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lay-z · 7 months ago

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🌲 Day 6 ‒ A Christmas tree disaster

Synopsis: This was supposed to be a relaxing, fun getaway for the three of you, – spending Christmas leave in a cosy cottage in the Scottish Highlands, – but for some reason, your two lovers just don’t seem to be getting along.

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x fem!Reader x John Soap MacTavish

Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | multiple POV’s; military!Reader; established poly!relationship; cussing; humour; domesticity; sexual roleplay; dirty talk; breeding kink; voyeurism; angst; edging; orgasm denial; miscommunication (Don't worry, though!)

Word count: 2.9k

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

Happy St. Nicholas’ Day! Hope you’ll enjoy this. 🎅🏼❤️

Blowing softly on the steaming cup of black tea clutched between your palms, you watch from the large kitchen window front as the snowy blanket covering the scenery outside thickens with the steady flutter of big, fluffy snowflakes.

The snowfall is creating a beautiful, tranquil atmosphere that seems like a perfect setting for a romantic getaway, it’s been snowing consistently since you’ve arrived at the cottage last night and it doesn’t look like it will let up anytime soon, judging by the grey sky.

You let out a soft sigh, your thoughts turning to the approaching Christmas Eve tomorrow.

You're finally on leave with Simon and Johnny, who have rented a cosy cottage in the picturesque Scottish Highlands for some much-needed R&R, after Johnny had practically begged you two to visit Scotland with him over the holidays.

“There ye are, hen,” Johnny coos as he approaches from behind; two warm, beefy arms, clad in a deep blue chequered lumberjack shirt, wrap around your waist from behind as he pulls you into himself, your back moulding against his bulky chest.

“Enjoyin’ the bonnie view, hm?” He asks softly, voice muffled as he buries his face into your neck.

Your heart flutters at his unexpected embrace, the warmth of his arms enveloping you like a comforting blanket. The snowy scenery outside might be beautiful, but the feeling of his strong, solid presence behind you is what truly captures your attention and helps you relax.

“Hmmm,” you hum in contentment, putting the hot mug down on the counter in front of you before leaning back into him. “Yeah, it's gorgeous out here. Perfect for a cosy holiday getaway. Good job renting this place for us, baby.”

Johnny grins, his voice a soft rumble. “Knew it'd be nice. Cannae wait ta spend the week all by ourselves – with ye and the Grinch.” His fingers splay across your abdomen, his arms wrapping around you tighter.

“We can unwind here, or even go out some. Have a proper snowball war,” he suggests, nuzzling into your neck, “– or stay inside an’ have some fun.” He teases, the smirk evident in his deep voice, his warm breath fanning over you, sending a shiver down your spine.

You squirm in his embrace, giggling softly, when his fingers sneak underneath the hem of your beige wool sweater, tickling along your warm skin.

“Will you stop calling Simon a Grinch? Because he will clock you if he hears it again.”

Johnny chuckles against your neck, his fingers roaming beneath your sweater and brushing over the underside of your bra-clad breasts, “But it's fitting, innit? He is grouchy as hell, more so than usual.” He objects, his featherlight touch sending sparks of desire to your core.

“And let tha’ big geezer try. I can take him any day.” He murmurs jokingly, pressing a soft kiss to your nape as his hands cup your breasts over your soft bra, groping them sensually while he pushes the growing bulge inside his jeans against your rear.

You moan softly at his teasing, your breath hitching as you feel his muscular body pressing flush against yours. Your hips instinctively push back against him, your head tilting as his mouth peppers kisses along the side of your neck, the rough stubble of his chin adding to the sensation.

“Ah, careful… Johnny,” you murmur, your fingers reaching up and behind you to thread through his dark, short Mohawk while his hands cup your breasts, pinching your stiffening nipples through the fabric.

“We need to help Simon relax and unwind. You know that he’s still adjusting to… this relationship. Plus, you know that the holidays aren’t easy for him.” Johnny hums along as you speak; still pre-occupied with kissing your neck and groping your body, so you give his Mohawk a tug that has him growling in return.

“Where is he anyway?” You ask eventually, concern lacing your voice as you let out another contented sigh while you try not to get too distracted by your other boyfriend and his ministrations – or shenanigans.

Johnny mutters in between teasing nips, “Said he’s gonna take a walk… Talkin’ about ‘checkin’ the bloody perimeter’.” He snorts, his breath puffing against your shoulder, “I was thinkin’ we could ah– christen the kitchen now, hm? Give him somethin’ nice ta look at when he comes back. Whaddaya think, hen?”

Your fingers carding through his hair loosen their grip and your arm drops to your side, resolve crumbling when one of his big hands lets go of your breast to slip beneath the waistband of your matching beige leisure pants.

“You–You can’t keep saying that Simon is a voyeur, baby,” you almost whine, your voice already breathless as his fingers start teasing your rapidly dampening slit and swelling clit through your panties.

“Ach, our Grinch’s a bloody voyeur and ’m a nasty mutt and ye luv us both for it,” Johnny growls against your nape, biting down playfully as he pushes your panties aside and plunges a finger past your sopping entrance while his other hand pushes your bra up to free your breasts beneath your sweater.

“Now… be a good wifey and let me fill you up with my cum, aye? Gonna breed you fuckin’ nicely over the holidays– make sure ye’re kept all warm an’ stuffed, an’ ask Simon ta take turns with me.”

Your knees nearly buckle as he adds a second finger into your cunt, thick digits working their magic to prepare you for his girthy cock, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You can't deny the truth in his words. Yes, Simon is a voyeur, and yes, Johnny is a naughty, eager brat. And yes, you love them both more than anything.

The mention of being Johnny’s ‘wifey’ causes a shiver to pass through your body and you feel like your pussy reacts even harder, gushing with arousal as he keeps pumping and scissoring his fingers, muttering filth into your ear with his Scottish brogue. The idea of submitting to him, to both of them, being their ‘good wife’... it's incredibly intoxicating.

Eventually, your sweater is pulled over your head along with your bra and dropped onto the dark kitchen tiles; your skin pebbles with goose bumps when Johnny pushes you forward, making you brace your hands on the brown marble kitchen counter while you hear him fumble with his belt and zipper behind you.

He pushes your soft pants and panties down your hips, letting the fabric pool at your feet as he nudges them apart with his boot, “Fuckin’ hell, look at tha’ bonnie cunt. Ye’re already drippin’ f’me, wifey.”

Simon closes the heavy, dark cedar wood door behind him with his usual finesse, making little to no sound, even as he steps inside the spacious entrance area, gently placing the freshly chopped logs for the fireplace down in a corner, before brushing the powdery snow off of his warm black bomber jacket, kicking off his wet winter boots next.

He feels better after his walk, having swept the perimeter and gotten familiar with the surroundings of the cottage where they will be residing at for the next couple of days; it eases his anxiety and soothes his paranoia, knowing his way around here, even though both you and Johnny are more than capable enough to handle possible danger and threats, no matter where.

After hanging up his jacket next to yours and Johnny’s, he knows that the both of you are either still settling in or lounging around somewhere.

However, when Simon saunters down the hallway toward the open living room area, his trained ears pick up the odd sound of rapid skin on skin contact coming from the kitchen and his stomach drops and tightens into knots, synapses firing in his brain, once he makes the connection and comes to the most logical conclusion.

Of course, you two would be doing that.

A part of him wants to simply leave and find some other way to occupy himself, but he has to admit, his curiosity and the shameless urge to watch you get fucked by Johnny wins out – always does. So, he slowly strides toward the kitchen, his sock-footed steps silent and measured, while the sound of slapping flesh, your wanton moans and Johnny’s hoarse groans become louder as he approaches.

When Simon comes to stand inside the open kitchen doorway, a shockwave of blasting desire shoots through his lower abdomen, makes his groin throb and his cock chuff inside his boxers at the obscene sight in front of him.

His sharp eyes land on Johnny’s bare ass and clothed torso, jeans pooling at his boot-clad ankles; plump ass cheeks and hairy thighs flexing as he pounds into you from behind while one of his meaty hands is wrapped around the back of your neck, pushing your naked body down against the counter while the fingers of his other hand dig into the fat of your hip to keep you steady.

Simon tries to keep his breathing steady, but his blood starts rushing and simmering, knuckles turning white as he balls his hands into tight fists at his sides to keep his composure while heat starts licking up his spine, flushing his pale cheeks which are still stinging from the biting cold outside.

The way your smooth back arches as you take Johnny’s fat cock, makes Simon want to jump into action himself and lick his flat tongue along your spine, get a good taste of your sweat and skin. He can clearly see your legs quaking; can hear how wet you are as Johnny’s heavy sac slaps against your flesh. It’s making him dizzy, and he bites back a low groan bubbling up in his chest.

Simon’s painfully hard now, dick straining against his underwear, and he knows – one flick of your pretty tongue over his flushed cockhead would have him buckle and come undone within seconds, erupting like a bloody volcano.

Suddenly, his right hand cups his throbbing erection through his black cargo pants, heart thudding violently against his ribcage as he rubs himself, sucking in a sharp breath through his nostrils as his own touch ease some of the pressure.

Slowly, his dark eyes move lower, his gaze fixated on your face and the way it contorts in pleasure, lips parted with keening moans while your eyes are squeezed shut. He tries to keep his expression neutral, despite the ache between his thighs, but his jaw ticks and the vein in his neck throbs with restraint. Watching you and Johnny... despite how much it turns him on, it always makes him feel insignificant, inadequate, redundant...

Simon hates how he’s feeling about this relationship lately. How envious he is and how he thinks of himself as an intruder rather than your equal lover and boyfriend. An equal with Johnny, despite slipping and sliding into your relationship later than the Scot.

And now, he’s stuck with the two people who he cares most about and loves for vastly different reasons on this godforsaken planet, unable to enjoy this R&R, because he doesn’t know and has never learned how to relax and unwind and enjoy these holidays that everyone seems to love so bloody much. He’s sure neither you nor Johnny would bat an eyelash at those sentiments of his and he can’t even blame either of you for that.

“Can feel ye squeezin’ me, hen, – Fuck! Ye gonna cum f’me, aye?” Johnny taunts you, his voice strained and husky with desire, “Ah, F–Fuck! ‘m close, baby! Ye ready?”

The way you whimper and moan for Johnny, blabbering gibberish in ecstasy, has Simon gritting his teeth as his chest clenches and his cock throbs, ready to burst so soon with little to no stimulation, but he can’t – can’t allow himself to use you two and finish in his pants like this. It feels wrong and pathetic, like he doesn’t deserve nor earned it yet.

Your words come out chopped, breath hitching with each thrust of Johnny’s powerful hips, his girthy cock dragging through your slick channel, thick tip nudging against that spongy spot that has your brain go fuzzy as your pitchy whines are torn from your throat and echo through the cottage, “Fuck– ah yes, yes, yes! John-ny–!”

Even in the throes of passion, Johnny is aware of Simon’s presence; knowing the big bloke is probably standing completely still behind them in the kitchen’s doorway, trying to keep himself from whipping out his cock to stroke it.

But the stubborn Scotsman has made it his personal mission for the holidays to keep you extra satisfied and happy, and finally make Simon let loose in the process of it. It just hasn’t been working too well so far with the latter, though he’s making progress with the former–

His grip on your neck tightens as the tension in his lower belly coils deliciously, his balls getting taut with his impending release as he snaps his hips forward, making sure to keep the right angle, keep you moaning his name with that saccharine voice of yours as his meaty cock pistons in and out of your wet cunt while your rippling walls clench tightly around his shaft, trying to suck him in deeper.

