#it’s pishin’ it doon out here | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aoioozora · 3 months

Note

THIS IS SO AMAZING OMG (talking about the Simon fanfic btw) YOU JUST EARNED A FOLLOWER ❤️❤️ we'd really appreciate it if you did a part 2? 🥹 Take care

Simon.

Part 2

Part 1 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8

Character: Simon Riley / Ghost

Content: Biker! Ghost x Fem! Reader, strangers to lovers, fluff, civilian au

Note: I was never planning on making this a series but here we go, I guess I'm invested too now >:) thank you for requesting and following! While this series is fluff only, I have a small warning for this part: there's swearing, crude jokes. And possibly incorrect usage of Scottish and English slang. Enjoy :) Photo credit: mus

“It's pishin’ it doon out here.”

Simon looked at his friend and sighed, “English, MacTavish.”

MacTavish groaned. “It's raining fuckin’ hard.”

“Then say so.”

“I did!”

Simon and his friend, John MacTavish or ‘Johnny’, as he was affectionately called, found themselves standing under the shade of a book café, helmets in hands, watching Simon's bike get drenched in the heavy rain. Neither of them expected a downpour, and were caught without raincoats. And so the two had no choice but to wait it out.

“It was yer bloody brilliant idea to go on a road trip when I warned ye that it was gonna rain today,” Johnny griped, crossing his arms as he shook the rain water off his helmet.

Simon didn't say a word. He copied Johnny in getting the water off his helmet, except that he wiped it off with his hand. As he hung his head down to do so, his messy blond hair fell over his eyes, and he shook his head to get it out of the way. He wiped his hands on a handkerchief to dry them, and then pulled his mask down below his nose to inhale a fresh gulp of the cold, wet air. When he had inhaled enough, he pulled the mask back on, and his eyes wandered to his motorcycle, which was surrounded by a foggy haze in the rain.

His mind wandered to that night he saved a young lady off the dangerous streets. He remembered how he saw her from afar, and without a second thought, sped up to her assailants, half-intent on actually flattening them into crepes. He remembered how his engine pounded as adrenaline charged his blood, as he twisted the accelerator to full throttle, sending the vehicle flying.

A pretty lady he thought she was. He didn't know why he called her his girlfriend; his brain decided that being a boyfriend was the second most powerful thing a man could be, the first being a husband. No other men would mess with another man's woman, that was for sure, unless he had a death wish. She acted well too, convincingly even.

He pulled out his phone and turned it around. Nestled beneath the clear casing was a small, clear candy wrapper, the same one that the pretty lady gave him that day. He didn't know why he felt the need to keep it, but did anyway. He definitely wanted something to remind him of her.

He had been in anguish ever since he dropped her off and rode away; he had completely forgotten to ask for her name. But who does that? They were strangers. What are the odds that two strangers would meet again?

“I'm heading inside,” Johnny announced, “I want a coffee.”

“Get me some tea.”

“Fuckin’ Brit.”

Simon was about to correct Johnny by telling him that Scotland, where he was from, was also part of the British isles, but he bit back, not wanting to risk hearing a rant in exclusively colorful, and totally family friendly Scottish words and phrases.

“Fine, I'll do it myself.” Simon rolled his eyes and followed Johnny inside the book cafe.

The two men sat at a table and while Johnny peered into the menu, Simon sank back into the comfortable chair and looked at the yellow bulbs hanging overhead, casting a soft, golden glow on the smooth wooden tables, the floors, and the cutlery. The smell of coffee, cakes, and books filled the air, along with the soft ruffle of pages, clinks of tableware and cups and saucers, and the distinct murmurs of his friend across him as he figured out what coffee he wanted to have.

A waiter came by to take their orders, and the two were soon left to their own, sitting in unusual silence as they stared out the glass windows at the relentlessly pouring rain. While Johnny hummed a tune to himself, Simon, tired of looking at the downpour, decided to amuse himself with people watching.

He saw people working at their laptops, some reading and drinking, others chatting in soft murmurs, and staff doing their job.

His eyes fell on one particular lady who was seated at a table across the cafe, back facing him, busily working on her laptop. He felt his heart stop for a moment. Her silhouette was familiar, particularly her hair; it looked just like her. His heart pounded beneath his ribs.

He didn't realise how long he looked until Johnny's voice piped, “Wit ye lookin’ at?” which interrupted the momentary buzz of his thoughts.

Simon turned to his friend, who was looking at him with mingled curiosity and confusion. “Nothing.” he replied, shaking his head and hanging it down slightly to look away, but his eyes immediately darted to the lady, as if she was a strong magnet.

Johnny wasn't quite convinced, and he followed Simon's line of vision. “A lass,” he observed, smirking.

Simon glared at his friend, but it only made him chuckle. The two watched as she stood up for a moment and turned around, intent on walking to the shelves to grab a book. That's when Simon saw her face, and again, his heart seized.

“It's her.”

His breath lodged tight in his lungs and his body visibly stiffened. And the most unfortunate reaction of them all: his partially exposed cheeks had turned pink. His eyes were glued to her, and he was unaware that Johnny was still keenly observing him.

“Ye ken her?” asked Johnny, his smirk widening.

“You remember I saved a girl the other day?” He asked back.

“That's her?” Johnny whipped his head back again to take another gander at the lady.

She was furiously flipping through the pages of a hardbound book, as if desperately in search of something. Simon rested his elbow on the armrest of the chair and leaned his cheek on his fist; he watched with interest as she hunched over the book like a medieval scholar, and wondered what her occupation was. She went back to her seat, hunched over again, and the two men looked back at each other.

“Go talk to her,” Johnny challenged.

“No.”

“Keep bein’ a fuckin’ pussy and ye won't get to fuck that pussy, ye ken?”

Simon snorted at that, but then immediately and quietly hissed “Wheesht!” at Johnny to make him shut up, glancing back at the pretty lady. “Don't be disrespectful,” he added.

Johnny chuckled, ever amused at the fact that his Scottish vernacular was infecting the Englishman. He leaned forward, resting a hand on his knee, continuing to smirk, “Since when did ye care about respect, huh?”

Simon inhaled sharply, since he was getting increasingly impatient with Johnny and at the fact that he was running out of arguments. It was also a bit hard to argue in a place where you're supposed to be quiet.

“Just go already. I cannae see ye looking so stupid like this. The worst she can say is ‘fuck off’.” Johnny shrugged.

Simon shot his friend and unimpressed look, making Johnny snort. “That is the worst thing she can say, you wanker,” he said, now mechanically rising from his chair.

“Fuck off and get her number, ye gobshite, or else you'll just be wanking to her and not talking.” Johnny shook his head with a smirk and gave his friend a slap on the back as he passed him. Simon returned the gesture with a slap to the back of Johnny's head, particularly in annoyance at the latter part of his sentence.

While Johnny whined quietly from how hard a slap he had been dealt with, Simon's attention was drawn when he heard her voice again, sounding a little agitated. His head whipped towards her table, and yet again, she was being hit on by some guy, and clearly looked like she was uncomfortably fighting back his unwanted advances.

Simon glared at the man as he began his march. “If only she had a boyfriend by her side, a guard dog…” he thought to himself as he speedily, yet calmly stepped over to her table.

He went around some tables and emerged behind the man, towering over him. Before Simon was noticed by her, his hand came down heavily on the man's shoulder, making him flinch. Leaning down, he whispered as the man turned to face him, “What business do you have with my girlfriend?”

The man was met with Simon's glaring eyes that meant serious business. He froze up immediately.

“Babe, he was trying to hit on me even though I told him I wasn't interested,” the lady's voice resounded, and a quick glance at her told Simon that her eyes glimmered with recognition.

The “babe” made his knees weak for a moment, but he shook off the feeling and continued to glare at the man. No more words were needed. He immediately stood up from his seat and strode away, apologising without sincerity. When he was finally earshot, she sighed.

“You alright, love?” asked Simon with gentleness unusual to him, glancing around again to make sure the man was nowhere in sight.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she sighed, also looking in the direction the man left. She looked back at him and smiled brightly, “But what a coincidence. We meet again, Simon.”

“And I'm mighty chuffed about it.” he thought to himself as he nodded in response. “Funny coincidence, really. My friend and I were just about to leave on a small road trip and the rain,” he shook his head and clicked his tongue as he looked at the windows, “it rained on our parade, I guess.”

The unintentional pun made her giggle. Simon normally had a grip on his emotions, but that damned giggle threw off his train of thought. But regaining himself, he continued, “So we took shelter here, and I saw you. Thought I'd come talk and then I heard that guy trying to make a pass at you.”

She motioned to the chair for him to sit down, which he instantly did; he cursed himself for seeming so eager.

“You heard?” she asked with emphasis.

“Yeah?” he nodded, slightly confused as to why she zeroed in on that word in particular. “I was looking elsewhere, and then I heard you.”

She then glanced at her laptop for a moment and then pulled the screen down slightly so he wouldn't see what was on. As she did, she said, “I see. I'm lucky you came just then because I was having a hard time driving him away.”

“I could tell,” he answered slowly. He then decided to change the subject. “You come here often?”

“Yeah, every day. This place is calm and quiet and the atmosphere helps me work.”

“What's your job?”

“I'm an author.”

“An author?” he blinked in surprise. He didn't expect that. “What do you write about?”

“Fantasy and adventure… With a hint of romance.” She grabbed her tote that was on the table and pulled out a book from it, which she showed him. “This is my first published book.”

