymore. You wipe the sweat from your forehead, straightening the old t-shirt that serves as a makeshift head cover. The days are getting hotter and the journey during the day is torture.

“Maybe I'll finally lose weight”

you mutter under your breath, standing in the shadow for a moment. The large billboard that stands in the western part of the city is slightly damaged. The advertisement for the movie, which premiered over two years ago, is slightly faded and torn.

You fan your face with your hand, hoping it will bring you some relief.

Even though almost two years have passed since Day Zero, you have not lost the excess weight, and walking in full sun was a real horror for you. Dropping your backpack at your feet, you take out a half-full bottle of water and take a few sips. Even the water in the bottle is warm.

You sigh and look around. Nevertheless, despite all the horror that took place so many days ago, the outskirts of this city do not look damaged or well-kept. Even in your previous life - as you call it - you had never been to this area. Maybe it would be worth looking around a bit, maybe you will find a working car. Or at least a bicycle.

The tingling and stinging in your feet constantly reminded you how hurt and bloody your feet were. But you had to get to the transmission tower. You had seen it for so many days and you knew there was electricity there. Even on a rainy night, the lights from the tower were visible from many miles away. You were hoping that you would be able to charge the electronics you collected two years ago and maybe you would finally hear a human voice. Some signal of life.

You couldn't be the only survivor on this earth.

After a moment of rest, you moved further west, the sun was shining stronger and higher. It must have been close to twelve o'clock. You wanted to reach the tower before sunset, hoping that apart from metal bars and many cables, there would be a technical building where you could spend the night and charge your equipment.

Life before Day Zero was kind and happy for you. However, after that day it was a fight for survival. You were suddenly alone, without family or friends. You were on your own for the first time in your life. And you weren't the survival type. You lived comfortably all your life and could count on family members. Walking towards the mast, you had time for further thoughts. After all, what else are you left with? You haven't seen a human in 2 years.

Alive, to be more precise.

You were having conversations in your head, speaking quietly to yourself every few days as if you were afraid that your vocal cords would grow together or that you would simply forget what it's like to be human. The silence of the desolate world scared you at first, sleepless nights and fear during the day accompanied you in the first year. It was only when you found a bigger city and nice, undamaged houses and moved into one of them, collecting found food and useful items, that you finally started to calm down and sleep through the nights.

However, when the batteries in the device ran out, the water in the tap stopped flowing, and the winter at home became so cold that you might as well have slept outside, because the temperature difference was practically negligible, you decided to head west.

One night, when a snowstorm and strong wind opened one window in the attic and you went to close it at least temporarily and secure it to prevent snow from entering the house, you noticed a flashing light on the horizon in the distance.

At first you thought it was just a hallucination. Maybe you didn't eat enough or ate some spoiled food and your eyesight is playing tricks on you. But as you stood there and looked out the open window. To the west, a small light kept flickering in the distance. And the next day and the next. And finally the next week too.

When more than a month had passed and the weather had finally normalized, you decided to pack the most necessary items and go in that direction.

It had to be some kind of sign.

Some miracle.

During those nights when you were waiting for the weather to allow you to travel on foot, you imagined many scenarios. You felt excited and happy. Hope. Maybe you weren't the only living person in this world, maybe there were other people that close. This thought kept you alive.

Thanks to this thought, after so many days of traveling with injured legs, you were finally close to your destination. You had to get there and see with your own eyes that you weren't crazy after all and that the red and white tower was a signpost that someone maintained to let you know that he was also here, that he was alive.

When you finally reached the fence, you didn't even notice that your emotions and tiredness had won and tears were rolling down your cheeks.

You were so very happy. So close to the goal.

The gate to the tower was padlocked.

“Fuck!”

you screamed, struggling against the metal fence. You stood there sobbing, not knowing how to get to the other side. It was impossible to climb the fence. Firstly, it was too high, secondly, there was barbed wire at the top and thirdly, you physically couldn't do it. You were too fat to pull your body up over the fence.

When you finally calmed down and wiped your tears, you walked away from the fence and noticed that next to one of the fence posts there was a piece of paper attached with a red material.

You froze.

You quickly pulled a piece of paper from behind the ribbon and unwrapped the paper with trembling hands:

“If anyone is reading this, it means I'm not alone here. You survived just like me.

My name is Ghost.

I have shelter, food and other necessary items to survive. If you are looking for help, wait here. I come to the towers every day, every day of the year. Right at noon and I've been waiting for an hour..."

You quickly looked at your watch and froze… 12:23…. No, it's impossible, you've been here for a long time, you must have seen someone, you wanted to cry again. It can't be true that the only living thing, ironically calling itself Ghost, didn't show up today. Just when you came here. Maybe you missed each other? Maybe you were here for a few minutes after all. There was hope. You were supposed to spend the night here anyway, so if by some miracle you two missed each other, there was a chance to meet the owner of this letter tomorrow.

You looked at the piece of paper again:

“...and I've been waiting for an hour.

However, if you have no good intentions and are counting on your own survival, I have to worry you. In my previous life I killed more people than you can count, now, apart from things to survive, I have a weapon with me and I know how to use it quickly.

Wait here, and until I appear, don't be afraid, because you will hear and see my dog…Riley.”

With your heart beating strongly, you finished reading the letter.

Your mind didn't even have time to fully read the content of the letter when a large German shepherd ran out from the west wing of the fence, barking loudly.

This couldn't be true.

When you turned towards the dog, you froze.

“Oh my God…Riley…boy”

It was your dog. Who disappeared on Day Zero.

And now, after 730 days, he was running towards you.

Your beloved dog has been found.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #cod #ghost #call of duty fanfic #cod au #dayzero💀

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qveerthe0ry · 7 months

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Lions Ain't the Kind - Part Two

Summary: You and Frankie can't get each other off your minds'. He asks you on a third date. It's a success. Word Count: 5,741 Pairing: Frankie Morales x NB/Gender-fluid! AFAB! Reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, subby!Frankie, soft dom!reader, a few brief mentions of alcohol, talks about gender non-conformity, talks about gender dysphoria as it relates to sex, amab terminology for afab genitalia, kissing, making out, oral (afab receiving), dirty talk, premature ejaculation, Frankie has a praise kink, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions of reader A/N: Special shoutout to @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar for letting me bother them about this part while I was writing, love you both dearly <3

Frankie calls you later that night.

You helped him clean up after, popped some popcorn, and rewound the movie. He snuggled sleepily into your side; the orgasm apparently settled his nerves from before. You both joked about how not-so-great the movie was over a few beers, and then you sent him off with a buttery goodnight kiss.

But your phone rings as you’re settling into bed for the night, and you think maybe something is wrong, like his car broke down, or he left something at your place.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. I just made it home.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, no, everything’s fine. I just— I wanted to thank you.”