Johnny eases his grip on your neck with a deep grunt and lets his warm, big palm run down the curve of your back, arched so sweetly for him, before he lifts it to smack your right ass cheeks harshly, watching the fat jiggle as you yelp.

As soon as you cry out in pleasure and your body starts tensing, Johnny knows you’re about ready to tip over the edge, so he grabs your hips with both hands and doubles the effort, eager to follow you into the abyss.

“You better fuckin’ stop, MacTavish, and don’t you fuckin’ dare come inside her now.”

Johnny’s breath stutters, thrusts faltering as soon as Simon’s booming, gravelly voice resounds behind him. And just like that, his chance to climax and fill you up with his cum is popped and broken like a flimsy balloon.

The intensity in Simon's voice is like a bucket of cold water, snapping you out of your haze of pleasure, and you tense, perking up as you grip the kitchen counter before glancing over your shoulder with widened doe-eyes, shocked gaze flickering between Johnny and Simon. In an instant, the atmosphere changes and things get tense – the sexual tension in the air transforming into something more volatile, something potentially explosive.

“We got stuff do to, shite to prepare for tomorrow and you two are shagging,” Simon scoffs, trying to keep his voice nonchalant while ignoring the obvious, raging boner in his cargo pants, “Typical.”

“Stuff ta prepare?” Johnny huffs a laugh, raising his brows in amused disbelief while his hips keep grinding into your pulsating heat shamelessly, “Mate, we’re on vacation,” he says matter-of-factly, holding your hips tighter as you try to pull away, “There’s not a feckin’ thing more important than peace, love, food, and ‘specially this–” He gives your ass cheek a couple more teasing pats as Simon saunters into the kitchen, squaring his broad shoulders.

Meanwhile, there is nothing else you’d rather do than melt into a puddle and seep into the floor in shame and embarrassment.

Your cheeks heat up even hotter, when Simon comes to stand beside you, scrutinizing you thoroughly with his icy, unwavering gaze before he reaches out with one hand to brush his rough, cold knuckles over the side of your face lovingly.

“You did want a Christmas tree, right, lovey?”

Your whole body shudders and your throat goes dry, completely caught off guard by the sudden display of tenderness from Simon after catching you in such a vulnerable, obscene position. Still, your brows draw together in a thankful frown as you nod slowly.

The corners of Simon’s eyes crinkle the tiniest bit as his gaze softens for you, “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he rumbles, brushing his knuckles along your tense jawline as you whimper, “Gonna make this Christmas special f’ya.”

“Oh... fuck–” Johnny huffs, chest heaving before he chuckles with a playful glint in his cobalt blue eyes, “Our bonnie lass loves ye an’ yer voice, Si. Her pretty cunny is grippin’–”

“Enough, Johnny!” Simon barks, making you flinch, “Now put your fuckin’ dick away and help her get dressed. We gotta go cut down that tree before the bloody sun sets.”

#call of duty #ghost x reader x soap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #cod:mw #tf 141 #reader insert #cod advent calendar 2024 #simon x reader x johnny #ghoap #ghoap x reader

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ink-n-shadow · 10 months ago

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Hi, I was wondering if you'd be interested in a bit of mountain men/ tribe 141 where they find the reader lost in their neck of the woods? Because if it's on their land, its fair game after all...

why does this scream lumberjack!141 for some reason??

𝜗𝜚 cw: slightly dark!141 (minors—DNI), just mountain men doing mountain things, idk where this went either

like please just imagine they have this successful lumbering business in the middle of the mountains, multiple simple cabins scattered throughout 200 acres of forest and surrounding a lumbering complex that they all work out of. it’s a simple life for them: wake up, eat whatever breakfast gaz makes for all of them, go to the lumbering complex to process the ginormous trunks ghost chopped down yesterday, chop down some more trees, send them off to a distributor, and repeat.

so when soap is lumbering through the trees one day with his axe balanced over the back of his neck, he almost can’t believe his eyes when he sees a pretty little thing like you, cheeks caked in tears and covered in dirt and grime. he can’t help the way he shamefully rakes his eyes down your sweat-slicked body as you blubber softly about how you had been on a hike, had taken a wrong turn and somehow got lost in the middle of the mountains.

but there’s no need to worry now, bunny. you’re more than welcome to come back to the cabins with him. there’s hot food and clean cloths. maybe price will let you use the phone to call for rescue.

maybe the four for them will decide to keep you after all.

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mossygirl333 · 7 months ago

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MossyGirls 2024 Kinkmas Masterlist

I decided to do something festive for the holidays and got this wonderful idea from @gloomwitchwrites, seriously go check them out they're Amazing! (with a capital A of course)

These are 12 prompts leading up to Christmas day, enjoy!

(Tw for smut!!)

Day 1 (12/13)

Lumberjack!Logan 'Wolverine' Howlette x f!reader

synopsis: You were driving to your cabin in the mountains when your stupid car broke down. Frustrated ,confused, and more than cold you hauled ass to the nearest cabin to help. A rough lumberjack met you, but he'd help you with your car...oh? You can't fix it and will have to order parts? I can stay in your home for the time being? What do you mean you don't have a guest room?! Can you blame him? He hasn't seen a pretty thing like you in ages.

Link

Day 2 (12/14)

John Price x assistant!reader

synopsis: Price had no one to celebrate Christmas with, his ex-wife got the kids this year. It was lonely in the house, coping with beer and a good cigar. But when a sweet little lass like you comes to his doorstep with cookies and a present, he has to let you in! And reward you of course, you were always such an attentive assistant, now it's his turn to be attentive.

Link

Day 3 (12/15)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gf!reader

Synopsis: Simon never really liked Christmas until he met you, a practically walking Hallmark movie. Dragging him along to a Christmas party that your friend was hosting, 'You need to get out more! meet some new friends!', was your reasoning. With the eggnog spiced and definitely spiked, he couldn't get that stupid little skimpy Santa outfit out of his head. Good thing they had a bathroom upstairs. But shh, stay quiet, Don't want anyone to know Mr. and Mrs. Claus are up to no good.

Day 4 (12/16

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish x f!reader

Synopsis: Christmas was always a time for spending time with family and joking around. But you and Johnny just had each other this year. Which was enough for you but...not exactly enough for him. And he's working real hard to have a chubby baby next year.

Day 5 (12/17)

König x fiance!reader

Synopsis: You were new to German culture. Growing up in America, you were more into Santa and his little elves than the Krampus festival Konig took you too. It felt more like Halloween than Christmas. With an off hand comment, calling Krampus 'hot' you had unknowingly wormed an idea into your lovers head. He's Krampus. And you're his victim. Run as fast as you can. He catches you. He fucks you.

Day 6 (12/18)

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x fiance!reader

Synopsis: Kyle and you are both avid Christmas enjoyers, even as children. Movie Nights, Christmas Dinner, The Parade, even Mariah Carey wormed her way into your heart the second the first snow came. Now you sat in the kitchen, making and decorating cookies. But those cookies aren't the only thing getting glazed tonight.

Day 7 (12/19)

John Price x babysitter!reader

Synopsis: John and his wife have been tense. Holidays ruined with their screaming fights and her physical violence. But things got a whole lot worse when he found out about her affair. Now he has to get back at her for her shit treatment and who else to do it with than the woman that his kids love, and his wife hates? His babysitter.

Day 8 (12/20)

Logan 'Wolverine' Howlette x f!reader

Synopsis: Logan was always a bit antsy when snow came. And you never truly understood why, maybe it was some sort of trauma related to holiday seasons. Chalking it up to that, you decided to make this Christmas the best Christmas he could get. When he avoided you, you ramped it up, desperate to get his attention (and maybe his affection) But you silly little thing. Rut was starting soon and you just locked yourself in his room.

Day 9 (12/21)

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish x ex!reader

Synopsis: Your friend invited you to a Christmas party. You went. Saw your ex. And immediately wanted to leave. But you couldn't. Not when you remembered that stupid laugh and the way he'd call you 'Bonnie' in that stupid Scottish accent. You drank the entire time to cope and ended up sloppily making out with some hot dude. Johnny didn't like it. He took you home, he didn't mean to follow you into your house. And he didn't mean to tuck you in. And he didn't mean to start getting handsy. But how could he not when all he remembered were how sweet your sighs were and how warm your walls were around his cock?

Day 10 (12/22)

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x college!sweetheart!reader

Synopsis: He was home. He was finally home. Warm, that's all you felt. You had so much anxiety that he was still going to be deployed during Christmas, but he wasn't. And that meant everything to you. It was the only gift you wanted, but Kyle obviously bought you some before he left. After the hot cocoa mugs were put away, and the warmth of the fire lulled you into relaxation, he finally treated you to the best present. Him and you, in love. (and making love)

Day 11 (12/23)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x virgin!reader

Synopsis: Simon was a gentle man. He never was overbearing or mean. Let you take the lead often. He was soft-spoken, hands practically trembling every time he held you like you would break. You begged him all year to take your virginity. You weren’t a baby and you sure as hell weren’t fragile. You could take him! Well Christmas came early this year, and his present to you- was him.

Day 12 (12/24)

Virgin!loserKonig x friend!reader

König comes from a big family. Youngest out of all of them and when it comes to be the youngest, you’re the easiest to get picked on. With his awkward demeanor and socially conservative personality, he didn’t have a girlfriend this year to take home. he was embarrassed, but you wanted to help him out. He was such a good friend anyway- and you had no where else to be on Christmas Eve. little did you know, being König’s ‘girlfriend’ was gonna get a lot more physical.

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the-whispers-of-death · 1 year ago

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Ghost secretly likes bear!reader but he'll never admit it bc why would a man of his stature enjoy being pampered and loved by a man twice his size who can also split him in half like a lumberjack tearing wood apart with their bare hands?

But it's only a matter of time before Ghost let's a "daddy" slip put by accident

Ghost totally is trying to hide the way he feels about you. He truly doesn't understand why he's so attracted to you, he's used to being the tough one. But he sees you and he wants to be pampered by you.

Everyone else is being pampered by you and he's so emotionally damaged, he needs loving hands to help heal him along with his therapy. Because therapy is great, but a loving, steady presence like you would help a lot.

So he watches you pamper Price, Gaz, and Soap, eyeing the way they melt when they're with you. He wants it, he needs it. He just can't see it happening for him, not yet.

But he's not the only one looking. You can see his looks of longing and your heart is full of love, it's big enough for all four men in the 141.

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karlachismylife · 9 months ago

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Y'ALL I CANNOT mum caught me swooning over my scottish meow meow and I ended up showing her all of the tf141 men and asking who she'd choose

and she chose Gaz 😭😭😭 he IS the pretty boy of the gang lmaoo

Also I bet she'd like him even more if he worked that charm of his on 'er lol, such a polite young man...

She also dissed Price's beard and called Soap a lumberjack LOL

and Ghost was obv out of the picture cuz he spooky

#gaz is certified pretty boy #mum has good taste tho #don't let me start thinking gaz x milf!reader omg #call of duty #cod #gaz cod #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader

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s-sh-ne · 5 days ago

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there are worse games to play [2] - bucky barnes x f!reader (hunger games au)

There was a sort of beauty to him. Each of his swings was controlled, graceful even, like a dance ingrained in his bones. His muscles tensed with every swing down, and he hit home every time. Once in a while, he’d push back his hair, the long strands falling over his face. He was sweating bullets in the morning sun, but didn’t stop until he had a pile of firewood going up to his knees. For you.

warnings: cozy dystopia, implied hunger games violence, angst, very hurt/comfort, PINING, traumatized reader, LUMBERJACK BUCKY AHHH, beefy bucky, yearning, alcohol use, implied past deaths, trauma, bucky barnes needs several hugs in every universe

w/c: 3.7k

a/n: shorter chapter but still super proud of it i love it so much!!!