“No kidding?” He took the book in my hand. It was titled ‘Firefly Trails’, embossed in gold. The cover was matte, showing a dark forest trail dotted with glossy fireflies and their greenish yellow light. Below the title was her name, and he read it in his mind slowly, his eyes spending more time taking it in more than anything else on the cover.

“New York Times Bestseller.” he recited, smirking as he eyed the epithet on the top of the cover, “Don't they slap this on every book?”

“They do, but this actually did pretty well in New York.”

“So you're famous then?”

“Kind of?”

“Tell me your Instagram handle, I'll need to see for myself.” Simon pulled out his phone and looked at her, waiting for her to tell him.

She did. He immediately typed it out on the search bar and while he did, he rested his elbow on the table, holding his arm upright. His neck was craned upward slightly, and the lady couldn't help but stare at the way his Adam's apple moved as he gulped, and the way the sternocleidomastoid muscle tightened and popped from under his fair skin as he moved his neck.

Her analytical, authorly eyes scanned him keenly, soaking in all she could make of his facial features; at his icy blond hair, short and styled in an undercut; his long eyelashes, his shapely eyebrows, his slightly pink cheeks under the black mask, the way his brown eyes reflected against the blue light of the phone screen; it was all a sight to behold. He was saying something, but her mind was so lost in trying to mentally string words together to describe the view in front of her in the most superfluous manner possible, in hopes that this information would be used in her future works.

“Hey, you really are famous. You got quite a tonne of followers.” Simon, who was highly aware of her shameless staring, somehow managed to interrupt her flow of thought.

She was successfully brought back to Earth from her daydream, and she nodded, now embarrassed to have been caught red-handed. He thankfully made no comment on it, not wanting to make things awkward.

She answered, “I suppose so. But they're not as many as bigger authors. I'm not complaining, though. I'm really happy to have a lot of people liking my work.”

“You're too modest,” he said, and she could see his cheeks rise to his eyes just a wee bit behind his mask, indicative of a smile. He now showed her her Instagram page on his phone. “There, I followed you,” he said, pointing at the grey ‘Following’ button.

“Are you sure? You don't look like the type of person who reads or is interested in author updates.” A slightly teasing smirk tugged the corner of her lips.

Simon chuckled and shook his head slightly, making his short hair swish a little; she took notice of it. “I'm a voracious reader,” he bragged, lying through his teeth, even using a fancy word to make it more convincing.

She smiled, clearly not quite convinced, but decided to humor him anyway. “If you are, then that book is a gift for you.” She glanced at the copy resting on his lap.

“No kidding?” he blinked as he took the book in his hand to gaze at it. “Well, since you're so famous, I think I should get your autograph.” he said, and she could see one of his cheeks raised; an unmistakable smirk.

“Oh, come on, you're making me blush,” she giggled, but took the book anyway.

"My intentions exactly," he thought as he watched her grab a pen and start writing on the first page.

His phone buzzed a message in the meantime, and he took the device to have a look. It was Johnny. He glanced at the other end of the cafe at his friend, and found him staring, finishing the last sips of his coffee.

Johnny MacTavvy: oi yer tea's getting cauld

Johnny MacTavvy: Rain's stopped too. Let's go

Simon now looked out the glass windows and the rain had indeed stopped, and a bit of sunlight was peeking through the cloudy skies. He sighed, not wanting to go just yet, but knowing Johnny wouldn't let him tarry any longer, he quickly typed a reply, which Johnny saw immediately.

Fuckin’ Brit: ok

By the time Simon kept his phone in his pocket, the lady finished her autograph and handed the book to him. “Enjoy.” She smiled.

Simon murmured a “Thanks” as he received the book, and then rose from his seat.

“Leaving already?” she asked, looking a little disappointed.

“Yeah, my friend's annoying me to finish my tea so we can be on our way. The rain's stopped now, so…”

“Okay,” she nodded slightly, glancing out the windows to confirm for herself. Looking back at him, she smiled again, “Take care then.”

“You too,” he inhaled. “Make sure you don't get hit on again,” he said, attempting to be casual and funny, but he felt like his attempt turned out to be so stupid.

She shook her head, scoffing and smiling. “I'll be fine.”

He was relieved that the attempt landed safely despite the turbulence, and he sighed. “Right then, I'll see you inna bit, love.”

“See you, Simon.”

He nodded once at her and then strode back to Johnny, feeling his knees get weaker by the second. He managed to reach his table and practically fell down in his seat.

“Well?” asked Johnny with a smirk as he leaned forward and eyed the book in Simon's hand. “She gave ye a gift, I see.”

“She's an author. Her first book.” Simon answered, handing him the book so he could see it.

“For real?” Johnny took the book and flipped through the pages. The autograph on the first page caught his attention and he read it. His eyes widened slightly and he closed the book, returning it to his friend, who was drowning the lukewarm tea. “He completely forgot, didnae he, this bastard.” Johnny muttered under his breath, smirking.

“What was that?” asked Simon, setting down the teacup.

“Nothing. Let's go.”

The two paid for their drinks and as they stepped out the door, Simon glanced back at her, and saw that she was also looking at him over her shoulder. This time, he felt a bit fluttery in his stomach. She waved at him with another of those pretty smiles and he waved back, already feeling his knees go weak again.

The two turned away and exited the book cafe. While Johnny wiped the rainwater off the motorcycle, Simon took a moment to see what she had written as an autograph.

“Dear Simon, thank you for saving me twice. I hope you enjoy the book,” was written, and along with that was her name and signature.

Below that was written in unmistakably bold and clear letters, “Call me,” along with her number.

Simon felt like he had been struck by lightning. His face turned alarmingly red and hot to the point that he scrambled to pull his hood over to hide himself. “Fuck me…” he mumbled his exclamation as he processed this very clear green light from her. It was unbelievable.

In the meantime, the lady herself couldn't believe this whole thing just happened. He happened to be there, came up to her, saved her, and swooped her off her feet the second time. It was an amazing coincidence, a once in a lifetime incident, something straight out of a novel. And being an author, she couldn't let this go. She just had to shoot her shot by slapping her phone number in the autograph and now hope that he would call her.

But if there was one thing that sold her completely, it was the fact that he heard that she was in trouble, and came to her rescue.

Feeling a flutter in her chest, she looked back at her laptop screen. A Google search result was displayed in bold:

“The name Simon means ‘to hear’.”

End of Part 2.

Part 3

237 notes · View notes

cowyolks · 1 year

Text

SMOKED

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Gn! Reader

Request: a oneshot where Ghost is smoking but his gf warned him about smoking and that it's bad for his health and then he holds the smoke in his mouth and kisses her and blows it in her mouth or smtg :D thank youu!!

Words: 0.8 k

Warnings: Mentions of injury, Loss of Hostages, Smoking.

It was silent in the infirmary. Something that made your body stiffen and mind race in worry.

The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the steady patter of raindrops upon the rooftops.

Your nail was in your mouth, already chewed to a pathetic nub. A nasty habit, something you had difficulty breaking. But you couldn’t help but worry. He told you it would only be a quick mission, forty-eight hours tops.

That was ninety-four hours ago.

You stared at the mug sat upon your desk. It became a tradition that after Simon returned from his mission the two of you would indulge in tea and comforts. It was something little, yet it still made your heart soar.

A heavy knock interrupted your staring, quickly you tore your eyes away from the ceramic mug and to the squad all packed in the doorway. Immediately you were on your feet, the office chair sliding back a few meters.

“Bumps and scrapes, Doc. We’re okay. All of us.” Soap had ensured, the weight lifting off your shoulders immediately as you ushered them in.

By the time you had finished stitching Price and wrapping a bandage around Gaz’s arm, the clock chimed. Alerting you that it was now two in the morning.

You rounded on Soap, the air silent between the two of you as you dressed the graze on his torso. His chest expanded with air, before letting it out as your needle pierced his skin.

“We were delayed with the storm, it was pishin’ a doon out there. Couldn’t see any of the hostages through the rain. One of them died before we got there.”

You hummed, finishing on the stitches with a simple tie.

“I’m glad you came back in one piece; I’d be awfully lonely without my favorite gossip girl around.” You teased half-heartedly, finishing the dressing before patting his bare torso.

“Fuck off.” Soap brushed you off, a broad smile on his lips.

“Where’s Ghost?”

“He’s off sulking, the hostage that died was in his quadrant. I tried to say it wasn’t his fault.” Soap mumbled, pulling his shirt over his head again.

“I’ll find him. Get some sleep, Sergeant. That’s an order.”

“Right away, Doc.”

He left your office quietly, and once again you were met in eerie silence. After picking up your messes and sanitizing the area, you shuffled to the stairs, tiredly climbing them as you pushed open the door that led to the roof.

He was there, his body slouched as his head was tilted up and looking at the raging storm. In all honesty, Simon Riley was a storm himself, his body tense and coiled like rumbling thunder, and his mind like flashing lightening, quick to protect those loyal to him, and to flash in anger when those did him wrong.

That’s what most didn’t understand about him. He cared, sometimes cared too much.

You shivered against the wind and stray drops of rain but found yourself standing next to his side robotically.

“You broken?”

“No.”

You tilted your head, taking a peek at him. His jaw was clenched, half his balaclava was rolled up to his nose, enough room for his burning cigarette to slip between his lips.