You laugh. Sweet boy, calling to thank you for getting him off.

“Was it that good?” You joke.

“No— I mean yes, yes it was. That’s not what I meant though. I’ve never been… Well, you know, I’m not so good at this stuff. And I’ve never felt like… this. And I like it. And I like you. So… thank you.”

Your face burns at his words, at the thought you could give this man something he needs, this man that you’re quickly developing a habit for.

“That’s sweet, Frankie. I like you too. A lot.”

You hear him huff through your tinny phone speakers and in a moment of pure weakness you wish you would’ve asked him to stay over.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, yes. I really do.”

He laughs, and you can imagine it in your head, what his dimple looks like, the way his curls would look as he shakes his head.

“That’s awesome.”

——

Frankie’s a busy guy, you come to find out. He works fairly long hours at his mechanic shop, and he has custody of his daughter every other week, and he also attends community events, he calls them, every Wednesday.

Your business is relegated to the eight hours a day you spend in your office, and maybe a few hours here or there when you need to take work home with you.

And you’re not blaming Frankie for it, but the distance makes you want him so much more. He texts you all day long, staggered back and forth when you both have the time. He’ll call you some nights, when his daughter goes to bed early, just to talk about your days. But it isn’t enough.

It’s not enough because you can’t stop thinking about how he looks in your lap, and how desperate his sounds are, and how his skin feels under your palms.

It’s driving you mad, replaying that night over and over and craving even more from him.

It really isn’t just about the sex, though, either. You find yourself thinking of him at the grocery store, wondering if he likes the scent of your favorite deodorant or if you should pick something new. You see an old Ford Ranger as you’re driving to work and wonder if Frankie’s inside. You find a new show on Netflix to watch but pause it after the first five minutes because you think Frankie would like to watch it too, with you.

And Frankie’s just as bad, if not worse off than you are.

His days are long and busy but occupied with thoughts of you, even as he’s changing brake pads and tinkering elbow-deep in the hood of another car.

When he picks up his daughter from school and asks how her day was, he sends off a quick text to ask you about your day, too.

And after he gets her to bed, and finishes laundry and the dishes and brushing his teeth, he crawls under the covers only to feel like his queen sized mattress is way too big, way too empty.

That’s when he texts you, Saturday night, heart beating just a bit too fast and feeling a tad heavier than normal.

I miss you. Are you free tomorrow?

I miss you too, sweet boy. I’ve got nothing going on all day.

Can I pick you up for brunch after I drop off the kiddo? Around noon?

Sounds perfect, can’t wait 😘

And he hardly sleeps because of the anticipation, wondering if this whole thing has just been a fluke. One whole week of not seeing you has his insecurities skyrocketing, despite the texts and phone calls.

The clock on his bedside table reads 5:36am and he can’t for the life of him tamper down the feelings to fall back to sleep. So he trims up his facial hair, and showers for longer than he usually likes to. He makes a big breakfast for his daughter, and dresses in his nicest jeans and a collared shirt while she giggles at some Sunday morning cartoon.

It isn’t until he’s halfway to her mom’s house that he realizes he’s a dead giveaway. He winces when she answers the door with her eyebrow raised, greeting cut-off halfway through.

“Are you going to church now?”

He laughs and rolls his eyes as she waves him into the foyer.

“Not quite. I think church usually starts earlier than noon, though.”

“So… court?”

“Oh my god, is it that unbelievable that I have a date?”

“At noon?”

“Brunch date,” he shrugs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

“You haven’t dated since we broke up.”

He shrugs again, and can feel the heat beginning to rise to his cheeks.

“Is this new? Where’d you guys meet?”

He huffs at the interrogation, though he knows there’s no malice behind it.

“Um… Tinder… couple weeks ago now.”

An amused look spreads across his ex’s face, and he wants to die.

“Interesting. You’ve met in person, then?”

“Yeah, twice already. Last week.”

“Well, sounds like it’s going good then, yeah?”

He takes a deep breath in, and nods, and then shrugs.

“I hope so. Like… I really hope so.”

Her face softens, and she smiles a sweet smile that lets him know he looks even more vulnerable than he feels, which must be a feat.

“Then I hope so, too.”

——

When Frankie knocks on your door a little past 12, he surprises you. Gone is that apprehensive look you’ve grown so used to seeing on him. Instead, he’s beaming, a precious and pearly smile splitting his face when you open the door.

“Hey,” he says, slightly out of breath, like he may have ran up the stairs at a less than leisurely pace.

“Hey, smiley.”

He huffs when you tease him, but his smile doesn’t falter.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Looks good on you.”

Everything looks good on him, actually. His shirt hugs his chest and his tummy, and his jeans are sucked tight to his thighs, and his hair is that perfect mess of haphazard curls that makes your fingers tingle with the urge to touch.

“You ready to go?”

He shifts in his spot on your doorway, and you bite your lip as you admire the view.

“Not yet.”

His mouth opens to respond, but the words don’t get a chance to leave his lips because you’re pressing your own to them.

Warm, soft, minty.

His hand finds your waist and yours cups his neatly groomed jaw, and the simple touches make the wires in your system short-circuit.

Simmer down, you remind yourself, you have to at least get through brunch.

His smile is still wide when you pull apart, softer now, but no less giddy. He gives you a once-over, taking in one of your favorite outfits you picked out of your closet just for today.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

He shrugs, and you let your hand fall from his face to rest on his collar, and then farther down, where his top button lays open to reveal his smooth chest.

“Brunch?”

He squeezes your hip when he asks, and you try and fail to hold back a heaved sigh at the prospect of having to be decent in public with this man.

“Yep. Brunch.”

He chuckles, kisses the corner of your mouth as soft as ever.

“Back here for dessert?”

It shocks you, but it delights you.

“Francisco, you dirty dog.”

He backs away with his hands up as you make your way outside, letting you lock up.

“I’m just trying to ask for what I want,” he mumbles.

He looks sheepish when you turn back to face him, but also proud. You think he should be.

“I know. You’re being a very good boy for me.”

You smirk all the way to his truck at the way he tugs at his collar and clears his throat, and how his hand feels sweaty in yours.

——

He takes you to brunch by the river, a place you’ve heard about but you’ve never been to. He’s really sweet, opening doors for you and asking if the table on the patio is alright and turning his entire attention toward you while you wait for your food to come.

Though you’re both quite handsy, linking your calves together under the table and playing with each others’ fingers on top of it, you really don’t want to go home by the time the check comes.

He pays this time, of course, and when you’re standing up to leave you suggest taking a walk along the river. His enthusiasm for your suggestion makes your insides feel all sticky and hot, that you’re both on the same page, that even something so little can excite him like it does you.