-> main masterlist -> tawgtp masterlist

i need you, james newton howard

Something had shifted in twelve since Bucky’s arrival. You’d introduced him to the rest of you the day after your supper together. Sam and Steve immediately took a liking to him, even if Bucky still had that rough-guarded thing going for him. He still spoke with that rough gravelly tone, like he’d swallowed dust for breakfast, and still looked like a kicked puppy at times, but he was integrating himself best he could. Nobody questioned where he was from, or who he was before this. Everyone of you had your secrets, especially after everything.

You’d figured out where you knew him by the second day, but until he was going to share, you weren’t pushing. Even if every nerve in your body screamed to say something to him. Even if it stung a lot more every time you saw your brother’s portrait on your desk. It made it hard sometimes to look at him, but you’d dealt with this years prior. Maybe whatever forces controlling this universe had pushed him to you as some kind of peace offering. You didn’t tell anyone else. It wasn’t your secret to share.

Aside from that, you liked him enough. He was quiet, didn’t fuss, didn’t encroach on your space unless he offered help. He was kind, and laughed with you sometimes, even if it was rough and quiet. If you were honest, it was nice to have a neighbour again, as strange as it may be. The last three years had been a bit lonely, since everyone lived a ten minute walk away, down by the Village. Sarah had offered you to live in her great-aunt’s home, next to hers, but you couldn’t imagine ever leaving your childhood home. Not when your parent’s bed was still in their room, and your brother's jacket still hung from the hook next to your mirror.

The morning sun’s rays were peeking into your home as you prepared your most recent batch of soap for curing. It would be ready soon enough in a few weeks, and you had a village of now nine people to keep clean. You balanced the basket of already cut bars on your hip as you opened your squeaky back door. Your flowers looked more alive than they did the prior week, the sun had been kind on them. You pushed open the door to the shed with your shoulder and just stepped inside when you heard his voice.

“Need help?”

Bucky was standing by the fence separating your gardens, arms crossed. The soft rays of sun glinted off his arm and his lips quirked into that almost-non-existent lazy smile of his. “Nah, I’m all set, ‘preciate it though!” You grinned back at him and set down your basket on the small square table in the shadiest corner of the shed. “And off you go for a month,” you whispered to your soap, another habit your mother had left with you. When you stepped back out, Bucky was already gone inside.

You busied yourself around the house for the rest of the morning until you heard the familiar sound of a blade scratching against a whetstone. Strange. Usually Steve and Natasha sharpened their knives out by the forest before a hunt, not here. And you hadn’t even heard them arrive.

You peeked out your bedroom window – the one facing Bucky’s place – and there he was, outside, hunched over on a chair probably as old as you, moving a small stone in circular motions over an axe. His thick arms flexed with every movement and you tore your eyes away before your cheeks could heat. The fact that Bucky was quite the opposite of an eyesore helped the whole neighbour thing a bit too, you had to admit. Even with the guilt pooling in your stomach. You also did notice the sweat dripping down his forehead, and the dust clinging to his skin. That's when you realized with a jolt that, damn, in the four days he was here you hadn’t even given him soap.

You moved away from the window, gathered a few of your leftover soap bars into a basket, the ones made with cedar bark, and stepped outside. Your mother’s words echoed in your head: plum, a good man ain’t nothin’ without a good bar of soap. And as far as you were concerned, Bucky had shown you nothing but goodness since he arrived, even with all his secrets.

He gave you another one of those guardedly soft smiles as you approached, pausing his sharpening. He raised a brow at the bundle of soap in your arms, wiping his forehead with the back of his flesh hand.

“Is that soap?” He asked wryly, a grumble of a chuckle in his throat.

“Realized you’d been washing yourself with whatever the hell John's wife left behind, so…” You laughed quietly.

That huff of a laugh again. Softer this time.

“Didn’t have to, y’know? Was doing perfect with the little nub of soap.” You shook your head in disbelief at him, your grin growing.

“Sure I did. Can’t have you smelling like Red at all times.” He cracked another smirk and took the soap from you, his fingers brushing your arm. He brought one of the bars to his nose, smelling it.

“Cedar?”

“S’good for your skin. Steve’s favorite.” And your father’s. And brother’s.

He hummed in response, perching the little basket atop the windowsill behind him. His eyes fell back to yours, the quiet gratitude in them almost too much for you. You stood in front of him for another beat before taking a deep breath.

“Well I should– uh– go. Chores to do.” You said, taking a few steps towards your house. He didn’t let you get far though, when he called your name. You stilled and turned around.

“Thank you. For this,” He held up the soap still in his metal hand “and for being so welcoming.”

Your heart clenched and you nodded at him.

“Nothin’ to thank me for, just neighbourly kindness.” And you set out again on your wildflower lined path before you heard him scrambling to his feet. The axe was at his feet now, his knuckles still closed over the bar.

“I noticed you use small branches and kindling for your fire. When you cook or boil water. No logs.”

You angled your head curiously. You did do that. He was observant.

“Yeah, Steve usually cuts wood for winter only and I’m not about to lose a finger over a few logs.”

“S’easier to cook with a real fire,” he said. “I’m from Seven, I was basically raised to chop wood. I can cut you some firewood, as a thanks. For everything.”

Something warm settled in your gut. Warmer than the guilt pooling there. A warmth that spread through your ribs as you watched him run an awkward hand through his hair, waiting for an answer. You stared at him longer, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

You’d come to regret your decision a few days later, the sound of an axe hitting wood waking up earlier than you usually did. Though you were slightly grumpy, what really did it was peeking out the window of your bedroom and spotting the source of the noise. Your stomach twisted.

Ma, Daddy, forgive me.

Bucky was chopping wood in his garden, wearing one of Sam’s old shirts. Sam and Steve had gotten together and given him a few clothes since Bucky barely had any. He’d been grateful, even if Sam was several sizes smaller than him. Which led you to this moment, watching Bucky swing the axe down on a log, the shirt hugging his arms and shoulders so tightly you could see every muscle at work. You tried to ignore the way your heart jumped at the sight, but then you remembered he was doing this for you and the warmth you’d grown familiar with settled back in your ribs.

It was almost too much.

Letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, you staggered back away from the window. Your eyes darted to the worn jacket hanging from your wall. You hadn’t moved it since your brother hung it up for the last time the day before the sixty-third Reaping. It still sat there, the same torn sleeves, the same pockets with holes he’d bring you the Hob’s shitty candy from. It still smelled like him too. Coal and cedar. Just like your father. The warmth turned achingly cold. You pressed your eyes closed, inhaling deeply.

This was a cruel joke from the universe. Bucky was so good in his own quiet ways. It’d been only a week since his arrival and he’d already helped out almost everyone around here. And here he was, chopping wood for you because he’d noticed you struggled to light a fire. Your throat felt tight, but you forced yourself to swallow thickly, opening your eyes and staring at the ground.

They’re all just kids, plum. Your mother’s voice echoed in your head, as she always did. Every time you felt lost, every time you curled into yourself late at night because you felt so damn alone, her soft words were there. And even when you didn’t need her comfort, even on days where your family’s absence didn’t sting as much, she would still be there. Whispering about how to prepare black cohosh when it was your time of the month, how to make mountain mint tea when your brother couldn’t fall asleep. She was in every flower you grew, every soap bar you cut, every sunrise you watched from your porch.

You forced yourself out of whatever hole you’d fallen down just watching your neighbour chop wood. You dug your palms into your eyes, willing the knot in your stomach away. It was too damn early to be thinking this way. With a sharp exhale, you ran your hands over your tangled hair and looked outside again furtively. The sound of chopping had since stopped, Bucky nowhere to be seen.

Well. Promising start to the day.

You didn’t see Bucky again until the late afternoon, while you were tending to your garden. The sun was low, casting long shadows along the rows of rosemary and pink columbine you were weeding. There was dirt under your nails and sweat clinged to your neck when you heard the soft crunching of boots down the path.

You didn’t look up right away, still tugging at a particularly stubborn stem. There was only the rustling of trees and the sound of a lone bird call for a moment until he spoke up.

“Hey,” you heard him say, his usually gruff voice almost soft. Like he didn’t want to disrupt the silence.

You glanced up at him. He was looking down at you with his blue eyes from his side of the old fence. His hair was damp and curled just slightly at the ends. The shirt he wore was looser than the one from this morning, most likely one of Steve’s. He was also holding a small pile of firewood in his metal arm, his fingers tapping against one of the logs. Your throat felt dry, though it didn’t feel as wrong as in the morning. Maybe it was the soft golden glow on the side of his face that did it. It made him look softer, less worn. It quieted the grief and guilt.

You smiled at him.

“Hey, what brings you around?” you asked, returning to your weeds.

“Figured I’d give this to you now, ‘stead of leaving it at the door,” he said, gesturing to the logs in his arms. He almost looked bashful, his eyes darting away from you as he spoke. Your smile grew slightly, the warm fluttering feeling in your stomach growing, like a swarm of butterflies flying at sunset.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You stood, facing him and took the logs from him, setting them down at your feet on your side of the fence. When you looked up, he was still watching you with that unreadable gaze. His eyes were so damn blue. You couldn’t look away, the breeze rustling his hair out of his face. God, he was handsome. His stubble had grown in a week, a rough beard shadowing his sharp jaw. He had small little lines in the corner of his eyes, ones so easily missed at first glance. He looked tired, worn but gentle. Like he’d gone through hell and was just now finding his way back.

Your lips parted slightly, letting a small breath out when his eyes met back with yours. Something, and you weren’t sure what, passed between you in that moment. His stare softened, like he was looking at something so fragile and precious that even too intense of a look could break you. You two were still standing a few feet away separated by the fence, but it felt like he was standing right in front of you, his breath on your face.

You blinked rapidly, looking away. You hadn’t meant to break the moment this suddenly, but this felt like too much too fast. Like if you’d kept looking at him with that same tenderness, something in you would shatter.

“I should go make dinner,” you said, at the same time as him stammering, “Steve wanted to see me down by his place.”

You laughed, a small nervous thing, and turned back, but not before you looked back up at him and let your lips tug into a small smile. He mirrored you, his eyes more guarded than before though. As you walked back to your porch, you felt the warmth of his presence settle into a heavy weight in your gut. The guilt came swarming back, like angry wasps on the hunt for butterflies.

Fuck, you were in so much trouble.

Bucky hadn’t meant for this to happen. For her smile to be the highlight of his day. For him to look out his window just for a glimpse of her working in her garden. For him to take one look at the soap she’d given him and have his guarded heart crack open just a little. For her laugh to literally haunt him in his dreams. He was getting dangerously close to feeling something he’d only ever felt before the Games, with a few girls in Seven. Something he hadn’t let himself think about in seventeen years.

She was kind. Always offering him food when she noticed he was out for too long. Always giving him an ointment against muscle pain when he’d push himself too hard while chopping wood. She’d say she made too much dinner and then force him to come eat with her. Not that he’d ever refuse if she insisted. Her presence brought tenderness where the world had given him none. He did notice when she’d pull away too quickly when their eyes met for a beat longer than normal. Or when he did something to thank her for her help. Maybe it was the product of losing her family. She never talked about what happened to them, just spoke of memories of them. He knew she once had a brother but she avoided that subject more than anything. Her voice was always smaller, her eyes sadder when he was mentioned. She didn’t push, so he didn’t either. Still, even with the walls she put up, everything about her made him feel lighter.