“You know it wasn’t your fault.” You softly reassured, but Simon said nothing, just brought his hand up to his lips, letting the nicotine escape through his mouth in a heavy wave of smoke.

“You’ll get sick out here, rain’s cold.” He grunted.

Thank you for coming up here.

His opposite hand reached around you, pulling you into his side. He wasn’t smothering you, but the warmth of his side felt nice against your body.

“You know what else gets you sick? Cigarettes.”

An amused huff escaped him, just as he tilted his cheek to rest upon the crown of your head.

“Cheers, love.”

You rolled your eyes, watching as he took one last pull before throwing down the stick and stomping it out with his heel.

He shifted, turning to you with a dazed look in his eye. His fingers maneuvered to the back of your neck, tilting your jaw up to his face as he bent into your personal space.

With a hum of pleasure, you pulled his lips between yours, but with wide eyes, you ripped away from him when you felt the rolling smoke in your throat.

A cheeky smirk was plastered across his face, as you coughed shorty.

“That’s how it’s going to be, huh?” Your hands gripped onto his belt loops, pulling him down to your lips again and tasting the remaining nicotine in his mouth.

Simon let out a surprised grunt but relaxed against your lips anyways. He pulled away, his finger tracing down your jaw.

“Let’s warm up inside, I can make some tea.”

#modern warfare #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #Simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2

1K notes · View notes

50cal-fullauto-astarion · 3 months

Text

x g l a s g o w g r i n n e r

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!OC / 2.1k words

Soap’s always been a little too comfortable playing at violence, always gone-bright when he can turn the threat of it into a promise. Joke’s on the world at large: Special Agent Bordelon’s into that shit.

Or: Soap pulls a knife on a stranger for being a creep, because he’s from the brutal street stabbing capitol of the UK and that’s just how you say “Hi, hey, hello—back the fuck off.” And a million kisses to @lunarvicar for encouraging my bullshit! LOVE YOU NAT 🫶

It is never hard to run with Soap and keep his breakneck pace—the only thing that had been difficult was adjusting to the fact that someone else could finally keep up with hers. It’s a stomach-thrilling shock to look from the corner of her eye, and find the blur of his burly shape there, winking and clicking his tongue without breaking a sweat.

Bordelon is soft for the Scot sook, god forsake the shit out of her.

He’s landed in D.C. on medical leave, a broken collarbone leaving his arm in a sling, and the first thing he’d done—after kissing his way up her neck to the spot behind her ear that made her skin sing and her palms sweat—was sling his good arm around her neck, pulling her in close, and nibbling her earlobe. “Christ, s’it always pishin’ it doon here, too?”

“Naw,” she laughed back, reaching to tangle their fingers together on her chest, his backpack slung over her shoulder, “just October, couillon.”

“Ohh, talk that dirty, fake French to me, mah cherry,” he mock-growled, which just earnt himself a pap! of the palm to his cheek. All play, no sting, and he beamed.

That night burns down to the coals—traipsing back to her apartment, showing off the ugly bruise that bleeds does from his neck to his bottom-rung rib, kissing and touching and figuring out a way to fuck that doesn’t hurt him too-too much.

(The man likes a little ache in it, here and there. Calls dichotomy in that blessed, rock-fall accent. Ratios of sweet to sour, black to white, sun and night. As if he had any more concept of balance and moderation than she.)

He lies across the bed in that silly-ass sling, watching her bitch her smart TV a blue-streak while wearing one of his threadbare navy t-shirts and nothing else. Rubs the spot at the bottom of his sternum, listening to rain slap heavy sheets against the old windows, and says, “Perdita.”

“Don’t you full name me,” she warns, shaking her head, because it is an ill-fitted address. For him, she is Hen, or Perdie, in much the same way he is her Johnny, Jean, or John-boy. A thing you love is all in how you name it, and their names are softened and held close; in the way of lovers who began as friends, once they were strangers no more.

“We’re getting married ‘fore I ship back tae Glasgow,” is how he finishes his thought, and Bordelon turns on her hips, back and forth, vaguely pointing the remote at the screen. He gives her a challenging tooth-sharp smirk. “Thought I should warn you.”

“Mhm. Yeah.” She wonders if she should count this a proposal, or call his bluff, and then she thinks—might as well nail both options to the fuckin’ wall while she’s got the knife. “We go our way onto the courthouse tomorrow. Keep it simple, ça c’est bon?”

International marriage is never that simple, though, and they’re both the wiser to it. But the sentiment is pretty, and it sparks amongst the hard-bought bonfire that lives in the depths of her chest, flames rising and licking to glorify his name. So, they call it an engagement, and Soap pulls a turn-around she doesn’t expect, turning his phone off to pull a shade of night over only the two of their heads.

He’s no family to call, apart from his 141, and even then, there’s a hesitance to his hands. Her man—her bombastic, beautiful bastard—could not stand to be a burden, no. A nightmare that is for him, himself. Even if he were to reach out with the utterly, desolately rare delivery of good news (a phenomenon grown so rare that Neptune would sooner complete circuits around the sun these days), it would make his skin crawl.

Were he to have his way, his burdens would never leave the span of his shoulders to weigh down another’s back, even something as small as what might be an inconveniently timed but otherwise benign or even welcome call.

Come the gray and misting morning, he’s handsy and all-paws, even short a limb, groping for Bordelon as the woman rolls upright on the edge of the bed, pushing her sleep-tangled hair away from her face before it irritates her to death. His hand is warm, callused, and heavy with insistence as it settles into the dip of her violin hip, trying to pull her back into the warm expanse of his hard-packed body.

“Perdie, Hen,” he grunts, tone shading toward playful complaint, “the fuck’re y’doin’ awake?”

“Startin’ off,” she croaks, shaking her head, pushing at his fingers as they crawl closer to her cunt. “Stop that—arrête ça! You’re mangy this morning, T’Jean,” she laughs, pushing more firmly at his grip. “No, get up. Got a friend, knows her way ‘round immigration policy, and she always got an envie for brunch.”

“Brunch?” he questions, flat as buried flounder, falling back into her mountains of mismatched pillows with a dreadful look on that handsome face of his. “Darlin’, am no getting my fat ass outta bed, even for brunch. Feel kinda fruity even sayin’ it.”

“Even for to get us married?” she darts back, turning to look at him, drawing her fingers in circles through the hair on his lower stomach, cooing ridiculously in her rasp-rough drawl, “Even for me.”

“Goddamn,” he groans, throwing baby-dog eyes her way. “I mean, was hopin’ you’d take it serious—cannae tell wi’ your ass—but.” He swallows, one of those corny, I’m-about-to-fuck smiles threatening the corner of his mouth, the one that makes him all coy and keen, looking down at her pale, spidery fingers drifting closer and closer through his thick, dark body hair to his fattening cock. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in bed? Cold morning like this, I could keep you warm.”

She just barely brushes her fingers over his cock before she’s snap-sliding out of bed, copperhead quick, tossing over her shoulder, “Nope! Already sent an email, she knows we on the schedule,” on her way to the shower.

Soap drops back against the bed, rubbing his stubbled face, grunting, “Bordelon, you arsehole.”

But he can’t withstand the siren call of watching her in the shower, so, ever-faithful and ever-horned up, he follows after.

D.C. is about as filthied up with the sorrows of addiction and homelessness as any other place, Bordelon supposes. Can’t tell if it’s better or worse than any of the time she spent down New Orleans or Baton Rouge way. Colder, mostly. But it’s not all the time you need to know about the homeless or the drug addicts—keepin’ eyes on them, keepin’ them in your ears, at least at the sides.

Sometimes, it’s the fella in the khakis, with a puffer jacket and prescription glasses, his behaviors making his Rolex look cheap shit.

Bordelon and Soap slide last into the car before the doors pull shut, close to standing-room early in Crystal City as lunch hour approaches. All the suits are out their offices, scrounging for edibles, droning loud and monotone on their cells. Whole car is damp and humid from the downpour, human body heat causing an intense mugginess that crawls under the clothes to irritate the skin. It’s damn near enough to make Bordelon’s head spin, neck uncomfortable with sweat the way it was all them years down deep, deep in the south.

“No, sit doon,” Soap says, flapping the good arm great and wide, trying to get her to pop a squat on the only empty seat left, shaking his head. “Dinnae try bossin’ me, talkin’ wi’ that spooky-arse agency voice. Want away from you a minute.”

He dresses up chivalry as dismissal, and she can’t help but grin, even as she dawdles on sitting.

“What? You don’t like how Tiffany sounds? I swear, she’s perfectly nice. And outstanding in her field. She’s an accomplished agent, and her superiors are recommending her for a promotion,” she says, in that self-same agency voice of which he’d complained—rich and clear, dialect: nonregional, speech pattern: nondescript.

“Oof, fuckin’ hate that, stop,” he snorts, faking a shiver, but he does complain, “Hey, what? Where you goin’?” when she actually does move to sit down, tugging her up by the collar of her shirt just a bit to pop a grinning kiss against her mouth.

She doesn’t realize, at least not right away, that the tug at her collar disrupted her shirt. Just enough to make a few buttons slip, exposing more of her right tit under her open coat. Wore a thin top today, loose, but figured the dark fabric would hide any transparency. Hated tight clothes, hated bras, and never wore one; just figured her rack had spent thirty-three years being nothing to comment on.

Well. More than half a tit exposed was enough to catch the attention of the man who cheapens his Rolex by being the one to wear it.