The thing is, you don’t do this often. Okay, maybe you’ve had many dates that end up exactly like this, walking off a meal and chatting. But it’s very very rare that you get to do it with someone you click with, someone who gets you, someone who makes you feel comfortable in your own skin.

Frankie does just that, has since day one when you spent hours talking on that godforsaken dating app. And especially now, as he slinks one arm through the loop of your own and uses the other to caress where your sleeve rides up your bicep. His body is warm where it presses into you, only adding to that fuzzy feeling from the couple of mimosas you drank with brunch.

And when you turn to face him, the happy look on his face is everything. You get tripped up in the sunlight glistening in his brown eyes, the hints of ochre sparkling as his head shifts, before you determine you need to tell him.

“I like the way I feel with you,” you say earnestly, though the champagne has surely given you a bit of a push.

“What way is that?”

His pace slows on the little pebbled pathway, like he really doesn’t want to miss what you say next.

“Like I can just… turn my brain off and be.”

He chuckles, squeezes your arm.

“I feel the same. Like I don’t have to pretend to impress you or anything. Like I don’t need to impress you.”

You hum as you let the words sink in, and lean a little heavier into him as you walk.

“You do impress me though,” you tell him.

His breath hitches, you can feel it where he’s pressing into you from chest to hip.

“You impress me too. I uh— I think you’re probably the most impressive person I’ve ever met.”

“Weren’t you like, in the military?”

He laughs, then, full, you can feel it shaking his tummy against your arm.

“That doesn’t really count. Besides, my military buddies’ skills are limited to the field. I don’t think between the three of them they have more than a handful of civilian brain cells.”

“Harsh,” you laugh, pinching his side between your knuckles.

“I say it with love, of course. They’re good guys, you’d like ‘em. In a way you might like an annoying sibling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d like you to meet them sometime. Maybe soon. If you’d feel comfortable.”

You don’t know much about this infamous group of guys Frankie’s bonded to, just that they’re his only real friends, and that they’ve all been through a lot. Another gooey feeling spreads through your guts at his proposal.

“I’d like that. Sometime soon.”

It does worry you a bit. You don’t know much about the military, but you’re aware of the stereotypes. Surely if Frankie’s friends with them, then they aren’t bad guys.

Frankie must see the fleck of apprehension in you,

Because he stops walking and releases your arm so he can face you squarely.

“I’m out to them. They’re cool with it. Pope— Santiago— he’s queer too. We’ve been to pride together, all of us. No bad vibes.”

You wonder if they’ve ever met someone like you. You wonder if Frankie’s told them about you yet. You wonder a lot of things in such a tiny amount of time that you sway a bit on your feet and Frankie reaches out to steady you.

“Shit— Are you okay??”

“I’m fine,” you’re quick to assure him, “just… I dunno. What if they don’t like me?”

Frankie scoffs.

“There’s no way they won’t like you. You’re you, you’re kind and funny and smart. What’s not to like?”

“Are you purposefully ignoring the elephant in the room?”

It isn’t heated, the way you ask it, but you’re genuinely curious. Is he beating around the bush, or is he naive, or is it really not a big deal to him?

“Cariño, it’s not an elephant. It’s a— I dunno. A neat… plant,” he shrugs.

You squint at him, and tilt your head at his explanation.

“You know what I mean? An elephant in a room is a giant pain in the ass. It’s much more like a cool plant. Maybe one some people aren’t familiar with, but it’s not— you’re not an elephant, is my point.”

You stare at him for a beat longer than you mean to, but once your giggle involuntarily bubbles up out of you, Frankie’s serious face is cracking into a goofy smile.

“You’re cute,” you tell him, “Jesus Christ.”

Your laughter mellows, and Frankie looks sheepish at your compliments, but he grabs you by the elbows anyway, leans in close to you so that you can smell the way the sun warms his curls and his skin.

“I mean it though,” he says, “I like you. Exactly how you are. The guys will too.”

Your eyes dart around to your surroundings as Frankie’s lips find your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Without anyone ogling, you shift your head just that much more to let his lips press against yours.

He hums, leaning harder into you, pulling you closer with his hands at your back. You melt, pliant and lax in his arms, until he huffs and pulls away.

“Frankie,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to take me home.”

His pupils grow comically large at your request, and this time he’s wobbling on weary legs.

“Anything you want, mi planta.”

Your walk back to his truck is… brisk. You’re not sure who’s leading who by the time

Frankie unlocks the doors, both too giggly to really worry about it. He kisses you breathless across the center console before he turns the key in the ignition, and you roll the flavor of him around in your mouth while he pulls out into traffic.

Frankie’s promise of ‘I like you exactly the way you are’ is rattling around in your head like a pinball in a faulty machine. You’re not sure he can even say that. If he even knows you exactly the way you are. It’s been two dates and a handful of weeks texting back and forth.

Granted, one of those dates had him shaking and crumbling on top of you, but still. He told you he’s never met someone like you. He said that, and now you have to pull the ‘Ol Talk out of your dusty little hat and you aren’t sure how he’s going to react. He’s given you no reason to believe it’ll be negative, but still. Sometimes it just makes you uncomfortable, to have to explain things that don’t often need explaining.

Instead of boiling over with nerves the closer you get, though, the anxiety simmers below the surface as you watch Frankie navigate back to your apartment. His side profile is criminal, with his wide eyes and strong nose and stubbly jaw, that dimple that just won’t seem to go away. His curls tickle the nape of his neck and whisp around his temple and you must twirl them between your fingers. So you do, and his answering hum has you squirming in the passenger seat.

The walk up your apartment stairs is when the nerves start to get the best of you. It takes you two tries to get your door unlocked, and you know Frankie is aware by the way he looks at you when you usher him through the door.

“Are you okay?”

It’s funny how just a week before you were asking him the same question, and now you’re the one who’s a bundle of frayed nerves when you’d only ever been so cool and calm and collected.

“I am, I just— Things are different… with me.”

His concerned brows turn back up when he smiles at you, the softness in his eyes working wonders to ease your anxiety.

“I like different. Different’s fun.”

You huff. He’s so sweet. It’s hotter than it should be.

“Really. I wanna learn you. Let me, cariño. Please?”

And god… those are gonna be a big, big problem, his wide, watery puppy eyes framed by long eyelashes that he breaks out like it’s no big deal. Like you wouldn’t murder someone for him if he made those eyes at you and asked nicely.

You sigh, and nod, and that gets him to drop the eyes at least, replace them with a toothy smile instead.

“Let me get us some waters, if you wanna get comfy on the couch.”

It gives you a second to breathe and gather your thoughts as you meander into the kitchen.

“I missed this couch,” he muses, wistful, and you laugh.

“I’m sure you did, Pretty Boy.”