God, he was so gone. Every time he’d start chopping wood early, he’d glance at her bedroom window, hoping to see her sleepy face scowl at him. The blush on her cheeks didn’t escape him, but it was the way her face would scrunch up in faux-annoyance at the sound that made his mouth dry. She smiled like the sun, never pried about things he didn’t want to share and always had an open door if he needed company.

That’s how he found himself sitting alone in his house, staring at the ceiling with a glass of whatever liquor Haymitch made in his hand, replaying every encounter with her that day. Her good morning smile, already elbows deep in dirt. Her laugh when he bumped his head on her shed door trying to store the logs he’d cut. The amused look Natasha gave him when she caught her staring.

He downed the rest of the glass. Was it too late to visit her? He knew Natasha was staying at her place for the night, but would it be a crime to just sit with them a little bit? Soak up her goodness some more? She always said he was welcome at any time…

With a resigned groan, already in too deep, he stood, walking to his door. He hesitated, looking in the dusty mirror in the hallway. He looked tired, and his hair was messy, but he was presentable, right? He’d made sure to scrub himself raw with the cedar soap earlier, so maybe she’d smell that he used it.

Bucky stepped out the door, already hearing her and Natasha’s voices echoing from her porch. The air was cool, but still had an undercurrent of the humid warmth he loved. He hoped it wouldn’t get too cold in winter. He despised freezing weather since his Games.

The night air was wrapped in the scent of her flowers and that metallic smell that was ingrained in District Twelve’s ground. His footsteps crunched under the dry grass between their homes, his hands shoved in his pockets. He knew he could hear their conversation if he tried but he’d stopped listening to his hyper-sensitive senses since he’d arrived. Too much of a reminder, too much of a privacy invader.

He walked to the back of her house, following her laughter. He rounded the corner, seeing the soft light of an oil lantern dancing across the small porch. Natasha and her were sitting on a rickety bench, the redhead’s feet on a stool. She was wrapped in a frayed blanket next to Nat, her eyes twinkling in the yellow light. When she spotted him, her eyes widened for a second, and her cheeks immediately pinkened. His lips twitched. He wasn’t convinced that blush was from the lantern’s warmth. Or from the bottle of liquor at the women’s feet. She cleared her throat.

“Bucky!” He didn’t miss the way Natasha bit back a smirk. Or the way his usually kind neighbour not-so discreetly smacked her arm. “Didn’ expect you so late.”

Oh yeah – he was definitely interrupting a tipsy conversation about himself. He may have been traumatized, but that did not mean he didn’t know how social cues worked. He bit back a laugh and just gave her an amused smile.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, no–”

“Oh not at all, we were just talking about you actually.” Natasha purred, interrupting her friend. The other woman looked almost panicked.

“Not in a bad way,” She rushed to add, before Natasha could say anything else. Bucky chuckled, certain his eyes betrayed everything he felt as he watched her flounder through the exchange, her ears now fully red. The alcohol she was no doubt nursing all evening had little to do with it, if he had to guess. She was so beautiful, even with that small flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The one she always carried when he got too close.

“I’d hope not, I quite like living here – especially with a neighbour who actually enjoys my presence.” He said, a slow smile tugging at his lips. Her eyes darted away, unable to hide the grin spreading across her face. Natasha waved him closer, scooting against her friend. Bucky climbed on the porch and sat next to her.

“Want a drink?” She asked, while his neighbour stared off in the dark, chest rising with every breath. He had to tear his eyes away, looking back to Natasha.

“All good, I just had one earlier.”

She shrugged, and poured herself another drink.

“Suit yourself.” She bumped her shoulder against the other woman and smirked. “I think this one’s had one too many. Been talking about you all evening.”

“Nat!”

“Oh come on, I’m not saying anything wrong. He deserves to know his presence is appreciated.”

Bucky couldn't help the amusement from bubbling up, barking out a laugh. The woman was now burying her head in her hands, avoiding any and all eye contact. He knew she wasn’t sober, but dammit, did it feel good to see her without all the walls.

“I think you should stop torturing the poor woman, “ he said, stealing a sip from the redheads glass. “She’s just kind.”

Natasha huffed, yanking the glass away from him.

“You’ve been here, what three weeks, and you're already acting like you own the place?” She shook her head, smirking at him. “Get your own drink.” He leaned his head back against the bench, chuckling quietly. The conversation mellowed out afterwards, his neighbour finally lifting her head, and Natasha taking a deep breath. The air was quiet, just the sound of the clinking of glasses and crickets filling the air.

“You comin’ to the picnic tomorrow?” Her voice perked up, almost shyly. She still didn’t meet his eyes, her cheeks flushed with the alcohol.

“Picnic?”

“S’just a thing we do sometimes. All of us get together in the Meadow and eat, and talk. You should come.” He froze just a little. He liked the community, but being around them all together? Sounded like a recipe for disaster with his past.

Natasha nodded. “I agree, could be good for you.”

He looked back over to his neighbour, and his eyes finally met hers. She looked so gentle, so kind. Yet he knew she could knock him on his ass with a shotgun if she tried. God, he had never wanted anything more than to make her smile. So he nodded his head.

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

a bed of grass, a soft green pillow next chapter

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #there are worse games to play

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lxvvie · 1 year ago

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y'all, I made the mistake of revealing that I write fanfiction as a hobby, and when asked about the fandoms I write for, I broke it down as I know best: into cliques. I realize I might be shaking the table but it is what it is.

This is what I said for CoD (I've since add some more stuff):

You got the forever war between Gaz Nation and Gaz Deniers. May or may not be rooted in his attractiveness as a person of color, opinions vary (read: it most definitely is). Bonus points if the racism comes out in full force. DOUBLE/TRIPLE those points if it's expressed using butchered ass AAVE. 🥴

You got the Masked Men Lovers Brigade of which König, Ghost, and Keegan are the patron saints and arguably the holy trinity.

You got the Peepaw Price Lovers who absolutely adore his chonky cheeks, peepaw mannerisms, lumberjack body complete with the slutty waist, and relative long-suffering thanks to the shenanigans of the rest of the crew.

You got the Soap Suds who, I think, have found that relative balance between Johnny being a destructive-as-all-hell force to be reckoned with and the quintessential golden retriever boyfriend. His VA doesn't make it any better apparently lmao.

You got the Ghost lovers who've pretty much diversified him so he can run the gamut of Daddy Dom Extraordinaire™, Babygurl™, Sassy Simon™, and the list is endless. What IS consistent is that someone parked a dump truck on that ass and he has some big ole titties. There's also the subset of people who REALLY, REALLY love Ghost but also think his VA is ugly (which he isn't) while simultaneously thinking that he (Ghost) is supposed to be David Gandy levels of immaculate despite being in active combat. Make it make sense.

There's the Gravediggers who, for the most part, acknowledge their love-hate relationship with Graves and I think that is both hilarious and endearing.

You have the Kult of Köthulhu, König's devoted followers who have allowed him to transcend his gremlin nature to become the long-lost progeny of Cthulhu. Move the fuck over, Cthylla. I kid but he, like Ghost, has also been diversified in terms of his portrayal. And no, he's not a part of 141. Some followers of His Gremliness are also embroiled in a forever war with Gaz Nation so please be safe out there, y'all.

You got the Valeria girlies who want her to sit on their faces. I don't blame them. Please do.

You have the Los Vaqueros crew who need more love shown to them and Pony by Ginuwine is their official theme song thanks to Alejandro Thee Stallion. The less said about the butchered Spanish I've read in some fics, the better.

There's also the Farah Fanatics who rightfully adore her and deserve their flowers just like the rest of the cliques.

There's the Keller Kollective who, I think, tends to intersect with the Farah Fanatics. This lot also deserves their flowers because Keller is a sub absolutely underrated as a character. You'd also be forgiven for thinking he and Price are elated.

You also got the Horangi Horde who, just like Gaz Nation, will RISE TF UP. I think. Hopefully. lmao

And then there's the self-righteous crew who, for whatever reason, seem to think they're above it all and love to police writers on what they write and how they write the characters (we're talking in terms of rather innocuous subjects in the grand scheme of things; the sus shit absolutely needs to be and should be called out). Interestingly enough, this group also seems to forget that they're in the same damn boat by being in the fandom, consuming, and writing about the same characters. The ones who have all the energy but none of the courage even if they say or think they do. Bonus points if they also move like fans. Double/Triple those points if they, too, also use butchered-ass AAVE to make their points. 🥴

The girlies who can't separate fiction from reality and insist on harassing the VAs and their significant others and families because how DARE they have a regular degular life outside of *checks notes* their job. Baby, it was never gonna be you. It will never. be. you.

did I get them all? lmao

#2queued4u.#cod fandom #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 3 #call of duty ghosts #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #task force 141 #los vaqueros #kortac #it reads much better as a post because I sounded a hot mess and was flustered as I was explaining it but this was the gist of it lmao.

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suku-enthusiasts · 3 months ago

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chapter twelve || cabin... again - s. ryomen

❛ ❜ sukuna ryomen x f!reader || modern au

❝Growing up with the pink haired boy, it was no surprise when he put a ring on your finger when you both turned eighteen. The young man Sukuna Ryomen Itadori knew your dark life at home with your family, desperately trying to take you away. Until he is sentenced to 10 years of prison for keeping true to his vows… “I promise you with all of my being, I will protect you in anyway I have to, til the day I die.” And protects you he does…❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol/weed. hurt/trauma. family trauma. consent/non consent. smut . anxiety. death.

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous chapter

One of your favorite things in the entire world — aside from your husband’s questionable but oddly effective back rubs — was simply unplugging. No laundry, no groceries, no folding Sukuna’s sweat-stained construction shirts that smelled like rebar and pinewood soap. Just a break from the chaos of everyday life. And after your last argument with him — the kind where furniture was rearranged mid-yelling and doors were slammed just for dramatic effect — Sukuna had finally gotten the message. To his credit, the man did start helping more. He folded towels like his life depended on it (he folded them wrong, but the effort was there). He vacuumed, even if he treated the vacuum like it was a weapon from Call of Duty. And yes, he did his own laundry, albeit grumbling the whole time like it was cruel and unusual punishment. Still, after six years in prison, it was the least he could do. You’d carried enough weight — emotionally and literally. That evening, you curled up on the couch with a blanket, basking in the peace, when you heard the heavy thud of socked feet. Then—

“My love…” Sukuna moaned dramatically as he plopped down beside you like a dying Victorian heroine. He wasted no time laying his massive head in your lap, pink hair flopping everywhere like a depressed anime boy. You snorted, already threading your fingers through his hair. “You are such a big ol’ softie.”

“Mmm. Only for you,” he purred, practically vibrating from the head scratches like a very spoiled housecat. “How was your day?” you asked, inhaling the scent of pinewood body wash clinging to his skin. You loved that smell. Like lumberjack cologne and warm safety. “Eh…” He pouted, eyes closing as he clung to your thigh like it was a lifeline. “I need a vacation. Like… a real one. Somewhere remote. Where people can’t find us. And I can look at your tits all day.”

“Samesies,” you giggled, booping his nose. “We should go to a cabin,” he said suddenly, eyes cracking open. “Like when we got married.”

“Awww,” you cooed, cheeks warming. “That’s when I deflowered you.” He sat up so fast, his hair stuck out in every direction like a cartoon character struck by lightning. “Deflowered!?” You burst out laughing at the look on his face — absolutely scandalized. “What?! It’s romantic!”