Soap likes strange things because he, himself, is a strange thing, and Bordelon had thought to take him the two hours north to Philly to hit the Mütter Museum to see their medical abnormalities, because once their brunch is out, they’ll have an entire day to themselves. She’s busy showing him pictures, enticing him, when the woman next to her taps her thigh.

Like an alarm hollerin’ in her head, she starts running two tracks instant-like, leaning without looking as she whispers, “Yeah, chere?”

The woman is older, in maroon scrubs—some kinda tech, smell of jelly on her says maybe ultrasound—and nonslip clogs. Can’t quite see her name badge, but that seems on purpose, covered up by her fleece.

“That man over there—he’s takin’ pictures of you,” she whispers back, straightening her jacket needlessly as a hint, “just wanted you to know. Maybe tell your man?”

“Oh, no,” Bordelon hums, smoothly pulling her shirt back into place, “I tell him, he gonna light that stupid bastard up like a candle.”

“Who’s lightin’ me up like a candle?” Soap stage-whispers, all play, and Bordelon knows exactly how the next ten seconds are gonna go, and it plays out picture perfect to her premonition. Bordelon tells him don’t worry, I got it, the Good Samaritan in maroon scrubs informs him of the creep, and the smile on Soap’s face turns into a flesh-ripper grin as all the fun burns outta his gaze like a gas fire in a hyperbaric chamber.

“Oh?”

“MacTavish,” she warns him, “wait til the stop.”

“Naw, naw, naw. I’ll play nice, Hen.” That means, sure as shit, he won’t.

The switch knife he takes out his back pocket is deadly smooth, and so is his broad step to the stranger and his budget, Amazon-bought phone case, pushing straight into his man-spread legs.

The fact there isn’t an immediate uproar, but the man’s face is blanched and staring up at him with a shitload of oh fuck on his face speaks to Soap’s own scary-ass career, and Bordelon can barely see the tip of the knife pressing into the spot just below the stranger’s ribs.

“Hey, pal, mornin’,” Soap says, bright and easy as anything, voice not droppin’ even a note, head tilted real friendly. “Do me a favor, eh? Just drop your phone next t’my boot, yeah? We’ll just get this little creeper session done and dusted.”

Can’t even hear the clunk when it slides out of the man’s limp hand, and it’s even quieter when the heel of Soap’s boot shifts over to destroy the screen, grinding it to dust.

“Good man,” he says, pulling the knife back to close it and slide it into his sling. “Next stop, you’re off. But you’re gonna leave your phone on the floor. Hope you dinnae eat shet on the way home to your ol’ lady.”

Bordelon resists the urge to slap a hand over her face, but when Soap kicks the phone back to her, she catches it under the toe of her boot, catching the expression of the tech to her side, unsurprised but impressed. Must have herself a man like Soap, waiting for her to make it home.

“Sorry ‘bout the screen, Perdie. Think you can get in there and delete his shet still?” Soap asks, tone a bottom lip pout, and Bordelon nods, tucking her fingers into the back of his belt before snaking them up under his shirt, swirling her fingertips into his back dimples.

“Hah. You know it, Johnny,” she hums, looking up at him from under her lashes. It’s a tenderness, sweet and true, taking up space between her lungs. Mad bastard. Crazy motherfucker. Loony bitch. When he looks back at her, he curls his fingers under her jaw, looking relieved. Poor thing knows hit dog hollers, and he long ago stopped yelping when he was struck. He’s looking to be told he didn’t do something bad. But she finds his pace, she always does. Of course, she did.

But that goes beggin’ the question: what’s a hellhole-heart like her supposed to do with a love like this?

Tag List: @alittleposhtoad @skinnyazn @dotcie @snail-eggs @parttimeprophet @kastlequill 💖💖

#john soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap MacTavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap cod #soap call of duty #soap x oc #call of duty mwii #call of duty #mw2 #cod fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw2 #oc: Bordelon #dunno what else to tag this as #my work #enjooooyyyyy 💃👯👯‍♀️👯‍♂️🕺🏻

87 notes · View notes

ethereal-night-fairy · 5 months

Text

Rainy day

Fae!Soap x female reader (Rún)

Your caught in the rain on one of your lowest days.

This isn't canon to the story i just wanted to write something with the two of them.

Warnings: light suggestive language, hurt/comfort, light angst, soft moment with soap, sorry if i missed any.

Forgotten Sorrows Masterlist

Masterlist

Words: 731

The rain had started drizzling down the second you exited the art shop. You clutch your tote bag as you decide to chance it. Walking briskly you thought you'd make it home before it got worse. You were sorely mistaken because not even two minutes into your walk home the rain came pelting down. Your white dress soaked through in seconds. It clung to your body as you looked for some temporary shelter from the ice like droplets.

You dip into an alley seeing there were nice town houses with alcove entrances. You stand under the closest one as you try to wring out as much as the water as you could. But the fabric had become drenched to the point of transparency. You hadn't dressed for the weather even though you knew you should have. You guess chancing your luck today wasn't a good idea. How were you going to get home? You were literally in a state of indecency. The cold air was creating goosebumps all over your wet skin. And you run your hands up and down your arms trying to create some warmth. Maybe you could leg it home as soon as the rain stopped. You didn't really have much of a choice.

Today couldn't get any worse. You woke up with your lowest mood in a long while. You thought maybe going to someplace you enjoy would brighten your mood. A change of pace from the dull walls of your apartment. But for some reason you felt even worse after seeing people around you so happy and cheerful. Flaunting things you didn't allow yourself to have. The hollowness in your heart was growing by the day and it was becoming unbearable. You fought tears from brimming up in your eyes, refusing to cry in public. Maybe you should ask Witch for a temporary tether to tide you over for the time being. But you didn't want to go bother her for something as trivial as this. You'll have to figure something else out. Warmth was quickly escaping you and you prayed the rain would let up so you could go home and curl up in your bed.

“It’s pishin a doon out here”, you hear a very familiar voice grumble as you watch them leave a house down the street. Tight fitted gym clothes and an umbrella to protect against the rain. The recognition hits you a little late because when you realise who it was. You try your best to turn and hide further into the alcove so he wouldn't notice you. But like everything else that was happening, what you wanted didn't matter.

You felt his warmth before you heard him speak. Your back facing him, hoping he'd just leave without bothering you.

“What's my pretty butterfly doin oot in the rain? Yer certainly not dressed for the occasion”, you didn't need to turn to know his heated gaze was on your drenched clothing. You turn anyway to glare and tell him to fuck off clutching your tote tighter to your chest. But the words wouldn't leave your mouth. Your eyes locked with his heated ones and the tears finally slipped past your waterline. You were angry, overwhelmed…. And incredibly sad. You just wanted to fill your heart somehow even if you have to do it with your own tears. You didn't want to have to deal with him or to have him see you cry but it seemed like the world had it out for you today. The tears felt hot against your cold skin as they just kept falling.

His hand reached out to wipe your tears away and despite your brain telling you otherwise you leaned into his warm touch. The heat seeping in, trickling down to your tetherless heart. You nuzzle your cheek against him warm palm throwing all rationality out the door. He seemed shocked by your docile demeanor but smiled softly when you allowed him to caress your cheek. His eyes didn't seem lustful anymore, just concerned. “Yer just full of surprises ain't cha lass, let's get ye home before ye catch a cold”

He smiles and offers you his hand. You take it against your better judgment as he tucks you into his side trying to warm your soaked skin. “Yer as cold as ice Bonnie”, is the last thing he says before he apparates with you. And you finally feel a tether hook in.

#1fae1 #fae!soap #fae au #cod x oc #oc #female reader #oc: Rún #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #soap mw2 #call of duty #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #pinterest #game #forgotten sorrows

73 notes · View notes

m4ctavish · 1 year

Text

ghost’s lovers coming to like and reblog every piece of fanfiction about him they can get their hands on:

#m4ctavish does things #it’s pishin’ it doon out here #you guys scare me #but in a good way #my number 1 supporters fr #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader

2K notes · View notes

wolkoshka · 1 year

Text

Paranormal

summary: you meet Ghost for the second time at Soap’s birthday/costume party and this time, you promise to get a taste of the man behind the mask. Simon Riley/Ghost x Reader

warnings: slow-burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, mutual pining, excessive drunk flirting, slightly dark!Simon, touch-starved Simon, trying to get into Simon’s pants (and sort of succeeding??), nsfw-themed

•this is a simon riley ficlet, I repeat, this is not a one-shot but contains a bit of plot and character development, bcs god knows we need 'em

•part 1/2

word count: 5k+

London was drenched, blinding flashes forking out amidst midnight clouds rolling in a hailing storm.

Or it was pishin' doon oot there, as your childhood best friend would call it.

His birthday, along with the rain, had just stormed in, and since he was being deployed on another mission tomorrow, he wanted to party as soon as the clock struck midnight.

Excitement buzzed in your veins, and not because of the party - well, partially - but because of a certain someone you were impatient to meet again.

On cue, lightning flashed as a strong kick to the bar's door burst it open - and in strut you, Ghostbuster uniform on full display. Except, this one's slutty. And there's only one ghost that needed catching tonight.

All commotion stopped to regard you.

Tossing the umbrella into a rack, you kicked the door shut with your heel.

With shorts hugging the plump of your ass, a form-fitting jacket unzipping down the front to reveal your salacious cleavage, and waist and thigh straps securing the proton pack to your back coupled with the knee-high boots four inches tall, you knew you were a sight to behold.