You barely hear his huff over the trickle of your Brita filter, but then he speaks up.

“I love it when you call me that. Drives me crazy.”

Frankie’s full of this energy you didn’t expect from him, so much more forward now. You suppose the walls have been broken down a bit, ever since your last night together.

He’s sprawled out on the couch when you return with two glasses, leaning back against the corner of it, and his cock is straining at his jeans. You don’t pretend not to notice, and he doesn’t pretend that he can’t see your eyes tracing the shape of its outline in his dark denim. You place your waters on the coffee table, even as you feel your mouth go dry.

“Told you, drives me crazy. You drive me crazy.”

The way he looks up at you makes him look so small. Your pulse jumps about it, the way it makes you feel just minutely more comfortable with the conversation you’re about to have.

And it’s one that you want to have, no matter how un-sexy it feels, or annoying. Because in your experience, when you forgo the conversation until after, they always take it personally when you tell them what you didn’t like. And even though you know it’s bullshit, you can’t stand the thought of Frankie feeling defensive toward you, even if it’s unfounded.

So you curl up next to him, let his arm that’s slung over the couch rest across your shoulders. You bring your knees up to your chest and plant one hand high on his thigh. You’re so nervous that you almost miss the way it twitches under your palm.

“What’s on your mind?”

His thumb rubs tiny loops against your shoulder. Yours mirrors it on his jeans, and it soothes you enough to start speaking.

“Sometimes I don’t like… certain things. During sex. And sometimes I do. It just depends on my mood,” you start.

“Yeah, same. I think that’s everyone, right? Normal?”

You roll your eyes at yourself, because you know he has a point. But yours are a little different.

“Yeah but… You know how I said sometimes I’m both, and sometimes I’m neither, and sometimes I’m one or the other?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do.”

“Welll when I’m… y’know. Sometimes certain words just… turn me off. Make me feel weird, and get in my head and stuff, and then it’s not fun anymore.”

Frankie nods.

“And not like… What I mean is sometimes I like one word, and then another time I won’t like the same word. It’s always different. Depending on what I’m feeling.”

“Guapo, look at me.”

It’s then, when Frankie’s deep voice cuts like a searing hot knife, that you realize your eyes have been darting around everywhere but him.

He’s got a serious look on his face when you finally gaze back, but it’s soft, and it’s comforting, and for a second you think might cry.

“I think it’s my turn to make you ask for what you want.”

He smirks when he says it, and it’s so uneasy and so not at the same time.

You take a deep breath. Release it. Feel the squeeze of your heart unclench a bit.

“I want you to suck my cock. Today. And tomorrow maybe I’ll want you to eat my pussy. Okay?”

“Jesus Fuck—“

“I’m sorry—“

“Shut up, you’re so fucking hot.”

His words steal the breath from your lungs and make your face feel like it’s on fire. Even more so when his free hand presses against his erection over his jeans. It spreads, a dangerous flame that curls around your insides, high in your chest and low in your gut, and you tilt your head so you can taste the little whimper that falls from his lips.

Your hand finds his chest again, like it did that night, and something about his racing heartbeat eases you so much. That he’s just as nervous as you are, even if he’s a bit better at hiding it this time.

He cradles you when he kisses you back, one big, warm hand on the back of your head and his other on your back, wrapped around you, safe. And he’s gentle as he leads you to lie back, even as he growls and nips at your bottom lip.

Safe.

His thighs bracket one of yours as he holds himself above you by an elbow on the cushions. You feel his cock, hot and hard, pressed tight against you, throbbing when he shifts his hips for friction.

You let a noise sneak past your vocal chords, a deeper sigh, and instantly you feel even more vulnerable.

But Frankie just returns it, grip tightening on the back of your head. He pulls his mouth from yours and instead finds your pulse with it.

You gasp, and he curses. His hips jerk against you, and you know you’re about to soak through your briefs. His teeth find skin underneath your collar and you egg him on by lifting your thigh to press even tighter against his prick.

His muttered curse feels hot against your skin, but it quickly runs ice cold when Frankie’s hand sneaks under the hem of your shirt. You grab it quickly, separated by the material, and shake your head back and forth quickly.

“Not right now,” you whisper, “sorry.”

He looks up from his toothy assault on your skin to meet your gaze, hand slipping back out from under your shirt, and smiles.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, hand finding the crook of your thigh instead, “never for that. Always tell me what you need.”

Your breath stutters as he shifts back up to kiss your lips again, his thigh pressing just right between yours as his tongue tastes the roof of your mouth. You grind just like that, and he does too, a hot and damp rustling of fabric as he takes your mouth and whines into it at the friction.

Your hands get with the program, reach around to squeeze his ass and encourage his thrusts against your thigh. Sparks of arousal shoot through you every time you feel his cock pulse against you. It becomes not enough extremely quickly, especially with the noises you’re coaxing out of him and the way his tongue is sloppy and greedy inside your mouth.

“I need your mouth,” you gasp, your slick lips moving against his own as you speak.

He groans, licks at your bottom lip one last time.

“Anything you want.”

You’re hot, flustered and aching when he finally works on unfastening your pants. All the while his wide doe eyes peer up at you, waiting for any direction.

He shuffles a bit, settling between your open legs and huffing when he misses the pressure of your thigh against his prick. You thread your fingers through his curls as consolation, and smirk when he shudders and his eyelids droop.

He gets a hand under your pants, and both of your mouths drop open at the contact to the warmth between your thighs.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he sighs, “please let me taste you.”

His voice is gravelly, sends a wave of tingles up your spine as you grind down into his hand and tighten your grip on his hair. His fingers twitch against you as he gasps and pulls against your hold on his locks, and it’s fucking wicked.

Your curse and tug him by the hair to bury his face between your legs. You feel his nose squish against you first, then his lips, a hot breath of air released against you. He groans into you, inhales a deep breath, and you see his hips work frantically against the couch cushion underneath him.

“Frankie.”

He opens his eyes, but doesn’t dare pull his face away from your center.

“Take ‘em off,” you order.

He nods, face still pressed against you, like he’s nuzzling your package, and you have to tug his hair to urge him to get a move on.

“Sorry, sorry. Fuck— can’t help it.”

His fingers tremble, just barely, but noticeable nonetheless, as he hooks them under your briefs. One last look up at you, and you nod and tug at his curls, and then he finally pulls the damned things down your legs and off.

At this point, you don’t have enough wits about you to be shy. You spread your legs, one against the back of the couch, the other dangling off at the knee so your foot touches the floor. The air in your apartment is cool where you’re wet and slick, and your hips wiggle in anticipation.

All the while, Frankie stares at your center, just inches above you, so close you can feel his ragged breaths with every heave of his chest. He’s a fucking vision like this, between your legs, needy and ready to do what you tell him.