“I did the work!” he squawked. “You were giggling and biting your lip and giggling and I was the one sweating like I was in a damn sauna trying not to bust in thirty seconds!” You leaned back, arms crossed smugly. “So you admit you almost—”

“I WAS A TEENAGE BOY WITH RAGING HORMONES,” he cut in, wagging a finger. “But I had stamina! You don’t even know how many imaginary women I trained on before you.” You laughed so hard you almost fell off the couch. “That’s not how it works!”

“It is in my brain!” he said, rising dramatically to his feet like he’d just been gravely insulted. “Physically? Sure, I was a virgin. But spiritually? Mentally? I was experienced.” You stood, poking his chest. “If anyone got deflowered, you did, I was in charge.”

“Bullshit.”

“Total truth.”

“Well,” he sniffed, hands on his hips, “maybe I’ll just take care of things myself tonight, then. Let lefty do the honors.”

“Oh, how noble of you,” you replied sweetly, turning on your heel. “Go ahead. Enjoy your trusty ol’ lefty and take charge of that.” He stared at you, mouth agape. “Wait—what?! Are you—are you putting me on a sex ban?!”

“Yup.”

“Baby, don’t joke like that.”

“Not joking.”

“Wh—” he started stammering, holding his hands up like you’d just told him the world was ending. “Is this because I said I was in charge?! That was a joke! You know I love it when you step on me!” You just walked away humming, while behind you, Sukuna dramatically flopped face-down on the couch like you’d ripped out his soul.

Two weeks later, the punishment had officially hit its peak. You were at a rented cabin in the woods with your sister, the Fushiguros, Yuuji, and Megumi. Eight days of cozy forest vibes. No work. No chores. No sex. Sukuna looked like he was about to die. “This is madness,” he muttered, beer bottle sweating in his hand as he sat on the couch in the living room, glaring at your sundress-clad figure like you were a mirage. “All because I said I’m in charge. Tsk. Damn brat.” He wasn’t used to being denied. He was used to having your legs wrapped around him nightly like it was a sacred bedtime routine. Now you walked around looking like a damn goddess in that flowy little sundress — the one that hugged your ass so perfectly, it made his soul leave his body every time you bent over. “I love this dress on you,” your sister complimented. “Yes! I told her the same thing,” Mamaguro chimed in. “Makes your ass look so juicy!” Sukuna let out an audible whimper. Toji, seated beside him with a beer of his own, gave him a side-eye. “What’s up with you burning holes into your wife?”

“Sex ban,” Megumi said flatly, not even looking up from his phone. “Hey!” Sukuna barked, betrayed. Toji barked out a laugh. “How’d you know that, kid?” Megumi shrugged. “Mom and Auntie were on the phone the other day. They’re loud.” Toji smirked. “So? Why the ban?” Sukuna slumped into the cushions like a man who’d lost all purpose. “I said I was in charge.” Toji sipped his drink. “And now?”

“Now I’m not even in charge of my own balls,” Sukuna grumbled. Toji let out another laugh and clapped his shoulder. “Gonna be a long eight days, huh?”

“Longest of my damn life.”

A couple of hours had passed in that golden hour lull, where the air smelled like roasted garlic and grilled buttered bread, and the laughter between you, your sister, and Mamaguro echoed from the kitchen like a sitcom laugh track. The three of you had whipped up a huge dinner — juicy grilled chicken, herby potatoes, and a crisp cucumber salad your sister swore was “spa vibes.” Everyone devoured it like wolves. Afterward, you’d all dashed upstairs like teenagers escaping chores to throw on swimsuits. The mission: hot tub under the stars, wine buzzes in full swing, no thoughts just vibes. You tugged on your favorite floral bikini — the one that hugged your curves just right, made your plush hips and thick ass pop, and was frankly illegal in six countries for the sheer damage it caused Sukuna’s soul. He was waiting at the foot of the stairs with the look of a man who just saw God. In a bikini. “What are you wearing?” Sukuna hissed like a scandalized 18th-century widow, rushing toward you with a throw blanket like he was about to smother a fire. He tried to wrap it around you, shielding you from the invisible male gaze — even though the only men here were blood relatives or married. “Um—can you not?” You snatched the blanket and shoved it back into his arms. “We’re going in the hot tub.” You said it with that deadpan voice that told him: do not test me, Itadori.

“Doll…” he whined, trailing after you like a dog that just got its chew toy taken away. “When are you gonna stop punishing me? I’m dying. I haven’t even seen a titty bounce in two weeks.” You stopped at the bottom of the stairs, turning to him sweetly. Hands on his chest, rising up on your tiptoes, your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “Until you realize who’s actually in charge,” you whispered. Then you kissed his neck gently — just enough to make him shiver, just enough to make his toes curl in his damn socks. And then you pulled away with a wink and joined the girls heading outside, leaving your big, pink-haired husband to whimper like you’d just kicked his puppy. Toji clapped a hand on his shoulder from behind. “You better let your pride down, brother. I was like you once. Thought I had it all figured out. Then she rode me so good I saw God. Changed my life.” He said it with the solemnity of a man giving a TED Talk on spiritual awakening. “Now I’m gon’ make the ladies some margs so my wife can rock my shit later.” Sukuna looked personally victimized.

Still, he changed into his black swim trunks, ran a hand through his soft, now-damp pink hair, and poured a margarita like a good husband on thin ice. He brought it to you in the hot tub with the saddest smile you’d ever seen on his face. “Here, my love,” he said with a reverent tone, handing you your drink like it was an offering to a goddess. “Oh, thank you, my husband,” you cooed, accepting it and giving him a kiss on the cheek just to make him suffer a little more. Toji handed a drink to his wife too, while your sister wiggled her fingers at her glass like it was her long-lost twin. “Look at the men serving their queens,” she teased. “Mind if we join?” Toji asked with a grin. “Of course,” you chimed, and Sukuna practically cannonballed into the hot tub like he hadn’t been dry-humping the edge of his patience for weeks. He sat right next to you, the heat of his thigh pressing against yours. “Hi,” he said softly, voice almost boyish. “Hi,” you giggled, butterflies fluttering through your chest like it was your first date all over again. The two boys — Yuuji and Megumi — were inside, waging war on a video game while the adults soaked in the bubbles and tequila. It was warm, steamy, relaxing. Until Toji smirked, leaned in close, and whispered, “Guess what we brought?” You and your sister glanced at each other with wide eyes. Sukuna’s head turned like a meerkat. He knew that tone. He knew that smirk, and sure enough, Toji and Sukuna lifted themselves out of the hot tub in perfect synch, drying off like it was a mission. Sukuna leaned down to kiss your temple. “I’ll get the fire going,” he murmured. “Be right back, baby.”

Later, as the firepit cracked outside, you were upstairs in your room with Mamaguro and your sister. Your sister laid belly-first across the bed in her PJs, her feet kicking in the air, while you slipped on Sukuna’s oversized T-shirt and a pair of cozy sweats, fuzzy socks completing the look.

“So,” your sister asked, smirking, “when are you lifting the sex ban?” You shrugged, brushing your hair out. “When he realizes he’s not the only one in charge. I mean… I love him. I do. But he was gone a long time. I had to take care of myself. Emotionally, physically… I want him to understand that now I get to say what I want. I want to be heard. I want control sometimes too.” Mamaguro was nodding like she’d heard a sermon. “Men are so dramatic. You give them a little direction and they act like you cut their dicks off.” Your sister cackled, “Seriously.”

“Men have this macho attitude,” Mamaguro continued, “until you’re laid out on top of them, making their eyes roll back like a damn slot machine.” Your eyes went wide. So did your sister’s. “You slut!” you screamed, half laughing and half scandalized as you threw a pillow at her.

She ducked, grinning smugly. “What? Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Ladies?” Sukuna’s voice came through the door with a knock. “Y’all coming down?” You walked over and cracked the door open. “In a minute.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he placed one warm hand on your waist and looked you up and down with a soft gaze. “You look beautiful, baby.” You blushed, smiling up at him. “Thank you, Suku. You don’t look too bad yourself, always lookin’ like a hunk.” You leaned up, kissed him slow and sweet — and then pulled away before he could take it any further, leaving him standing there slack-jawed and growling under his breath. “Tch…”

Outside, the fire was blazing and joints were being passed like communion. “I swear, you guys always got the best shit,” your sister said, exhaling thick smoke. “What can I say,” Toji grinned, leaning back and puffing with confidence. “Hey,” you started, giggling as you passed the joint, “remember when we were sixteen? First time we ever smoked together?”

“Oh my god!” your sister gasped. “YES! You nearly ate that entire family-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos!”

“And then you cried watching a toothpaste commercial,” Toji’s wife laughed. The group erupted into laughter, the fire crackling in rhythm with the stories and memories. Sukuna watched you from across the flames, heart full, balls full, pride slowly shrinking — and realizing maybe, just maybe… you were in charge, and maybe… he liked it that way.

The porch creaked beneath your weight as you stepped out into the warm twilight, cicadas humming in the distance, the scent of fresh-cut grass still lingering from earlier that afternoon. The sun was low, painting the backyard in amber light, and you—alongside your three best friends and your aloof seventeen-year-old sister—were buzzing with that dangerous kind of teenage freedom. Your parents were out of town, and that meant one thing: no rules. And naturally, with no rules came pizza, cheap wine coolers, and a very suspicious ziplock bag courtesy of Toji Fushiguro.

“My girl,” Sukuna’s voice was like a boyish purr, smug and warm, as he walked up the porch steps with that signature cocky smirk on his face. Sixteen and already looking like trouble in human form—soft pink hair messed up from the wind, a lean body that was just beginning to bulk up thanks to daily gym trips with Toji, and those sharp eyes that always, always found you first. “Hi, Suku…” you smiled, tilting your head as you hugged him sideways. He smelled like mint gum and a touch of cheap cologne—your favorite mix. He kissed your forehead and gave your arm a little squeeze. “Missed ya.”

“You just saw me yesterday.” You giggled, poking at his ribs. “Don’t care.” He pouted dramatically. “Oh my god, get a room,” Toji groaned, pulling Mamaguro closer under his arm like he wasn’t the worst offender. “Shut up, Fushiguro,” Sukuna shot back, giving him a light punch on the shoulder before grinning. “Can you guys not block the door? The pizza’s here.” Your sister deadpanned, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed by all your hormonal happiness. She was always that stoic older sibling—never dated, never cared to, and always rolled her eyes when you talked about feelings. “Alright, alright, don’t get your bra in a twist,” Sukuna muttered, brushing past her with zero respect and one hundred percent amusement. “Porch we gooooo!” you sang out dramatically, marching like a cartoon character with all the joy of a kid who just found out bedtime was canceled. Everyone filed out to the porch, and that’s when Toji leaned in conspiratorially, his voice low. “I brought some green.”

“What?!” Sukuna’s voice cracked like a shocked sitcom dad, eyes wide. “Relax,” Toji rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a pussy.”

“I’m not a pussy, dude. Don’t act like I haven’t smoked with you before.” Sukuna scowled playfully, already puffing up like he had something to prove. “You’ve smoked?” Your jaw dropped. “With him?” Sukuna gave you a half-smile. “Yeah, baby. Haven’t we all?”

“Not me!” You blinked. “How have I known you since we were in diapers and never knew this?”

“You haven’t smoked?” Mamaguro gasped, scandalized. “Nope.” You popped the “p” with pride, shaking your head like a little saint. Toji cackled. “Oh yeah baby, a virgin!” he crowed, pulling out a blunt like it was some sacred object. “We’ll show you how to hit it,” Sukuna said, suddenly far too confident, reaching for the lighter. “Keep water close. You’re gonna cough.” You watched him closely as Toji lit the end, burning the excess paper with a flick of his thumb. Sukuna took the blunt between his lips, inhaling with ease—and God help you, it was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen in your sixteen years of life. His lashes fluttered, cheeks hollowed, smoke curled from his lips like something out of a music video, and when he coughed, it somehow made him hotter.