The bar was swarming with familiar faces of both military and mutual friends.

You dramatically posed, the gun of the proton pack activated. “Heard there was something strange in your neighborhood.”

Low whistles and compliments rebounded. “There’s something strange happening in my pants right now!” one male enthusiastically called from the back.

“Haud yer weesht,” a familiar voice reprimanded, soon followed by an effective smack.

From a sea of shark fins, faerie wings, and numerous superhero costumes, a Mohawk head popped out. Your expression abruptly brightened and you twirled performatively as Johnny shouldered through the bodies and took you in a big, tight hug.

The heat of his body singed into your chilled one, enveloping you.

“Ay ye bastard. Ye actually made it.”

Embracing him equally as tightly, you smothered him with kisses on the face. You hadn’t seen him for three months now. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Johnny-bo-bonnie. Mwah, mwah, mwah. That one’s from mum.”

A hearty laugh. “Don’t tell me - she baked me something real delicious and you ate it.”

“Guilty as charged.”

He put you down, and you stepped back to take in his outfit: a bathrobe, slippers, and polka dotted blue swim trunks. His chest was bare and suave sunglasses perched on his head.

“And what are you supposed to be?”

He splayed his arms wide open, a shit-eating grin revealing straight, white teeth. “A man on a well-earned vacation.”

You playfully slapped him on the chest. “Good one.” From your proton pack, you withdrew a box. A present. “Here. Gotchu something.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s another soap.”

“Why? Were you showered with them tonight?” A snort-laugh. “Get it? Shower? Soap?”

“Harr, harr, harr.” He thumbed over his shoulder at a shrine of soaps forming a pyramid on a table. “Suddenly, everyone’s so bloody hilarious tonight.”

You made a noise of intrigue. “Do they smell nice?”

“Don’t care. What did you get me?” He palmed the box, opening it.

“I’m taking some if they do.”

“Go crazy, lass.” A soft gasp. Then, “O feckin’ feck me.”

“I know, I know. I know you too well. It’s my curse,” you sighed, but smiled when he took out the expensive bottle of GlenDronach, his favorite scotch.

“Happy birthday, sucker.”

He looped an arm around your neck, hugging you close and kissing you on the temple. “And that’s why you’re my favorite best friend.”

"Other best friends, huh? Take that back or I’ll Bath and Body Works your arse next time I see you.”

“Roger that.”

Arm still corded around your shoulders, he turned your bodies to the bar - and there he was.

Ghost.

Simon Riley, you learned his name was.

The muse that lingered in every afterthought, in the darkness of the night, while sleep cooed you into a moment of silence your heart beat fast and loud enough to fight off - just to win more time thinking of the man who did not even care for your existence.

A soft gasp parted your lips.

His back was to you, broad and tall, as he conversed with Price, head tilting ever so often in remark.

He sported a dark brown leather jacket over a black hoodie and equally as dark cargo pants. His combat boots hugged up his strong calves, his legs parted over the bar stool he perched on, meaty thighs barely fitting.

He wasn't in costume. You guessed he dressed as a ghost mirroring a civilian.

Despite the chaos circulating him, his poise was calm and collected, but not unaware, the stiffness in his shoulders stating as much.

A killer of killers, apex predator of the fittest, his prowess was unmatched in the battlefield, and to witness a man of his caliber exist in environment simple and mundane had a startling effect.

Menacing, you thought, a bite to your lower lip.

"See somethin' you like?" Soap humorously chuckled.

You'd met Ghost three months prior, while Task Force 141 was deployed on a private mission to locate Shepherd's current hideout, and as a private contractor who'd built many commercial, private, and government facilities - wherever the clients needed them built - you'd come across one personally requested by Shepherd himself.

It was a long time ago, but your memory had not failed you.

By the shores of Chile, was a property laid out by you, the blueprint of it handed off to Soap to investigate.

Screw client confidentiality when your best friend's life was put in danger by a betraying bastard.

It was then, as you'd climbed into the SUV to hand the blueprint, you'd made out a humongous shape in your peripheral and screamed out in reaction.

It hadn't helped when it was a skull staring right into your very soul.

"Ah, a common reaction to Ghost," Soap had commented. "Lt, meet my best friend," he said your name, and to you, "meet Lt. Ghost. Simon."

Simon.

You'd wiggled your fingers a hello at him. "What a name. Pleased to meet you."

He hadn't responded, had merely stared before looking out the window.

Right then and there, he was an enigma you couldn't deny. You'd decided to make him look your way however and whichever way you could.

"Johnny, be done with it," he'd grated out when you and Soap got lost in the gossip, the husk and deep gravel of his voice eliciting a full-on body shiver from you.

You'd stolen the name he'd given your best friend, calling him Johnny from that day onwards.

Now, here he was anew. A few more steps and within reach, you merely had to walk to him.

Excitement buzzed in your veins.

You smoothed a hand down your outfit. "Do you think he'll appreciate the joke?"

"Knowing Lt and his humor, or lack thereof actually, he might just hate himself for loving it too much."

A giddy feeling spurted in your chest. "You think?"

"Oh, yea. But go easy on him," he added, peering down at you, brow arched, "the man just landed from a solo mission. There's an uneasy air about him tonight. The fact that he's even attending is gift enough for me."

"That means he's tired, grumpy, and susceptible to an easy one night stand. Just my type of target."

"Ay ye vixen. I said go easy. Here," he lowered the zipper on your chest, revealing more of your cleavage, "that's better. Now go get him. God knows he needs it," he grumbled the last part.

Happily, you almost skipped your way to him. But just before reaching, two bodies swarmed you, hugging you close and screaming in your ear over the bar music. Your friends from college.

"Where have you been!"

"It's so good to see you again, come!"

You were dragged away, more distance than you'd like being put between you and Simon. Nooo.

It wasn't after two hours of losing yourself in the crowd, dancing with people, with Johnny, backs pressing together to roll to the beat of the songs in your sickest moves, that you, downing more margaritas than you could count, summoned back your wits and sauntered your way to the bar.

Plopping down on a stool next to his, you mirthfully laughed, buzzed out of your mind.

The melodious sound cut his conversation short with Price and dragged his attention to you, and - oh, fuck.

Those eyes.

Even in your stupor you admitted to their allure.

He walked, talked, like a man who's had his flesh peeled from his bones. Eyes too haunted to be alive, too haunted to be dead.

A man imprisoned in the infinite present that neither knew him reprieve or end.

You were so lost in them that you didn't say anything to him for a long moment. Then, "Hi," you lowly voiced, grinning like a fool who just got the best present under the Christmas tree.

Reminding yourself to be sexier, you opted for a, "What is a girl like you doing...sitting all alone when a hunk like me is right here?"

Your brows furrowed in the middle. No, that didn't sound right. You tried again.

"What is a girl like me doing with...with a hunk like you, sitting...all... No, that's not it either."

The bulk of him shifted in his seat, whiskey in a gloveless hand, as he now regarded you.

To be the sole focus of those eyes, it killed you. Like honeyed whiskey swirling with the silver clouds of storm outside, it made you feel more drunk than you already were.

But you could see how tired he really was, eyes rimmed red, thin veins stark against the white of his sclera.

"All right," he spoke, tone indulging, but rigid and gravely as the rest of him. "You have my attention."

You did? Success!

Even with the balaclava hiding that no doubt beautiful face of his, you complimented him, afraid that if you didn't, you'd be committing a heinous crime.

"You are." You hiccupped. "You are so pretty."

"And you are shit-faced. Had too much to drink, did ya?"

You leaned in, eyes twinkling with something wicked that even he could not deny.

"Liquid courage," you drawled. And then laughed again, dusky and free.

Price, having noticed where the conversation was heading, turned away with a warm chuckle.

"I'll leave you two to it," he said, giving his attention fully to Gaz, who sat to his left.

You waved at the boys, all giddy. And then motioned with your finger to Ghost's waist, as if to say you were going to get inside his pants. Oh, yes, he was the object of your desires.

Gaz chocked on his bottle of beer.

Price palmed his mouth to stifle a laugh. Unsuccessfully.

Ghost, on the other hand, when you glanced up at him, had his lids hooded.

In his language, that might as well translate to a glower.

"You have one minute," he almost barked out. Glower, indeed.

You straightened, expression serious. You gave him a captain's two-finger salute. "Sir, yes, sir!"

Then, before he could toss you out the window of the bar, you followed it up with, "Heard you like jokes. Do you like mine?"

You motioned to your costume.

He followed the movement, gaze raking down your body, and then slowly up, blond lashes fluttering. When his eyes landed on your cleavage, heat filled them, and in reaction, warmth spooled low in your belly.

"Clever," he throatily remarked, glancing away to his whiskey.

All for you.

His compliment added even more heat to your belly, and you blushed, biting your lip.

"I have more where that came from."

A low rumbling sound. It took you a while to decipher it as a hum. "Is that what the courage was for? Not in the mood, poppy."

His rejection would have floored you had you not been already sat.

Not giving up, you leaned further in, fingers trailing over his leathered forearm that rested on the counter. If one focused enough, they'd also spot the slight tremble in them.

At the closeness, he craned his head down slightly to give you a warning look.

It was dark and foreboding, commanding you to watch the boundaries he'd laid or you might just pay the price.

Any man would have run the other direction. But you were not a man. You were horny. For him. Your desire for Ghost had been stoking for months now, and this very moment, so close to him, you thought you might burn alive with it.