“Can I—?”

“Suck my cock, Frankie. Wanna see those pretty lips wrapped around it.”

A stilted breath escapes him as he opens his mouth to press against you. Your hips jolt at the first touch of his tongue through your folds, hot and wet and perfect. He wastes no time following your direction, though, tongue flicking over your cock before he gets it into his mouth and suckles.

Fuck.

It’s so fucking good, he’s so fucking good. Your grip on his hair only gets tighter as you watch his hips grind against the couch in a frantic rhythm. He whines and sucks harder, just shy of too much, tongue circling around your dick in between delicious pulses of suction.

You want to close your eyes and succumb to the pleasure, but you don’t want to miss a moment of this. The way his brow is creased in concentration, his silky curls bobbing up and down in your lap, the fucking noises he makes. The slurps and the grunts and the hums, like he’s getting just as much out of it as you are.

You suppose he is, the way he’s humping the sofa like he’s in heat.

His eyes flicker up to you, a silent question.

Is this doing it for you?

“So fucking good, Frankie. Just like that,” you tell him, fingers dragging through his hair, nails scraping at his scalp.

His eyes close as he hums around you, and yours do too, then, overwhelmed by the feeling. Your hips rock up into his face, fucking it, using him. His grip tightens on your thighs, and your body rocks from the from the way he’s grinding against the couch.

His tongue is wicked and precise, circling your cock, flicking it, circling then flicking, again and again and it makes your whole body buzz, has you out of your fucking mind.

And you suppose that’s why the words just fall from your lips; there’s no filter left, just raw, overwhelmed senses and adrenaline.

“Fuck, good boy Frankie. Letting me fuck your face, like the perfect little toy.”

“Hah— shit,” he whines, hips stuttering between your legs just for a moment as his lips lose their grasp on your dick.

“Prettiest mouth, all for me, right?”

You watch him as he looks up at you and nods, mouth hung open, his tongue sliding up and down your slit at the quick motion. He looks a mess, with his mustache glistening and his pupils huge and dark and his hair sticking up every which way. His eyelids droop and his brows draw up tight and he looks so so perfect between your legs.

With another pathetic noise, he sucks your cock between his lips again. You take mercy on his hair, let your hand find the back of his neck and cradle, massage the tense muscles under your fingertips. You feel him shudder against you, watch as his hips speed up in time with the bobbing of his head between your thighs.

And it’s building, blazing through your system, fiery static that has you breathing quicker, arching your back as your muscles tense.

Frankie’s noises only press you closer and closer to the edge, the way they’re muffled around your prick in his mouth, the way he’s clutching onto your hip and fucking your couch cushion as he slurps and suckles. It’s soaking wet and hot and much better than you’ve felt in a very long time.

“So close, don’t stop,” you beg.

Frankie’s answering noise is strung-out and his grip is bruising on your hip. You lift your hips into his mouth and your hand finds his hair again. You tug and encourage him to suck you off faster, just a bit, just enough.

You cry out his name as you shake. You hope the grip you’ve taken on his hair isn’t too tight, but none of your movements are your own until all the tension leaves your body. He works you through it as his breath puffs faster and heavier against your mound, gradually suckling softer, bobbing his head slower and slower while he groans around you.

Slowly, your muscles relax and your tendons unclench and your eyes open just in time to watch Frankie press a kiss to your swollen, twitching bud.

“Jesus,” you manage through a breath.

His grin is shy as he rests his cheek on your thigh. He strokes you through your comedown, quiet and calm, his fingertips soothing your thigh and your hip.

“How was that?”

You laugh at his question, and he hides his own chuckles in the crease of your hip.

“Incredible.”

He hums, and you ruffle his hair when his gaze turns sheepish.

“What do you need, Pretty Boy?”

He’s flushed, and his curls are a little damp at his temples as he shakes his head.

“I don’t need anything, Guapo.”

You try to muster up as stern a look as you can with your brain still fuzzy and your muscles still lax and gooey. His big brown eyes look up at you, pleading, and his shy look turns embarrassed.

Instead of speaking, he grunts as he sits back on his knees. You take note of the way his teeth scrape his bottom lip before you follow his eyeline, down his still heaving chest and belly.

You try not to let your eyes widen when you see the substantial damp patch soaked through his denim, but you must not have been subtle, because he makes a high, cut-off noise from the back of his throat.

“Sorry,” he says with a grimace.

“Shut up, you’re so fucking hot,” you chirp.

Those little dimples you’ve come to adore rear their heads even as he shakes his.

You sit up to press a kiss to one, then the other, and then his lips. You savor the heady taste of yourself on them, hum happily into his mouth as his trembling fingers stroke your skin.

You both change into comfier clothes. The sight of him wrapped up in your things has a whirlwind of emotions wreaking havoc in your chest. Something primal and something domestic all at the same time, and you have to tug him close in your grasp to tamper it all down to a manageable level.

His body weight tucked half into your side, half on top of you works wonders to calm you, especially as your hand finds his silky curls once more and you feel each strand slip through your fingers.

Frankie sighs, big and heavy, and it tickles your neck.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

He chuckles and nuzzles his nose into the sensitive skin behind your ear.

“Thinking it’s kinda crazy, being so into someone I met a month ago.”

Your pulse jumps at his words. You wonder if he can feel it where he’s pressed against you.

“Yeah, kinda crazy,” you agree.

“Feels stupid.”

His curls brush against your face when he shakes his head, huffs again, but you hear the smile in his voice.

“Life’s kinda stupid.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

You chuckle at him as you watch his fingers tap an incoherent rhythm on your stomach.

“Seems fair, doesn’t it? To lean into the stupid when you get the chance?”

He turns to you then, a soft smile crinkling the edges of his wide eyes.

“Sounds fair to me,” he mumbles.

last part / next part

#x reader #sub! frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #nb reader #gender-fluid reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal cinematic universe #frankie morales smut #triple frontier fanfiction

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bmwbestusa · 2 years

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2024 Ford Ranger Redesign, Specs, Release Date

2024 Ford Ranger Redesign, Specs, Release Date – Ford’s core truck portfolio is now complete with the introduction of the all-new midsize Ranger. The new F-150 and Maverick were both released during the past few months. The Ranger shown here was previously revealed for international markets, but the one coming to the US for the 2023 model year will look remarkably similar. The new Ranger joins a…

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#2024 Ford Ranger ev #2024 ford ranger hybrid #2024 Ford Ranger interior #2024 Ford Ranger long bed #2024 Ford Ranger news #2024 Ford Ranger price #2024 ford ranger raptor #2024 Ford Ranger specs #2024 Ford Ranger us #2024 Ford Ranger usa #ford ranger 2021 #ford ranger 2024 #ford ranger 2024 models #ford ranger fog light #ford ranger for sale #ford ranger parts #ford ranger raptor #ford ranger raptor 2024 #ford ranger tremor

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spookmuth · 2 months

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This is a pressure blog now. Yeah sorry to the people who followed me for Doai. I kinda uh hit the part of me that’s into Doai with a ford ranger, yeah I’m pretty sure their gonna be out of it for a while .