He passed it to you. “Yur’ turn, baby.” You hesitated, staring at the blunt like it might bite. Toji’s eyes were already half-lidded, soft with the buzz, and Mamaguro leaned back like a content cat. Will it help me forget what he keeps doing to me at night? The thought came uninvited. You inhaled. Deep. And promptly exploded into a coughing fit. Sukuna shoved your water bottle in your hand. “Drink, baby. Breathe.” You guzzled, eyes tearing, throat on fire. “Jeez,” you rasped. Your sister took a hit next, then Mamaguro, and soon everyone was just a little hazier. The porch lights buzzed softly overhead, and the night melted into gold-edged comfort. Everyone’s voices slowed, like the world was sinking underwater, soft and warm.

“I just wanna build a little home for her and I,” Sukuna said, smiling lazily as he stared up at the stars. “Just be together… her and I.” Your heart clenched. This wasn’t the cocky, grown-up version of Sukuna who growled when he was jealous or pinned you to the mattress with wicked smirks. This was sixteen-year-old Sukuna—sweet, hopeful, still in love with tech projects, dumb video games, and building your future with his bare hands. “I love my girl too,” Toji added with a rare softness, squeezing Mamaguro’s thigh. “She’s got the finest set of eyes… a beautiful brain and heart.”

“Ugh, you guys are gross.” Your sister groaned—but she was smiling. “I love all you idiots. Even you, Sukuna.” Sukuna laughed, boyish and free. No blood on his hands. No years behind bars. Just him. You smiled, leaning forward on your elbows, cheeks flushed. “I—I love my sister,” you began, and suddenly all eyes were on you. You swallowed, heart thumping. “She’s always there when I feel like I’m going crazy… I love Toji, ‘cause he’s the big brother I always wanted, even if we’re the same age. And my best friend—she just loves, you know? She’s got no hate in her. She is love.” A breath. The porch was quiet now. The wind ruffled the trees. “And I love you, Sukuna…” You looked at him, really looked. “Because you make me feel like maybe… maybe one day all the bad things that keep happening to me—things I never talk about—they’ll stop hurting. I believe that with you, I’ll always feel safe. Loved. I love you ‘cause you’re funny and smart and my best friend. I want that house with you. I want to grow old with you. I want to sit on this porch and do this with our friends again… and again… and forever. I want to be with you forever.” You didn’t even realize the tears in your eyes until Sukuna reached over and brushed one away with his thumb. His hand trembled just a little. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His eyes said it all—soft, stunned, like your words had carved themselves onto his bones.

For the first time in forever… you didn’t feel scared of being loved. You just leaned into it.

“Man, we were kids...” Mamaguro laughed, her head tilted back as she exhaled into the summer air, the soft hum of the hot tub bubbling beneath them. “I swear, I think we all just sat there stunned that night… when Y/N finally cracked open in front of us like that. It was the first time we ever saw her so raw.” There were murmurs of agreement, low hums and soft nods shared around the circle. “We were worried, you know?” she added gently, her voice no longer coated in playfulness. “You were so bruised… not just physically. We didn’t know what was actually going through your mind.” The warmth of the air was suddenly secondary. The night quieted—still tender, but weighted with a hush of truth. There was no tension in the silence. Just vulnerability. Open hearts in open air.

“It wasn’t the easiest…” Sukuna muttered, passing the blunt between his fingers, the red ember lighting up his expression for a brief moment before dimming again. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He just stared at the trees. “It wasn’t,” you said softly, and suddenly, all eyes turned to you. You looked down at the small ring on your finger. Turned it. Felt the smooth edges. Breathed. “You know… you guys saved my life.” The words left you slowly, thoughtfully, like they’d been waiting years for the right moment. “There were days I couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk. Couldn’t cry. I felt like a shell. And when Sukuna went to prison…” You paused, swallowing. “I thought everyone would leave me for staying. I lost friends—friends I thought I’d have forever. But my biggest fear was losing you all. Would you stay? Or would you leave me to mourn a life I never even got to live?” You looked at Sukuna now—his hair a little messy from the hot tub, his jaw slack, those red eyes watching you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world. “I missed you, Suku. More than anything. I held onto every little thing—our wedding day, our first kiss, the way your hand fit around mine when we were scared kids hiding in the bath because of the storms. I held onto those memories like they were life vests… when you refused to let me visit, when I didn’t know if you’d ever come back to me.” He inhaled sharply, chest rising beneath the water. “I carried the pain of my abuse like lead. But you—” you paused, tears slipping down your cheeks now, quietly, gently—“you did the most selfless thing a man could do. You killed the man who hurt me… and you took the punishment like it was your duty. No excuses. No regret. Just love.”

You turned your body toward him fully now, still sitting close, one hand gently grazing the water’s surface. “You make me mad sometimes—talking about how you’re always in charge.” You let out a tearful laugh, brushing at your cheeks. “But I love you. Every broken, stubborn, wonderful piece of you. Because you were the one who pieced me back together… and filled every crack with melted gold.” Sukuna didn’t speak. But his eyes… those brilliant, blood-red eyes softened until they weren’t just the eyes of the man you married. They were the eyes of the boy you grew up with. The toddler who let you have the last cookie. The eleven-year-old who defended you on the playground. The sixteen-year-old who kissed you behind the bleachers, nervous as hell but pretending to be cool. He was everything, all at once. You stood without a word and moved to him, water sloshing gently, and climbed into his lap. You curled into him, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek. His smile bloomed instantly—wide, full of teeth, warm. Honest. That big, boyish grin that made you fall in love the first time. “Smile,” your sister cooed, holding her phone up, and Sukuna did—grinning from ear to ear, even showing off those two teeth that always looked like fangs. You leaned in and kissed his cheek again just as the photo snapped.

That picture… it would end up framed on your nightstand. Your favorite photo of the two of you. Laughter returned like it had never left, drinks passed around again, the blunt making its rounds. You stayed on Sukuna’s lap as everyone talked and teased and reminisced, the kind of warm chaos only found in chosen family. The sliding door creaked open, and two boys stumbled out—Megumi and Yuuji—both looking like they’d been in a sweaty battle with a video game boss. “Are you guys making food? We’re starving,” Yuuji yawned, scratching his head. Megumi’s brows furrowed. “Are you all high?”

“Come on, Megs. My uncle and auntie don’t do that,” Yuuji said matter-of-factly. “Stupid…” Megumi groaned. “Look at them!” Yuuji’s eyes scanned the circle—your flushed cheeks, Toji’s glassy grin, Mamaguro giggling at nothing, and Sukuna completely melted under your touch.

“You stoners!” Yuuji shrieked and bolted back inside, laughter erupted. Then you turned, brushing your lips near Sukuna’s ear. “Let’s go to the room.” His head snapped down to you, eyes widening slightly, then narrowing in hunger. He glanced at everyone else… then scooped you into his arms like nothing else mattered. “Gon’ go get laid,” he announced with zero shame as you squealed into his neck. You buried your face in his shoulder, mortified but smiling, while he carried you inside like a prize. “You kids better wear earphones,” he called back smugly before the door slammed shut behind him.

You had barely closed the door behind you when Sukuna’s mouth was already on yours—hungry, breathless, like he’d been starved for you. His hands gripped your waist with such urgency, it made your knees go weak. You giggled against his lips, palms pressed to his chest as you backed him toward the bed. “Sukuna,” you breathed, tugging his shirt over his head, your voice hushed and teasing, “slow down.” But he wasn’t listening. His lips were trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that made you shiver, his hands already tugging at your pants. “Can’t,” he murmured, the words muffled as he buried his face between your breasts. “Missed you too fucking much.”

He stripped both of you quickly, his pants hitting the floor, your clothes carelessly tossed across the room. And yet, when you gently pushed him back by the chest and motioned for him to lie down, his whole body stiffened. “I want to be on top tonight,” you said, your tone gentle but firm, the command wrapped in a kiss as your fingers wrapped loosely around his length, giving it a slow, deliberate squeeze. You felt him twitch in your hand. “Shit…” he growled under his breath, jaw tightening. You could see the hesitation in his eyes—Sukuna, so rarely vulnerable, so rarely not in control. But you weren’t going to give him room to protest. “Please, baby,” you whispered against his lips, “let me take care of you.”

“Fuck…” he exhaled, the fight leaving his body all at once. “Fine. But don’t think this makes you the boss.” You didn’t respond. You just smiled—slow and sweet—and climbed over him, straddling his hips as he rested his arms behind his head. You could see the tension in the way he held himself still, like letting you lead was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Don’t touch me,” you whispered, pressing your palm to his chest as he instinctively reached for your waist. “Or I’ll stop.” He groaned, his throat tightening, lips parting to argue, but he caught your expression—calm, wicked, full of quiet confidence—and he obeyed. “Let me remind you,” you said softly, not just teasing now, but reverent, “who really took who’s first that night.” You lifted your hips, positioning yourself over the swollen head of his cock, letting it press against your dripping entrance. You sank down slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed inside you, and your eyes fluttered shut from the fullness. You sat there for a moment, breath shaky, your hands braced on his chest, letting your walls throb and adjust to the stretch. “Fuck…” Sukuna hissed, his eyes squeezing shut. “You’re killing me, baby.” You leaned down, nose brushing his, lips hovering just out of reach. “You’ll live.” You began to move—slow circles at first, grinding against him while he fought every instinct to grab your hips and thrust up. You kept his hands pinned above his head, your thighs flexing with every slow roll of your hips. His abs tensed beneath you, his brows knitted, and you could see it—the unraveling.

“I missed this,” you whispered, your lips brushing over his jaw. “You think I haven’t been aching too? I’ve been soaking through my underwear thinking about this cock buried inside me. Every night you’ve laid beside me, and I’ve wanted to cry from wanting you.”

“Shit… you’re so tight,” he groaned, biting his lip to keep from moaning too loudly. “I’m gonna lose it.”

“Not yet,” you said with a sultry laugh, bouncing on him now, harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping echoing off the cabin walls. “You always say you’re in charge, right? Then prove your stamina, Suku.” He bucked his hips upward without thinking, the sharp jolt of pleasure nearly knocking the wind from your lungs. “Fuck—don’t—” But he was losing it. His hands flew to your hips, and you didn’t stop him this time. You wanted it now—wanted him desperate. His thrusts were deep, slow and punishing, fucking up into you as your nails dug into his chest. His lips were parted in a silent moan, his brows drawn, and his body trembling.

“You wanna make me a mommy?” you moaned in his ear, your voice broken with pleasure. “You wanna fuck a baby into me?” He whimpered—actually whimpered—and that was it. He flipped you onto your back in one swift, powerful motion. Your legs were pressed to your chest as he slid back in, his pace brutal now. His breath was ragged, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading on his temple. “I got off birth control two months ago,” you whispered into his ear, barely able to keep your voice steady. “I’m ovulating, Suku.” That was all it took. He growled—a deep, guttural sound—and pinned you under him, fucking you like he needed to claim every inch of your soul. “You’re gonna take it,” he panted, his voice low and gravelly. “You’re gonna take all of it.” Your climax hit like lightning—your back arched, vision blurry, breath punched from your lungs as he rubbed your clit in tight circles, never breaking rhythm. You cried out his name, over and over, your whole body trembling as he chased his own release, and when he came—thick, hot, deep—it was with a broken, gasping moan, his body collapsing onto yours in a shuddering heap. His lips found your temple, then your cheek, then your lips. You both lay there, tangled in each other, your legs still wrapped around his waist. Then he lifted your hips carefully, easing a pillow beneath you.