You needed him between your legs, feeding his length into you, assuaging the ache that had made a home there with a friction only he could create.

His scent filled your lungs, and you visibly shuddered. He smelled of the storm outside and something else, something masculine and singular only to him.

If you weren't already drunk, the mere heat of him would've rendered you stupid.

Maybe it had, because the next words out of your mouth were sultry and promising.

"You know, it is not ghosts that haunt, but rather they are the haunted. Give me one night, and I might just chase them all away."

You gently dropped from your stool then, stepping into the space between his parted legs, hands daringly skimming over his robust thighs - before warmly palming them, fingertips digging in his cargo pants.

And he was letting you. That fact alone made your head reel.

Face tilting up, you bopped your chin against his clothed one.

At that, Ghost breathed in deep, and then breathed out slow.

Were you getting to him? Or was he really just tired to deal with you, as Johnny had warned?

Only one way to find out.

"I have another joke for you," you hummed. His lids dropped to your lips, and stayed there. You licked them for emphases, the pink tip of your tongue leaving a glistening trail in its wake.

A sound started in his chest, the beginnings of a groan, you guessed, before he quashed it, and you wanted to whine like a little girl who'd been denied her favorite sweet.

"Be out with it," he lowly grinded out.

A small, playful smirk. "What do you call a man who's great at sex with a sigh and moan in his name?"

An intrigued huff, but it came out rasped. "Go on then."

You stretched to your toes, back bowing and perked breasts brushing against his hardened chest. As you dug the heels of your palms into his thighs, your lips trailed up his jawline and nestled right at his ear.

"Simon," you heatedly whispered, making sure to actually moan the last syllable.

When you pulled your face back an inch, you saw his pupils blown, a frightening darkness overshadowing all color. His breathing had deepened, turned almost harsh, but quiet, as his suddenly ravenous look made your knees weak.

You'd never seen his eyes glimmer like that, so predatory, and that turned you on more. So much so that molten heat drooled out of you, soaking your panties. Did he know the effect he had on you?

His hand traveled up between your bodies, and blood rushed in your ears, your heart palpitating. Had you done it? Were you finally going to know the taste of him? Know how his lips felt against yours, moving, devouring? How hotly his kiss melted every inch of you?

As anticipation coiled tight in your stomach, his iron knuckles pressed into your lower chest, right below your revealed cleavage - and nudged you away.

You plopped back down to your heels, taking steps back the more he outstretched his arm and pushed you farther, like he couldn't stand being in the same vicinity as you.

Confused, hurt - a look you did your best to mask - you searched his expression. There was nothing to gain, masked as he was.

"Point made, love," his deep - deeper - timbre chafed the air between your bodies. "But not tonight. Not in the mood. Go on, now. Dance with Johnny, will ya?"

Humiliation blistered your cheeks and you quickly sobered - and felt increasingly sick to your stomach.

He'd just dismissed you like you were some schoolgirl acting out in his classroom.

Hands balling into tight fists, you stole a determined step toward him. You'd worked quite hard on those jokes, mind him.

"Some fun, you are. What, afraid of a little pleasure?"

He leisurely blinked. "Pleasure's not what I'm afraid of," he began only to cut himself short. A glower crowned his ashen brows, smudged by the eye paint, and he grumbled something under his breath you could not make out.

Swaying a bit on your feet - liquid courage, your arse - you flipped back your hair. "Fine. I'll find somebody else to have fun with." Then, inching closer to him, you leaned in to drunkenly whisper, "And when they're balls deep inside of me, I'll still wish it was you."

The glass of whiskey shattered in his grasp when he fisted it too hard, and that groan, that heavenly, wonderful sound of peak male frustration, finally escaped.

"Bloody fuckin' hell, poppy."

With a cheery twirl, you marched away, lithe shoulders blanketed by the crowd, and left the ever stunned lieutenant to his devices.

But his rejection still chafed you, and, oh, God, you needed to get wasted. So wasted, this night would never come back to haunt you again.

. ☾ .

It wasn't after another hour of dancing, partying, and singing sappy songs at the top of your lungs with Johnny and the gang, even tipsily sniffing some stacked soaps and secretly hiding the ones you liked in your bra, you finally found yourself in your designated spot - hunched over a toilet seat and vomiting the contents in your stomach.

It was expected. You'd drank and drank and drank... And now, your whole world swam.

A wretched sound tore from your throat as another round lurched out of your mouth, splattering into the toilet.

You groaned, vision blurred. Ew.

Settling back, you wiped at your lips with your wrist, heaving. So much for having a good time. But Johnny was happy, so you were happy. With his dangerous line of work and your stressful one, you two deserved such nights of peerless fun.

Like the good 'ole times, something Johnny must've needed too, since he didn't usually celebrate his birthdays. But when he did, oh, shit hit the fan in the most amazing ways.

Recalling some of your escapades, you smiled to yourself, completely unaware of the large silhouette shadowing past the doorway.

The lavatory door whined closed.

At the sound, you looked up.

Ghost stilled in his steps, cocking his head at you in question.

You huffed. "What are you doing in the ladies' bathroom?"

"This is the men's." He thumbed his right, where the urinals lined the wall.

What?

This whole time you were hunched over the men's toilet seat?

Another round of nausea shot up your throat, uncalled for, and you bent over the toilet in time to unflatteringly decorate it.

Gross!

This was so not how you wanted your night to end with Simon, either.

At his retreating steps, you immediately clambered to your shaky feet. "Please, don't leave. I get scared when vertigo hits." Such pathetic admittance, but it was the truth. When your world spun out of control, so did your fears.

He stopped. Looked over his shoulder.

You tried to hurry to him, but knocked one ankle against the other, and unceremoniously tripped. Hard. Head first, down you thwacked against the marbled flooring.

You blacked out.

When you slowly came to, webs of darkness blurring the edges of your vision, you moaned your distress. Bit by bit, Ghost's face registered, hovering over yours, his Manchester accent thick with how he roughly ordered you to come to.

Blinking up at him, you deliriously raised your hand to pat his masked cheek but to no avail. Darling man. Were you dreaming? If so, you never wanted to wake up. You smiled a small smile at him.

"Hi," you whispered. You sounded so wasted and oh, so enamored. Sober you was going to have a serious conversation with drunk you tomorrow.

"Don't move. Easy, now, yeah?" He pushed you down when you weakly fought to rise up. "You're bleedin' all over the place, poppy."

You tried to reason with him, say how disgusting the floor was and you could never lay down there.

"Should've thought of that before drinkin' your posh arse stupid, yeah?" was his argument.

Dream Simon was mean.

"I'm posh," you hummed out a silly laugh. "Posh like a Spice Girl."

"Be quiet," he roughed out, unimpressed. From his pocket, he withdrew a glove and pressed it against your temple.

A throbbing ache hissed where the clothe touched your skin, and you winced.

After a stringing moment, "Why do you hate me?" you softly asked.

His eyes focused on you then, deep and intrusive, and you licked your lips in consequence.

"I don't hate you," came his gruff retort.

"So then why won't you kiss me?"

A slow blink away from your face. He might as well have rolled his eyes. "You don't want to kiss a man like me, poppy."

Why? Because it would rock your socks off? Render you into a silly little mess? Make your dirtiest dreams come true?

Even with a bleeding temple, you understood the meaning behind his words. Maybe even rejection. He was a dangerous man, callous and brutal. Men like him only caused pain and destruction, spawned nightmares and reveled in the blood spilled.

But from the stories you've heard of him, especially from Johnny, and from your own little interaction, you saw more than the mask he donned. Saw past it to something buried in him. Something guarded so very deep inside, not even sunlight could pierce the shadows around it, but it was there. And you saw it even now, drunk and utterly wasted you may be.

Maybe he thought he'd hurt you. Maybe he tumbled rough and mean under the sheets. At the image, arousal ignited in your veins, backlit behind the wall of drowsiness and pain that still coursed through your system.

"And... And if I still do? Would you kiss me then?"

"Negative."

A pout.

"How's your vision?"

With you in it, "Good."

A clipped nod. "I'll help you to your feet. And then we can take care of that nasty little wound there, yeah?"

"Aye, aye, captain," you murmured.

When he pressed the glove a bit too deeply into the wound, you immediately rectified your words. "I meant, yes, sir. As you say, sir."

A hum, low and raspy. "That's more like it."

Slowly but surely, you climbed to your feet. For a moment, your vision went black and your ears rang, and you paused, waiting for the darkness to pass. Simon waited with you.

"Better?" he asked when you straightened, touching where his glove pressed against your temple. Your fumbling hand fell upon his leanly adroit one.

Skin grazed skin, electrifying warmth rivaled warmth, and you softly gasped. You nodded, gaze lost in the sheer view of him.

Ghost towered over you, your head lining his broad chest, and you suddenly felt engulfed. It certainly didn't help when the reality of him ending you with just the flick of his wrist if he so willed hovered over your consciousness.

God, he was so big. Just the mass of him and how he crowded any room he was in, made your mouth salivate.

And now, enveloped in his masculine heat, he was all you could see, hear, smell.

Feel.

"Don't look at me with eyes like that, poppy," he gravely warned, lids hooded as he stared you down.

Your throat tightened, lungs drawing in as all air escaped you. "And how am I looking at you?"

"Like I'm dinner."

You moaned despite yourself. It was achingly soft and needy.