(All jokes aside, I’m just fish posting until Doai picks up again with the next vol, or something else of the like; my interest in Doai isn’t gone lol)

#doai #pressure

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kwebtv · 4 months

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TV Guide - May 30 - June 5, 1964

Ernest Borgnine (/ˈbɔːrɡnaɪn/; born Ermes Effron Borgnino; January 24, 1917 – July 8, 2012) Film, stage and television actor whose career spanned over six decades. He was noted for his gruff but relaxed voice and gap-toothed Cheshire Cat grin. A popular performer, he also appeared as a guest on numerous talk shows and as a panelist on several game shows.

Borgnine made his TV debut as a character actor in Captain Video and His Video Rangers, beginning in 1951. These two episodes led to countless other television roles that Borgnine would gain in Goodyear Television Playhouse, The Ford Television Theatre, Fireside Theatre, Frontier Justice, Laramie, Bob Hope Presents the Chrysler Theatre, Run for Your Life, Little House on the Prairie (a two-part episode entitled "The Lord is My Shepherd"), The Love Boat, Magnum, P.I., Highway to Heaven, Murder, She Wrote, Walker, Texas Ranger, Home Improvement, Touched by an Angel, the final episodes of ER, the first episode of Wagon Train, and many others.

In 1962, Borgnine signed a contract with Universal Studios for the lead role as the gruff but lovable skipper, Quinton McHale, in what began as a serious one-hour 1962 episode called "Seven Against the Sea" for Alcoa Premiere, and later reworked to a comedy called McHale's Navy, a World War II sitcom, which also co-starred unfamiliar comedians Joe Flynn as Capt. Wally Binghamton and Tim Conway as Ens. Charles Parker. The insubordinate crew of PT-73 helped the show become an overnight success during its first season, landing in the top 30 in 1963. (Wikipedia)

Thomas Daniel "Tim" Conway (December 15, 1933 – May 14, 2019) Film and television actor, comedian, writer, and director. From 1966 to 2012 he appeared in more than 100 TV shows, TV series and films. Among his more notable roles, he portrayed the inept Ensign Parker in the 1960s World War II TV situation comedy McHale's Navy, was a regular cast member (1975–1978) on the TV comedy The Carol Burnett Show where he portrayed his recurrent iconic characters Mister Tudball, the Oldest Man and the Dumb Private, co-starred with Don Knotts in several films (1975–80), was the title character in the Dorf series of eight sports comedy direct-to-video films (1987–1996), and provided the voice of Barnacle Boy in the animated series SpongeBob SquarePants (1999–2012). Twice, in 1970 and in 1980–1981, he had his own TV series. (Wikipedia)

Joseph Anthony Flynn III (November 8, 1924 – July 19, 1974) Film and television character actor. He was best known for his role as Captain Wallace Binghamton in the 1960s ABC television situation comedy McHale's Navy. He was also a frequent guest star on 1960s TV shows, such as Batman, and appeared in several Walt Disney film comedies. (Wikipedia)

#TV Guide #TV #1964 #Ernest Borgnine #Tim Conway #Joe Flynn #McHale's Navy

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man4x4accessories · 3 months

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Man 4x4 Is now listed in Australia acompio

Melbourne's MAN4x4 Accessories is a well-known retailer of 4x4 accessories. Because of our modest beginnings, we have grown to be a respected brand on Austraila acompio and an integral element of the 4WD community in the city. We're more than simply a parts store; MAN4x4 is your dedicated partner in enhancing every aspect of your 4WD experience.

#aluminium canopy #4x4 tray #4x4 canopy #ford ranger canopy #hilux trays #suspension parts

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romvnova · 4 months

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the most loyal breed

i wrote a thing; i'm definitely rusty and haven't ever written it in second person, present tense before so please be gentle with me. tagging/warnings: consensual but unprotected sex, f!reader x john "soap" mactavish, shifter!soap, breeding kink, swearing, implied ghoap ( if you squint ). part 1 of ??? just pure filth. please read at your own discretion! i am not responsible for minors reading this mature material when you've been clearly warned!

a storm howls as it rages outside your small log cottage concealed high in the forested mountains. the land had belonged to your forebearers and though the trips into town were long and rough in your beat up old 80’s ford ranger, it was worth it for the peace.

usually.

thunder ricocheted above like the crack of a thousand cannons and it was followed by the bursts of light as lightning touched down. it must be close, you can’t feel the heat, but you can hear nature’s electricity sizzle as it scours through the air to the earth.

it makes gooseflesh rise on your arms, fingers once wrapped ‘round your steaming coffee mug as you watch the rain and the wind and the lightening from the comfort of your front porch. or maybe it’s the dark, hulking shape half limping, half lumbering up the gravel drive, from around back of your truck.

for a moment there is a flash of fear, before instinct has you reaching for the shotgun propped against the wall of your home. you’ve never had to actually use it on an animal — or things more sinister — but you had been taught to shoot since before you could walk. coffee mug is set down slowly, carefully to avoid making noise.

shotgun is pressed against your shoulder, finger hovering over the trigger.

“get outta here!” you yell over the storm, moving away from the chairs, away from the wall. last thing you wanted to be was cornered.

the shape lets out a low kneeing whine and continues nearer. your finger tenses over the trigger, pausing only when lightening chases away the shadows: it’s a few seconds. but long enough to realize it’s a dog. the largest belgian malinois you’ve ever seen, sure — about the size of a full grown wolf — but a dog all the same.

the thought that it might be rapid crosses your mind as you lower your weapon and slowly approach the malinois with a tentative hand outstretched.

“hey there, big boy.” you coo, watching as the dog lets out a low whine and butts his muzzle up against your hand. the dynamic immediately changes and you’re coaxing him up the three small steps onto your porch with bits of bacon you’d cooked up to crumble in a pasta dish. he’s weary, hesitant at first. but not of you. he takes the bacon offered to him in a gentle way that makes you confident that he has an owner. or had.

the second confirmation as he stands dripping muddy water all over your freshly cleaned hardwood floors was the wide, dingy army green collar ‘round his neck. faintly, you could make out ‘SARG’ in bold, black stitching.

“sarg?” you ask, the muddy, soaked dog who plops down on his haunches like he’d forgotten he had an injury only to shift his weight with a pained whine. but bless his heart, his tail still wagged furiously behind him.