“Sukuna… what are you doing?” you asked, breathless. “Keeping it in,” he muttered. “You think I’m letting any of that go to waste? We’re making a baby.” You blinked at him, dazed and amused. “You romantic psycho.” He smirked against your thigh. “Only for you.” And outside the window, the night went on—quiet, peaceful. Inside, you were held, warm, wanted, worshipped.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna angst #i’m ovulating

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blu3-ja3 · 7 months ago

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Civilian clothing? Absolutely and a little Treat as well! Enjoy Lovelies!

O'Connor: Long sleeves and covered neck always, even when hot. Shes insecure about her burn scar and has enough people staring at her for a lifetime. On a very rare occasion does she wear short sleeves and it's ONLY with the 141 around. She likes rich jewel tones and soft fabrics, if it's textured it feels horrible on her skin or it's too tight on her skin, she hates how it makes her scar feels when rubbing against it. She likes silver jewelry and simple makeup, a bit of gloss and her eyes (shadow, liner, cute wing, and mascara) her nails are always painted whatever colors the sergeants pick. A skirt with nice tights or leggings and a cute boot? Yes. A nice pair of jeans with a cute belt and her old black combat boots, classic. Her hair is up, braided, ponytail, bun or beanie. It's only when she goes somewhere nice does she have it down. Her bag always has her knife, a bandana, and a hair tie along with her phone and wallet.

Price: Lumberjack, lots of well fitting flannels and cable knit short sleeve polos. Nice slacks or jeans with nice combat boots and a well kept leather belt. Nice wrist watch that was a gift from Ghost. Bucket hat that matches his flannels color, he originally only had two but Gaz found a color matched bucket hat for each shirt the man had. He didn't wear them at first but eventually indulged his partner. His beard is always well manicured and trimmed.

Ghost: Mans is unironically fashionable and only wears black. Wears long and short sleeve button ups they're all perfectly tight and hugs his chest and arms well. Soap makes sure of that. Nice jeans or slacks with a black and silver belt and his well worn combat boots. Silver wrist watch, chain necklace, and rings, with black nails. He keeps a face mask on and most times wears a beanie so his eyes and the makeup on them are the only thing seen. There's a difference between Ghost doing his eyes and Soap doing his eyes. Ghost's makeup is what he always does, smeared black nothing fancy. Soap's is intricate with liner and designs, it's still chaotic but in a beautiful way, it's perfect for Ghost.

Gaz: Fashion king, everything he wears is color coordinated with Price. Sweaters with knitted designs or embroidery over a white or black collared shirt. Well tailored black or brown slacks or jeans with a belt to match the sweater main color. Nice pair of chucks customized for Gaz by Soap as a birthday present. Lots of silver jewelry and accessories out the ass.

Roach: Nice acid washed jeans and graphic tees under an unbuttoned flannel. Nice pair of vans and goofy mismatched socks. Patterned belts, multi colored beanies, and chipped nail polish. He keeps his skateboard on him and walks around with his dog Ripley.

Soap: Punk Soap? Punk Soap... Why else the goofy hair cut? He's got a custom leather jacket with hand made patches, studs, and spikes. Graphic or band tees with ripped jeans or colored checkered pants. Well worn black combat boots with custom design embroidery. Chocker with a little ghost charm, rings and layered necklace and bracelets, as well as tongue and ear piercings. Will sometimes wears fake nose and lip piercing jewelry. Nail polish and eye makeup that matches his outfit, wears black lipstick sometimes it drives Ghost crazy.

Lil Treat height and ethnicity ( I think that what its called but idk I'm not smart)

THEY'RE ALL BRITISH ARMY!

Ghost: 6'7" (British Dad/German Mom)

O'Connor: 6'5" (Irish Mom/Scottish Dad)

Price: 6'4" (Both British Parents)

Gaz: 6'2" (Swahili Mom/British Dad)

Roach: 5'9" (British Mom/Jewish Brit Dad)

Soap: 5'7" (Both Scottish Parents)

COD Master List

#cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod #cod ghost #cod soap #cod price #cod gaz #cod roach #gary roach sanderson #john soap mactavish #captain john price #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #ocs #task force 141 #ghoap #ghost x soap #price x gaz #fashion

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19ryan17 · 2 months ago

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Moving in

Day 1 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Noah pulled into the driveway just after noon, the crunch of gravel under his tires loud in the still, wooded air. The house Wes had mentioned in his texts was even more remote than he’d pictured—set back from the road, surrounded by old trees that looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades. Quiet didn’t even cover it. It was still. Like the whole forest was holding its breath.

He climbed out, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag and tugging his hoodie down over his waist. He hadn’t worn anything special—just the same beat-up jeans and hoodie combo that helped him blend in and disappear. It was familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

The front door swung open before he could knock.

“Dude,” Wes called out, beaming. “You made it.”

He stepped out barefoot, wearing mesh shorts and a loose tank that clung to his chest. Noah blinked. Wes looked even bigger than he remembered. Broader, thicker. His chest hair peeked out above the neckline, dark and coarse, and there was a sheen of sweat on his arms, like he’d just finished chopping wood or something rugged like that.

Wes pulled him in for a one-armed hug, hand warm and firm against Noah’s back. He held on a beat too long, gave a friendly squeeze, and then let go.

“C’mon in. Got your room set up. Hope you’re hungry.”

Inside, the house was all cozy wood tones and thick rugs, worn couches, and shelves full of old books and half-burned candles. There was a smell in the air—something rich and buttery coming from the kitchen, layered with a deeper, woodsy scent. Something like cedar, or maybe… musk?

Wes moved around the kitchen like it was his kingdom. Barefoot, tank clinging to his back as he pulled pans off the stove and set out plates already heavy with food.

Noah hovered awkwardly at the doorway. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself. It had been months since he’d seen Wes in person—he wasn’t sure they’d even been close before. But when Wes had offered him a few weeks away from everything, away from the stress, the job hunt, the roommate drama, the constant noise—he’d said yes without thinking too hard.

And now, here he was, in this quiet, almost too-perfect house in the woods, with a guy who looked like he belonged on a lumberjack calendar, already piling food onto plates like Noah hadn’t eaten in days.

Dinner was massive.

Big bowls of creamy pasta, garlic bread still steaming, roasted vegetables drenched in herbs and butter, thick slices of glazed pork that practically slid apart on the fork. Noah tried to keep up, but Wes kept piling more on his plate, laughing, saying things like “You’re not full yet, are you?” and “You gotta eat like you mean it out here.”

It wasn’t like Wes was forcing him exactly. But there was a kind of energy to him—this low, constant push that made Noah want to go along with whatever he said. Wes was just… magnetic. Confident in a way that made everything seem like no big deal.

By the time they were done, Noah’s stomach was tight under his shirt, rounded out in a way that felt more than just bloated. He caught himself rubbing it idly as Wes brought out dessert.

“Pie?” Wes asked, holding out a slice that looked like it had been cut for a bear, not a man.

Noah hesitated, then shrugged. “Fuck it.”

Wes grinned. “Atta boy.”

Later that night, Noah peeled off his clothes in the guest room. The air was cooler here, and the sheets smelled like fresh laundry and something just faintly masculine—maybe Wes’s cologne? Or his laundry soap?

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Nothing major. His stomach was a little puffy, but that made sense after the dinner he’d just demolished. His cheeks looked a little flushed. The collar of his hoodie had a smudge of grease he hadn’t noticed. And his jaw… he squinted, leaned in. Maybe there was a little more shadow there than usual, but it was probably just the lighting.

Whatever. He was full, tired, and warm in a way that made it hard to care.

As he sank into the mattress, the springs creaked softly under his weight. He lay on his back, hand resting absently on his belly, and stared at the ceiling.

Just the house settling, he told himself, when he heard something thump softly in the hallway. Just Wes moving around.

And the scent that drifted in through the crack under the door? Definitely just more woodsmoke.

Day 2 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Noah didn’t sleep much that night.

The bed was too warm, the air too still. The mattress felt soft in the wrong way, like it sank a little more each time he turned. Every creak of the old house made him sit up, wide-eyed and waiting. The shadows in the corners of his room felt heavier somehow, like they leaned in the longer he stayed still. The radiator clicked and groaned, and the wind outside kept brushing the trees just hard enough to sound like someone walking past the window.

He blamed the food. All that rich, heavy butter and fat sat in his stomach like a stone. His skin even felt… greasy. Not in a gross way, just… extra. Like something was clinging to him, like the meat and gravy and melted cheese were trying to soak into him instead of through him.

By the time morning rolled around, Noah had barely slept an hour. He stared at the ceiling until light crept in, then dragged himself out of bed.

The first shirt he grabbed felt weird going on.

Not tight. Just… wrong. It caught around his upper arms in a way it hadn’t yesterday, dragged slightly across his chest like static was holding it there. His sleeves bunched near the shoulders, riding higher than usual like something had shifted underneath overnight—muscle or swelling or just bloat from the dinner. He kept tugging them down, annoyed, but they kept creeping back up.

He looked in the mirror, rubbed under his eyes. Nothing crazy. Just tired. Pale. Maybe a little… flushed? His skin looked warmer today, but it could’ve been the lighting.

He didn’t linger. He had texting to do.

Noah, 10:08 AM

Jake, dude. Please just come over for dinner. Just once. Wes is nice but like… too nice. And massive. I don’t know. It’s a vibe. You’ll see. Just come.

Jake, 10:12 AM 👍 “bring beer or?”

Noah exhaled, shoulders dropping. The tension eased, just a little.

By the time late afternoon rolled in, Noah had cleaned the already-spotless kitchen three times. He was pacing the living room now, wiping down the coffee table and straightening throw pillows like some 1950s sitcom wife trying to impress the neighbors. He couldn’t stop tugging at the collar of his shirt either—it kept creeping a little higher on his neck, clinging like it was a size too small.

Wes barely reacted when Noah mentioned a friend coming.

No raised eyebrow. No questions.

“More mouths to feed,” Wes said with a slow, easy nod, already heading to the fridge. “Good thing I made ribs.”

Noah froze. “Wait. You… made ribs?”

Wes glanced back, grin creeping across his face like it had always been there. “Was a hunch.”

The smell started early. Meat, smoke, fat. It rolled through the house thick as fog, soaking into the floorboards and Noah’s clothes until it clung to everything. By the time Jake knocked, Noah had opened a window just to breathe something other than roast pork and masculinity.

He cracked the door and waved him in.

Jake stepped inside, took one deep sniff, and blinked hard. “Bro. You live in a steakhouse now?”

He looked around the place like he wasn’t quite sure it was real. Jake was lanky, wiry, dressed like he always was—band tee, thrifted flannel tied around his waist, scuffed Vans, a ring on every other finger, and that ironic charm that usually made people laugh without knowing why. He looked like a cartoon next to this warm, wood-heavy house that smelled like meat and beer and smoke.

And Wes?

Wes stepped out of the kitchen in a thermal that stretched across his chest like it barely fit, sleeves shoved up over thick, tanned forearms. His dark hair looked slightly damp—he’d probably showered—but there was still a hint of woodsmoke clinging to his skin. The guy looked carved out of tree bark and testosterone.

Jake took one look and whispered, “Is this guy real? He looks like he chops wood for podcasts.”

Wes smirked, shook Jake’s hand, slow and deliberate, the way a snake might taste the air. He didn’t squeeze hard—he didn’t have to. His hand swallowed Jake’s completely.