You wanted to taste him in the back of your throat, feel his throbbing weight on your tongue, mouth working him mad enough that being pushed over the edge of insanity was his only option. And when that happened, you wanted to know how he sounded as all shred of control left him, his back arching as he spilled all he was worth in you, pumping and pumping, still in desperate chase of that high.

"Bloody hell, still with that look. Not a good listener, are ya? Come 'ere." He dragged you between the two sinks. "Lean against the wall." You did as told, back flattening against the large mirror mounted to it. He opened the faucet and let the cool water run as he wet the glove.

Ruggedly, "Stay still."

With that, he squeezed the water out and slowly got to work, dabbing around the wound and cleaning you up. It was a painstakingly tedious process, but you didn't mind, wincing here and there as you watched him tend to you.

See? Something more in there.

You studied the furrow in his brow, the sharp concentration in his eyes, the even rise and fall of his shoulders, and thought you lost a little bit of your mind for him.

He rinsed the glove, squeezed it, and resumed his task. His hand palmed the whole top of your head as he maneuvered you in whichever way he liked, tilting your face up, down, to the side, as he reached all spots inflicted.

The rough pad of his thumb pinned over the arch of your brow, and you thought you felt him subtly brush at it in his nursing.

When he caught you dumbly staring up at him for the third time, he broke the comfortable silence. "Shouldn't be drinking that much."

Had he been keeping tabs on you? Such wishful thinking, but butterflies still took flight in your tummy. You watched his masked face.

If his lips weren't shielded, you thought you'd feel his breath ghost over your cheeks.

Instead, you innocently batted your lashes at him. "Am I in trouble...sir?" you teasingly - sultrily - added.

He was in the process of wetting the glove when his gaze snapped down to you.

It was brief, but there was a flash of desire behind those lidded eyes before he subdued it with the subtle clench of his jaw.

The air in the room, on the other hand, he could not manipulate. It altered, thickened, became...hotter. Tension pulsed from his body raw and electrifying.

When he gradually straightened, protruding his chest, you suddenly felt suffocated - in the best of ways.

In the sizzling silence, you felt cornered, and your lips parted in anticipation.

He spoke, his words measured and roughish, betraying nothing. "You're bleedin' all over the place and yet you still can't keep it in your pants, mm, poppy?"

You bit your lip, a muffled sound of excitement building up in your chest for provoking a Special Forces soldier - Lieutenant - of all people. "Mhm."

You were stupidly giddy. He merely shook his head at you.

Then, he was watching you again, blond lashes fluttering as his gaze traced over your features, slowly, so agonizingly slow, before settling on your lips. You felt the heat of his stare on them.

A small sound got caught up in your throat, and it wasn't missed by him.

"Do I excite you, little one?" he quietly hummed, the sound rumbling in his chest, crackling ever so slightly, and it felt like honeyed butter melting down your skin.

A tremor racked your entire form, arousal burning your pupils wide and your breath scorching hot - all for him to witness and take in.

It must've pleased him, because he gave you the sexiest bedroom eyes you've ever beheld, the sheer fever in them sweltering and wild.

Huskily, "Yeah?" He stepped forward, large boots emitting no sound. You pressed further up against the wall, chin brushing over the leather of his jacket.

A thin layer of sweat dotted your skin at his nearness, your body involuntarily heating up, an unbearable ache building up between your legs.

And you thought Simon knew exactly what he was doing to your senses, because he followed it up with, "You look at the mask and think you're goin' to get fucked hard, is that it?"

His fingers lightly pinched your chin, his thumb darting up to caress the underside of your lower lip, grazing the edges and eliciting a ticklish sensation.

A needy whine from you caused that broad chest of his to collapse in a visible shudder. Seeing the reaction you pulled from him, your mouth fell open in want, and you meekly grinded up your hips against his thighs.

Your clothed core skimmed over the rough texture of his cargo pants, catching on a crease, but it was enough friction to have your head falling back against the mirror and you keening.

"More," you hotly moaned, feeling wetness seep out of you.

You tested the waters again, widening your stance and rolling your hips upward. Your clit meshed tight against his solid thigh, and when you rubbed it in gradual circles, grinding down, his thigh muscles bulged in response, hitting a sensitive nerve.

"Fuck," you gasped, mouth parting wider. You hadn't expected it to feel this good. "Ghost, please."

With a commanding grip of your hip, he stilled your ministrations. "None of that, poppy," he hoarsely warned. Then, "Shit," he lowly grunted when he felt your hips fight his hand for more stimulation, "That bad, huh?"

You mustered a nod, eyes never leaving his. "Want you," you breathed out.

"Can't have me." A small shake of his head. "Won't give you what you want. 'Sides, you're drunk out of your mind, love."

With that, he released you, backing away before you could reach for him.

Suddenly bereft, you wanted to shout your dissent.

Instead, your body laxed against the wall, palms clutching the coolness of the tiled wall. You already missed his nearness. His hands on you. You didn't want this moment to end.

You didn't want him to go.

Not so soon, anyway. Because God knew he'd make promise to his sobriquet.

"Wash your face. And get your shit together. That's a direct order," resounded his harsh command. If you hadn't wallowed too deep in his rejection, you might've caught the way his hands fisted at his sides when you whined in frustration.

With a defeated slump of your shoulders, you commanded your legs work and rounded the sink.

Palming the rushing water, you went about washing your hands and thoroughly rinsing your mouth. All sensation of him drowned with the water, leaving your skin cool to the touch.

"I'll take you to the hospital," he added more softly, which still grated the air.

Your heart seized in your chest. Why the sudden care?

What game did he play with you? Because one moment, he looked like he wanted to ravish you and the next, like he couldn't get away from you fast enough. Which was it, did you repulse him or attract him?

When he touched you, it was never deeply, desperately, but lightly, airily, leaving you begging for more.

And making him ever estranged.

What was his problem?

What was yours?

Why did you desire this particular man so wantonly? You had to find yourself a fling for the night. You had to flush Ghost out of your system for good.

You had to go home.

How you were going to accomplish both in one night, though, you had no clue.

Yes, while sober, you might have soldiered through the trauma to your head, but right now, still drunk and dizzy, you couldn't tell your elbow from your arse.

Splashing another round of cool water over your face, you grunted when you accidentally swept over your wound.

Appearing much like a drowned rat than the intended sexy Ghostbuster, you shut the faucet, clutched the edges of the sink and lifted your head to stare in the mirror.

Your eyes fell on Ghost.

He quietly watched you watch him from the reflection, a looming shadow in the background, waiting. You expected him to abscond you, but he remained - and that gladdened you beyond belief. Which also now irritated you.

He extended his glove to you.

Breath suddenly shaky, you turned around, the ugly bruised cut on your temple momentarily forgotten. When you made to step forward, crimson blanketed your left eye, and you swiped at it. In the haze, you saw your fingers coated in dark red.

"Bollocks." You started bleeding again. "No need for a hospital. I live a street down. I have a med kit. I'll..." You creased your brows in thought, still tipsy. "I'll care for it at home. Yes. And since you blue-balled me, I intent on finding someone to do the naughty with. I need you out of my system and out of my mind."

Oh, sober you was really going to sit you down tomorrow morning, all right.

He didn't respond to you.

The journey to Ghost proved to be a dangerous one, as the floor and walls adamantly dodged you, making your world swing whichever way you grasped for leverage.

You felt like you existed in a gigantic ball rolling down a hill at full-speed just waiting to burst and send you flying through the air. And you were in a hell of your own making.

Barking out a curse, you heard Ghost stomp your way - before you felt strong arms band around your shoulders and under your knees, effectively hoisting you up in his arms. "You are trouble, poppy. And you won't be taking care of anything in this state. I'll drop you home."

With that, he carried you out of the restroom, the bar, and into the chilled night of London city.

an: it got too long, yall, too long! this is part 1 of 2 for now. i couldn't help it, when i write, i write. part 2, we're ghostin' it up! (therell be smut) hope you enjoyed it!

209 notes · View notes

sergeantnex · 3 months

Text

Werewolf!Ghost x Trans!Soap: Sensitve Senses (Smut)

Ghost was already an intimidating guy, standing at six foot four and built like a brick house. The Lieutenants' senses were sharp, seemingly better than laser sharp at that. It didn't take long into being paired with Ghost for Soap to learn that his teammate was different. It became clearer when Graves betrayed everyone that things became clearer to the Scottish male. Soap's arm bleeding from the gunshot wound, making his head feel hazy. He fumbled upon trying to stand only to fall on the rain-soaked ground with a heavy groan. Soap laied there for a bit before slowly getting up. Ghost's thick Manchester accent finally came through the comms channel, asking him how everything was. Ghost kept Soap company as he struggled to make his way to the church.

"It's pishin' it doon out here.." Soap commented.

"Speak English." Ghost groaned back through comms.

"It's rainin' fuckin' hard!" Soap grinned as he spoke back.

"Then say so." Ghost chimes back quietly, doing his best to gauge how well Soap is actually doing.

"I did!" Soap chirps back a smile being heard in his voice.

"Rains good, it'll cover your tracks. Washes away the scent of your blood and you." Ghost responds without thinking.

"My scent??" Soap questioned as he continued to move forward, looking for materials to craft protection.