“where’s your owner, huh?” you ask, making a soft noise in your throat that you hope he understands to make ‘follow’. you aren’t sure what his command words are … but he pads along, nails clicking against the floor.

you give him a bath, using dawn dishsoap in lieu of any sort of dog shampoo, remembering that it was frequently used to clean animals that were covered in oil slick. surely, it could work on mud.

he’s patient and obedient, staring at you with eyes that spoke of an awareness and understanding that felt very un-dog like. but when your heart started to beat faster in your chest, teeth worrying your bottom lip — the thought of him being a skinwalker was almost enough to freeze the blood in your veins — his ears flutter back and he looks at you with eyes the size of saucers, his tail sloshing bathwater too and fro, clicking his teeth and chuffing. beneath the grime, he was not a typical malinois fawn but a dark charcoal color. a mutt, if you had to guess.

it thaws your veins, calms your heart. and you are giggling as you scrub behind his ears, forming the soapy loam into a mohawk atop his head, laughing so hard you had tears as he ‘grins’, showing his sharp teeth in a way that could not be described as threatening in any manner. very unusual for a dog.

and you tended his wound: a nice splice of flesh on his left thigh. even and clean. you had some knowledge of tending to dogs: your grandfather had kept plenty of hunting hounds during his life.

you had felt sure that someone would come looking for him, or ‘LOST DOG’ posters might show up around town. you asked at the local hotspots, even the police station. belgian malinois were working dogs, high energy. destructive when they didn’t get the proper exercise and territorial. you take him with you when you go to town, letting him ride shotgun. he’s highly trained, staying pressed right up against your right thigh the whole time. stepping so that he’s never in danger of being stepped on by you or tripping you.

“well if it ain’t the witch of the woods, come down to grace us with her presence.” drawls one of the locals, loitering outside by your truck at the grocery store. you scowls and put the bags in the truck bed, content to ignore him. sarg’s hackles bristle, upper lip curling from his wicked sharp canines.

“Whats this? got yourself a companion? how sweet.” the condescending tone suggested it was anything but. “you need rescuing from her, huh boy?” harry reaches down to pet him and the very real snap of sarg��s jaws has your teeth clenching, afraid that you would hear those massive teeth crunch through the bones of harry’s hand.

your hand goes to his faded collar — though it was almost laughable. if sarg decided to take off harry’s hand for trying to touch him … there wasn’t anything you were going to be able to do to stop him.

“i’m not keeping him.” though you wonder if you shouldn’t have said that. harry’d always been a bit creepy, though fear of what dwells in woods, old folklore passed down through their generations, kept him at bay. until hunting season. but even then: the time was scheduled and they all stayed clear of your land. and while you’d definitely heard of and believed in the cat distribution system you knew that the dog distribution system wasn’t a thing.

especially not for a working dog like sarg.

“he’s not mine. he has an owner out there somewhere.” but it’d been weeks and there’s been no attempts to find him. “but i’m taking care of him until they come looking for him.”

sarg snaps his teeth again, feigning a surge forth and harry recoils back with a small whimper. you have to hide your laugh as he mumbles a ‘see ya’ and hurries off, almost sprinting across the parking lot.

“hey harry, didn’t your papa ever teach you not to turn your back on a predator?” sarg starts barking then, salvia flying from his jowls; hamming it up. in a way that once again, fills you with a strange sort of suspicion that he was more than he seemed.

but one month weaves itself into two and no one’s come to claim him.

and for the first time since he’d shown up on your doorstep, you left him alone. not long. just long enough to run the few errands you needed to get done. the town had gotten less lax on his presence, afraid that his protectiveness over you might get one of them bit.

it was a valid fear, you knew. you hadn’t raised him, weren’t exactly sure how to handle him.

you are surprised and worried when you aren’t immediately greeted by sarg. it doesn’t feel right considering that the dog walked, lived, breathed in your shadow, always pressed against your thigh anytime you so much as twitched a muscle in movement.

absent. but not just absent. absent with no hint of the destruction you might expect form an high energy breed left alone for the first time since he arrived, limping on your door step; attaching himself to your hip from that very breadth of a second.

but you are surprised to hear the shower, to see the warm glow of the bathroom light seeping through the cracks, following the furling steam.

your family is long gone. none ventured out this way, and the doors and windows were all locked: you check them quickly just to be sure; heart in your throat the entire time.

your steps falter, hesitate at the low moaned “fook, fook, fook—!” as you draw nearer.

you grab the shotgun, and open the door, barrel raised, stock against your shoulder.

“what the fuck—?”

“dannae shoot! dannae shoot! i can explain i —” the man in your shower is clearly struggling to keep his composure, with his hand fisted tightly ‘round his thick, heavy, hard cock. you press the barrel of the shotgun to his temple; watching as his eyes squeeze close.

from fear or the ecstasy as it tips him over the edge to his zenith you couldn’t be sure.

“fookin’ hell.” he raspily pants around the words; voice low, honeyed ( your toes curl and heat pools in your abdomen, stomach swooping and then there’s your outrage, your fear that, that could elicit such a response from you when a strange man was in your shower ! ). he’s haunching in on himself, hips hips bucking up against his hand, thick ropes and virile streams of his seed mess on the shower wall, door and all over his hand.

“what the fuck?” you whisper again, this time quieter, meant for yourself as he pumps his hand a few times, somehow, impossibly, coaxing out more pearlescent spend.

“where the fuck is my dog?!” so many questions vying for their time in the spotlight, burning against your tongue which has grown thick as he scrambles for a towel. your towel, using it to cover himself as if you hadn’t just given a front row seat to his exhibition. you are disgusted and angry and afraid and your nostrils are flaring, taking in the thick scent of musk and your vanilla bean barsoap.

oh gods, he used your soap!

you think of the man versus bear debate and understand why you’d choose the bear as you grit your teeth so tightly they begin to ache.

so, why can’t you shoot?

“it’s — i’m …” he pants as he steps out of the shower, broad freckled shoulders gleaming with water. “lil fox it’s me.” the words tear themselves from his throat in thick scottish brogue as if they physically pained him to say.

he’s bigger than you thought: thick thighed and large. he takes up so much space in your small bathroom; towering over you like a fjord carved titan.

“what?” you ask dumbly, heart still sprinting like a rabbit giving chase.

“ack,” he makes a hurried, almost impatient noise in the back of his throat, one hand clutching the towel to his front as if in the name of decency, and the other running through the short shorn hair atop his head. “it’s me.” he repeats, desperation nesting in his tone, making it’s home. “sergeant. sergeant john “soap” mactavish.”

“sarg.” you whisper, a miasma of emotions surging through you as you stare at him, trying to decide which one you should allow to make its home within your chest, which feels like it’s being constricted; quite painfully.

“aye,” he murmurs morosely, shoulders loosening some now that he was not in danger of his head being blown off, for the shotgun barrel has tipped low in your shock, in your struggle to wrap your mind around what should be impossible.

“you — i —! you. you watched me shower! you —” your cheeks grow heated, breath coming out in rapid and shallow gasps as you careened closer to hyperventilation, glimpsing at the thigh that you had tended to, to find a scar matching sarg’s. accusations stain your teeth. it was a startling confirmation that leaves you feeling a bit out of body. you’d heard the stories of shape shifters. lore was heavy in these mountains, among the people that called it and the town nearby home and though you’d believed enough to make you suspicious you hadn’t thought —

john snatches the shotgun from your numb hands then. you let him.

“you humped my pillow.” you eek out the words, almost tumbling over them. john at least has the decency to look ashamed at that, cheeks flushing; sloe-eyed as he looks anywhere but at you.

“aye,” he swallows thickly. “ye were in heat. i cannae… it’s … in dog form it’s a lot more primal.” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck.

“humans don’t go into heat.” you tell him numbly.

“ye do,” he counters with a heavy look that leaves gooseflesh along your arms. “once every month right before yer eh, y’know. ‘s when yer most fertile. humans cannae smell it but animals can. i can.”

why does that send another rush of heat to your abdomen? as if snapping out of a daze you do the quick mental math and let out a small noise.

“i can smell it on yer skin, on yer hair.” he murmurs, voice pitching low. a whiskey croon that has your lips parting as his voice slides over your skin like a caress. the heat radiating off him, works to suffocate you and he’s so close but not close enough. saliva pools in your mouth and you swallow and his eyes, intense and focused follow the action with a low growl in his chest. hungry. needy.

“you need to leave.” your words lack the conviction you are aware they should have. a pocketful of lies.

“i cannae leave,” he murmurs heatedly, lips hovering. “i’m yers lil fox.” there is a deeper meaning to those words beyond their face value, his breath twining in your hair, reverberating in your bones. his nose brushes your cheek and you shiver, lashes fluttering as you look down at the strong curve of his collarbone.

“if you were able to change… why didn’t you…?”

“yer consent,” he says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and you were silly for not thinking about it. “and i was weak at first,”

“and then?”

“and then ye were comfortable with the dog form. i didnae wanna scare ye. dinnae wanttae break yer trust.”

his heat is intoxicating, his scent like a siren song coaxing her in now that she was so close. on the precipice of falling into the dark abyss looming below. what beasts awaited her, she could not see. but she knew they were there. and yet, he is like the gravity of a planet and she a solitary moon caught in his orbit.

“and now?” you ask softer still.

of course his supernatural hearing picks it up.

“now, i want tae taste your lips, eat tha’ deliciously sweet cunt until ye be but an incoherent mess and balm the ache with my cock. and stuff ye fit tae burstin’ over and over again with my seed until yer womb quickens with child.”

your mouth is dry; cottony. your fingers aching to touch: yourself or him you couldn’t be sure. both, you think.

if you touch him, you know whatever is left of your veil thin resolve will be rendered useless. torn away so effortlessly by him. by the sirens lilt of his voice, by the burn of those oceanic blues, by those lips parted. your flush grows feverish as you imagine them everywhere, kissing and sucking and those sharp canines marking your flesh.

something very real and palpable tethered you to him, what your grandmother had called a mating bond you think. you’re not sure how you know it so deeply in your soul, in the marrow of your bones but you reach out with tentative fingers to touch his left forearm, tracing the vein from wrist to elbow.

it is you giving consent. john lets out a low growl that immediately melts into your skin, warming you until your clenching your thighs together. the towel is discarded and he is kneeling down, large calloused fingers tugging down your shorts, your panties and shoving his face against your cunt.

a high pitched keening noise leaves your lips, grasping the sink for support, your other fingers finding purchase in the damp hair of his mohawk as he kisses and licks and slurps. one hand holds your thigh tightly, fingers digging into your supple flesh to keep you still, as one finger curls inside and then another when he thinks you are ready, joined soon after by his tongue.

the sloppy noises as he eats you out like a man starving are some of the most filthy, unholy noises you think you’ve ever heard, but you’re moaning and keening and mewling, legs quivering from his ministrations, from the gaelic he purls against your cunt, the praises in english until you are coming all over his tongue, his fingers.

and he’s looking above you like an old god, half forgotten but still very much thrumming with life, lifting you up, hard cock straining against your thigh as he plops you on the small vanity; mindful of his girth as his cock fills the ache of your swollen cunt.

“that’s it… that’s it. fook,” he pants ‘round the word, pushing deeper inside, stilling as he sinks to the hilt as your legs wrap ‘round his waist. his lips are on yours, tongue pushing inside your mouth as he thrusts slowly at first but pace quickens until he’s rutting up and into you, the slap of sweat slicked skin, the breathy and panting kisses: to your lips, your neck, your collarbone where he bites down.

he is surprisingly unvocal now, hand wrapping lightly ‘round your pretty throat as he ruts and rocks into you, staying deep and your breath drags itself from your lips in heavy, desperate pants, hands clinging to his shoulders as the pressure of something foreign both causes pain and equal amounts of pleasure as you can feel him begin to throb within you.

“i ken lil fox,” he croons, thrusts growing shallow but harder; a groan pushing past his lips as he knots tightly within,, balls and cock throbbing against your flesh, within your cunt which fills you with spend with each thrumming throb of his cock. again and again. “nae a drop can spill.” he murmurs against your lips, thumb rolling your swollen clit as he empties himself within you. “that’s my good girl.” he growls against the shell of your ear, licking the side of your sweat slicked face.

it would become your norm, this. johnny, a fixture in your life, your husband. preferring human form but always slipping into dog form when you went into town.

two years later, your toddler, a girl named wren clings to johnny’s leg squealing with undiluted joy during playtime as you make pancakes, a hand rubbing your swelling baby bump.

time freezes when a pounding sounds at the door; an oncoming storm that has finally reached their shores. johnny stills, face paling. violet whines, tugging at his jeans, not understanding before he scoops her into his arms; stiff backed and tense.

“ssh baby bird,” you watch him as he coos to her, opening up the door. the kitchen blocks your view of who’s at the door but you hear his voice meld into your bones like the fires of hell. you picture cerberus, slavering jaws and vicious teeth and cloaked in shadows. “hello johnny.”

“ghost —” your husband’s voice is strained; a low warning threaded in that single syllable. you twist off the stove and move ‘round the kitchen’s island, hand cradling your abdomen, to see the grim reaper at your door cloaked in abysmal shadows and a skull face mask.

#john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #cod soap #cod fanfic #shifter fanfic #queue the 414 #writings #my stuff

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