Ghost wasn't sure how to respond, so he simply told Soap to focus on getting to the church. Soap chooses to say nothing and instead pay attention to his surroundings. Ghost kept thinking of different ways to explain to Johnny that he wasn't human and that instead, he was a werewolf. The more he thought about it, the more he felt it was impossible to explain. Lightly scratching the back of his head, Ghost moved to focus back outside the church. He kept talking to Soap, hoping that the other male would forget. When he finally met up with Soap, he felt bad for making the male swim through the tunnels. The hole in Soap's arm from the bullet looked bad. They would have to get somewhere safe so Ghost could treat his arm properly. They both slid into a pickup truck, and with Soap covering them, Ghost hit the gas.

Ghost drove over the barb wire swiftly, turning the truck around corners and down streets away from the Shadows. The drive to the one place Ghost knew was safe would be several hours away, Alejandro's safehouse. Glancing at Soap, he wasn't sure if Soap would last that long. Despite finding a stim, his teammate looked ready to drop from blood loss and exhaustion. They were barely five miles from the city of Las Almas when Ghost pulled to the shoulder of the road. Johnny looked at the male confused as Simon stepped out of the truck and walked over to the passenger side. Simon said nothing as he grabbed what little medical supplies he had on him and laid them out on the dashboard. It would be enough to buy them time until they reached the safehouse. The wind from the windows being shot out had helped Johnny dry off quicker, letting Simon smell the Scots natural scent.

The smokey smell of firewood graced with the sweetness of brown sugar, a tingeness of copper from the males blood and musk from the male sweating all mixing perfectly. The sweetness made no sense to Simon. It was like nothing he had smelled on a male before. Ghost pulled Soap's sleeve up as much as he could, allowing him access to the wound. As he looked at the bullet hole, Ghost grew frustrated when he saw no exit hole. That meant the bullet was still in his arm, possibly digging deeper with each roll of muscle. Deciding it would be best to dig the bullet out at the safehouse where he had more access to supplies, Ghost began work. Something about Soap drove Ghost's inner wolf wild, so without hesitation or thinking, Simon moved. Lifting the bottom of his mask just enough to show his mouth, Simon leaned in and began licking at the wound. At first, Soap groaned and flinched at the pressure and burn, but then he tried pulling his arm away from the Brits tongue.

A low growl alerted Johnny to stop fighting the male as he worked on clearing the blood away from the wound itself. When Simon pulled away, Johnny was thrown off by the black sclera surrounding the chocolate brown irises. Ghost licked his lips like a predator before focusing on the task at hand, patching Soap up. Soap said nothing as Ghost gently placed gauze on the wound before using electric tape found in the truck to bind it down. Ghost double-checked the patch job before taking a small step back, taking a minute to think of something to say to Soap. The male at least deserved some form of explanation regarding his actions.

"Does this 'ave somethin' to do with my scent?" Soap questioned slowly, piecing things together about Ghost.

"It does. This may come off unbelievable, but I am a werewolf." Ghost said calmly, studying Soap for reactions of disbelief. If anything, it looked as though Soap was thinking back on things.

"No, it makes sense the more I think 'bout it." Johnny explained now, looking at Ghost in a newly found light. Simon says nothing as he just moves back and closes Soap's door before moving back to the driver's seat. Ghost begins driving toward the safehouse once more, the ride becoming silent. At a glance, anyone could tell Soap was lost in thoughts, staring off at the road as they drove. Before Ghost could question Soap as to what he was thinking about, the crispness of the brown sugar in the males' scent grew stronger. Ghost glanced out of the corner of his eyes to see Soap clench his thighs slightly and shift in his seat. Feeling his system rush with the realization that Johnny was becoming aroused.

"Hey Lt, can I ask a strange question?" Johnny asked lightly, squeezing his thighs more to apply friction to his cock. Ghost nodded as he focused his eyes on the road before them.

"If you fuck in your wolf form, do you have a knot than?" Soap boldly asks quietly watching Ghost from the corner of his eye. Ghost stiffened slightly and quickly looked from the road to Soap before looking back at the road. Soap started to snicker at the other males' reaction to the question, as though he hadn't just asked such an intimate question.

"In my werewolf form, yes my uh- my autonomy changes to more canine looking autonomy." Ghost replied, clearing his throat, not expecting such a question from the Sergeant. That brown sugar scent was stronger than the firewood, the sweat, and the blood. Ghost wanted to curse his enhanced senses, but when he could see Soap's hand moving to touch himself through his pants, Ghost couldn't help but feel relieved. Simon continued to take side glances at Johnny rubbing between his own legs softly, in hopes of not getting caught. Simon let his right hand let the stirring wheel and gently rest on Johnny's thigh. Giving a soft squeeze before letting his thumb rub the fabric of the males pants. Johnny moved his hands forward, making a bold move to bring Simon's right hand towards his sex. Ghost took a deep inhale and gently pressed his hand further forward.

He was surprise to not feel the swell of a hard cock waiting for him, instead he felt Soap's pants wetting with slick. It made now clicked to Ghost why Soap had scars at his pecks. It explained the now syrupy sweet brown sugar scent. Ghost softly groaned in pride as he let his hand undo Soap's pants. Johnny lifted his hips and tugged his pants and underwear down enough that Simon had full access to his aching cock. Simon gently pressed his middle finger to Soap's hard cock rubbing slow circles. Johnny gasped and let put a soft moan as he opened his legs further. Simon gently slides his middle finger and ring finger down towards Johnny slick entrance, the fabric of his glove dampening with the excitment. Simon couldn't help but groan when he felt Johnny roll his hips up against his fingers. Ghost gently pressed his fingers in letting them sink down to the knuckle.

"Damn Johnny, the thought of me fucking you and breeding you in my werewolf form got you this eager?" Simon questioned now beginning to pump his fingers in and out of Soap's eager entrance. The males' walls clenching and fluttering with pleasure as the fabric of Ghost's glove provided extra stimulation. Johnny said nothing as Simon worked his fingers in and out of his heat, the werewolfs' finger curling just right. The moans that began leaving Johnny's lips were pure sin, Simon curled his fingers again, eager to hear it more. His thick fingers curled, rubbing and tapping against Soap's g-spot perfectly. The action pulls more and more noises from the male, each one sounding more desperate than the last. Johnny could feel his slick soaking the seat under his ass as his Lieutenant worked him open. Soap let his fingers move to his cock, gently rubbing as he tried to desperately fuck himself on Simon's soaked gloved fingers.

Simon couldn't take it anymore as he pulled the truck to the shoulder of the road once more. He used his left hand to put the truck into park and shut it off. Ghost shifted, so he was facing Soap, gently replacing his fingers with those of his left hand. His tongue licking at his right gloved fingers before fucking his fingers a bit harsher into Soap. Johnny's head tips back as he moans louder, his thighs beginning to shake with pleasure. The Sergeant would be lying if he said he had felt such pleasure and bliss before. His brain short circuiting as he now took in the feral sight of Ghost fingering him. Ghost's honey brown eyes slightly shimmering with unnatural amber hues as his sclera began to turn black once more. Soap's legs fell further open as his pants and underwear fell from his knees to his ankles. Ghost groaned at the beautiful sight, his gloves and seat soaked with Soap's excitement. Ghost could feel Soaps' walls beginning to grip tighter around his fingers, doubling his effort Simon began pressing his fingers up and down. The motion bouncing Soaps' body and drawing more desperate noises from the male.

"That's it, Johnny cum for me. Just like this." Simon praised as he took in the sight of Johnny's blue eyes rolling back. The Scots moans, turning to loud whines and mutters of Simon's callsign as he begins to come undone. His walls milking Simon's fingers with his release as he rides himself through the pleasure. Simon is eager to keep Soap looking so beautiful, so he continues to work him through the pleasure until Soap is mewling for him to stop. Determined to at least make his Sergeant cum once more, Ghost kept harshly pumping his finger into Soap's soaked sex. Johnny couldn't find the words to express the sensation of something building within due to his mind being overwhelmed. The deep pleased rumbling that crept from Simon's throat made the dam break. Ghost felt himself fill with pleasure and pride as a rush of clear liquid squirted against his hand and splattered on the dash. Simon stops letting his finger rest inside of Johnny's dripping sex as the male catches his breath. Simon presses up his mask enough to kiss Johnny's lips softly before moving to kiss on the males' neck. Soap moans softly as Ghost eases his fingers out of him, the males' movements slow and gentle. Ghost gently tugs Johnny to face him, his larger hands opening the males legs more. Before Soap can get words out, Simon lowers himself to lap at the males' sex.

His tongue cleaning away the mess that had been made by the two of them. Soap's thighs twitch and squeeze around Simon's head in overstimulation. Despite the overstimulation, he doesn't push Simon away. He let's the male eat him like a starved man cleaning away his slick and cum with his tongue. Finally lifting himself away, Simon licks his lips as he looks the Soap's blue eyes. Johnny offers a breathless smile that reads greatly of exhaustion and bliss. Chuckling Simon helps the male get dressed before encouraging him to sleep while he gets them safe. With no energy to fight Ghost, he nods, accepting the help in getting dressed again. Once Simon gets Johnny situated, he turns back to the road, turning the truck back on and shifting it into drive. Simon glances every so often towards Soap, seeing the male fall asleep happily. Ghost smirks under he mask before putting his whole focus on the road.

#cod fandom #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod smut #cod mwii smut #cod mw2 smut #cod ghost #cod ghost smut #werewolf!ghost #cod soap #cod soap smut #trans!soap #cod ghost x soap #cod ghost x soap smut #ghost x soap #smut

19 notes · View notes