“Nice to meet you,” Wes said. Then, with a little too much meaning, “You’re the backup, huh?”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Backup?”

Wes grinned. “Just jokin’. Mostly.”

Dinner was borderline obscene.

A pile of ribs that fell apart if you looked at them too long. A cast-iron dish of mac and cheese that looked like it had been baked three times, with a crusty top that flaked like caramel. Cornbread so buttery it left fingerprints on the plate. Green beans cooked down with bacon, soft and glistening.

Noah sat across from Jake, trying not to eat like he had last night. He chewed slower. Sipped water. Avoided eye contact every time Wes said something like “You’re not gonna waste that, are you?” or “You look like you need another helping, man.”

He could feel Jake watching. Not judging exactly, but… clocking it.

He reached for another rib anyway.

Halfway through dinner, Jake tilted his head and squinted at him.

“Hey,” he said, pointing with a greasy knuckle. “You got something on your face.”

Noah froze. “What? Where?”

“Right side. Like your cheek. Is that sauce, or…”

Wes stayed silent, just leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink with his eyes on Noah—like he’d been waiting for this.

Noah grabbed his napkin and wiped.

Nothing.

He rubbed again, slower. This time he felt it.

Not sauce. Not dirt.

Texture.

Something dry. Rough. Not long, but scratchy enough to catch his skin. He stood up without thinking, chair scraping loud behind him.

Jake called after him, but Noah was already down the hall, moving fast toward the mirror.

Under the soft yellow light, it was there.

A faint line along his jaw. Just a whisper of it. But real.

Downy hairs, not many, but thick enough to change the color of his cheek. Darker. Coarser. Visible.

He leaned in closer. Touched his cheek with two fingers. Rubbed. It didn’t smudge. It didn’t move. It tugged just slightly under his fingertips—anchored.

“I don’t… I don’t grow facial hair,” he said, quietly.

Behind him, Wes leaned against the doorway.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low.

Noah turned, chest tight. “I mean, I shave, yeah, but like… once every few weeks. This wasn’t there yesterday.”

Wes tilted his head like a curious wolf. “Bodies do weird things, man. When they’re finally safe. When they’re fed.”

Noah blinked at him.

Wes shrugged. “You’ve been starvin’ yourself, haven’t you? All that stress. All that pressure. Your body’s just catching up.”

Noah turned back to the mirror, breathing slowly.

Jake’s voice floated in from the kitchen, muffled by food and distance. “Y’all good in there? Or are we starting some kind of primal ritual I should know about?”

Noah forced a chuckle. “Yeah. Just… sauce.”

He scrubbed again, harder, and winced. The hair didn’t move.

That night, in bed, he ran his hand across his jaw a dozen times before falling asleep. It didn’t feel thick. It wasn’t even visible from more than a few feet away. But he knew it was there. Felt it under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

And the worst part?

He didn’t hate it.

Day 3 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Noah woke up to warmth.

Thick, heavy warmth under the covers—like his sheets were made of wool instead of cotton, like his body generated more heat than he remembered. The kind of heat that made the air feel thick and damp, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His neck was sweaty, the collar of his shirt stuck to it, and his inner thighs were uncomfortably slick.

He shifted with a grunt, peeling the damp fabric off his skin, blinking in the early light leaking through the blinds. And then he froze.

His legs—bare from the knee down—weren’t right.

The pale, smooth shins he’d lived with for twenty years were gone. In their place: a soft coating of dark hair. Not long, but undeniably there. Curling slightly, like it was trying to become something thicker. It caught the light. Thicker on the calves, especially near the ankle bones. He reached down with a shaky hand and rubbed.

His fingers came away with the faint, oily sheen of sweat.

Nope. No. I shaved a week ago. I barely grow anything. This isn’t—

He sat up hard, heart thudding, and caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room. The shirt he’d slept in—a loose graphic tee—clung to him around the arms now. Not like a fashion choice. Like a fit issue. His upper arms had a fullness now. The sleeve didn’t hang straight anymore—it curved around the new roundness of his bicep.

And under the shirt—was that a shadow on his chest?

He yanked it up with trembling fingers.

There it was: hair. A small patch in the center of his chest, curling dark and tight over his sternum. His fingers shook as he brushed over it—coarse, damp with sweat. It looked like it had always been there.

He caught his scent for the first time, too.

Richer. Sharper. Like he’d forgotten deodorant—but not in a bad way. More like… primal. Earthy. There was musk under his arms now. Not just sweat, but something deeper. Pungent and male.

He blinked, half-dazed, staring at his own reflection. The faint stubble from last night was darker this morning. Spread lower along his jaw. Even his sideburns had crept down. And when he squinted… was there a shadow under his pecs? He pushed his shirt flat. No doubt—there was definition there now. Barely, but it was real.

Downstairs, Wes had coffee already brewing.

He didn’t look surprised when Noah shuffled into the kitchen, hoodie zipped halfway, pulling his sleeves over his hands like it would hide something.

Wes just smiled over the rim of his mug. “Sleep okay?”

Noah cleared his throat. “Hot. I was hot.”

“Body’s workin’ hard. Growin’, maybe.”

“I’m not—” Noah started, but stopped. Even his voice sounded thicker this morning. Not deeper, exactly. But heavier. Gravelly, like he’d been yelling or smoking. Or something.

“Hey, bro,” came a voice from behind him.

Jake strolled in through the back door, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept much either—still in the same band tee from the night before, hair sticking up at weird angles. He froze when he saw Noah.

“Dude. You okay?”

“Yeah, just… tired,” Noah muttered.

Jake narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “You, uh… missed a spot again.” He pointed at Noah’s neck.

Noah rubbed, knowing what he’d find. The stubble was spreading—climbing up toward his cheekbones, thickening down the front of his neck. His skin looked darker from it. Like it had been kissed by dirt and heat and man-sweat.

“You sure you’re not trying something new?” Jake asked. “Beard oil? Bulking phase? Protein shakes or something?”

Noah just stared. Then he grabbed the coffee mug Wes offered him, hands visibly bigger than they were two days ago—slightly puffier at the knuckles, veins starting to press under the skin.

Jake’s gaze lingered a second too long on the arm that lifted the mug. “Your forearms look kinda… jacked, man.”

Wes chuckled under his breath, low and warm. “He’s growin’ into himself.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wes shrugged. “Some guys just need the right environment.”

Later That Afternoon

Jake stuck around longer than usual. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the burgers Wes promised. Maybe it was how different Noah looked—stronger, sweatier, more grounded. Like gravity liked him more today.

They sprawled on the back porch. Jake cracked a beer. Wes rubbed steaks down with his bare hands—fingers thick, forearms flexing with every movement. His apron said “Meat Daddy” in block letters.

“This guy’s got, like, barbecue energy,” Jake muttered to Noah as they leaned on the porch rail. “Alpha dad from a soap commercial.”

Noah grunted, scratching absently at his chest. The new hair itched sometimes. Especially when it curled under his shirt. Even his stomach had a patch forming—a trail starting from his navel that hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t said anything. Didn’t know how.

Jake turned his head suddenly, nose wrinkling. “Dude, do you smell that?”

“The meat?” Noah asked.

“Nah, you. It’s… different. You smell like… sweat, but not gross. Like gym sweat. Musk. Like Wes, kinda.”

Noah’s face burned. He tugged his hoodie tighter, but it didn’t help much.

Wes came over with a plate of burgers, smiling like he knew exactly what was going on. “Hope you’re hungry.”

After Dinner

They ate on the porch again. Jake devoured his first burger without question. When Wes handed him a second, he took it like it was expected. His stomach was already full, but something about the smell, the seasoning, the way Wes’s hand brushed his when he passed the plate—he had to take a bite.

It was the best bite of food he’d ever had.

He finished it fast, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his hand, licking a bit from his knuckle without thinking.

“You’re staying the night, right?” Wes asked casually. “Noah said he sleeps better with company.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, he did?”

Wes shrugged. “He will.”

Noah didn’t say anything. He just sat there, full and warm, rubbing at the itchy new hair curling over his stomach and trying not to notice how good it felt to smell like sweat and meat and wood smoke.

Later, Upstairs

Jake borrowed some clean clothes—his own shirt felt weirdly tight—and crashed on the couch in Noah’s room. They stayed up late watching some dumb horror movie. Noah kept tugging at the neck of his hoodie, scratching under his shirt. Jake pretended not to notice, but something about it made his skin tingle.

The room smelled different now. Stronger. Like boys who’d been working outside. Jake caught himself sniffing once or twice when Noah shifted beside him.

“You okay?” Noah asked, voice low.

Jake cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just… feelin’ warm. You?”

“Yeah.”

Day 4 -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Jake had crashed on the couch—half-sunken into the old cushions, surrounded by the scent of wood, sweat, and something meaty that still hung in the air from the grill. The house didn’t just smell like Wes anymore. It smelled like Wes and Noah. Musk thick in the air like a warm blanket.

He woke up to an itch.

Not just a little scratch-behind-the-knee kind of thing—this was deep. On the top of his chest, between his pecs, right where his shirt rubbed raw. He shoved his hand under the collar and scratched.

His fingers hit something coarse.

Jake sat up, eyes narrowing, and marched into the hallway bathroom, slamming the light on. The mirror blinked back at him: sleep-swollen face, pillow lines, and—

“The hell?”

There it was. Right in the middle of his chest: tiny dark hairs, curling like stubborn weeds through cracked pavement. Sparse but obvious. He pulled the shirt off—some old skate brand tee—and got a full look.

The hair went down. Not just a patch, but a trail, snaking down past his sternum toward his stomach. He rubbed both hands over his torso like he could wipe it off.

Did Wes put something in the food? Was this some kinda prank? Testosterone cream or something? But then he noticed something else.

His stomach wasn’t flat anymore.

Still soft, sure, but not like before. There was a roundness now. A slight puff to his belly that pushed out when he exhaled. His pecs weren’t totally flat either. More like… puffed up. And his arms looked heavier. Not shredded, but thicker at the forearm. His skin had a shine to it, like a permanent post-workout glow.

“Yo, Noah,” he called out, knocking on the guest room door. “You up?”

No answer. But Jake swore he heard rustling—low groans, maybe. He pushed the door open.

Noah was shirtless on the bed, sprawled sideways, bathed in soft morning light. One arm thrown over his face, the other rubbing at his stomach like it ached.

He looked different. Again.

His chest hair had exploded overnight. No longer a patch—now it covered both pecs, thick and matted with sweat, curling under his armpits in dark, dense clumps. His pits themselves were… wild. Dark, bushy, and damp with musk. It filled the room, heavy and warm like it was part of the air itself.

His belly was pushing the waistband of his shorts outward. Not big—yet—but definitely not flat. Puffy, with the hint of a crease forming under his navel. Hair spread all across it, curling toward his sides like it was looking for more space to claim.

Jake stood there frozen.

“Bro,” he whispered. “What the hell is happening to us?”

Noah groaned into his arm, voice muffled and deep. “Wes… he’s doing something. I don’t know. But it feels…”

He trailed off, hand drifting over his hairy chest, thumb absently brushing his nipple.

“… kinda good.”

Wes was already up, shirtless in the kitchen. His chest was an open forest, thick and full, the hair so dense it made his already-broad body look even bigger. He was barefoot, wearing gray sweats that clung to powerful thighs, and flipping pancakes with practiced ease.

He turned when the boys came down—Jake still rubbing at his chest like it might fall off, and Noah looking like he didn’t want to admit how much he liked it.

“Morning, guys,” Wes said, with a grin that knew exactly what was going on.

Jake didn’t respond. He just stared at Wes’s stomach—thick, round, covered in fur like a bear in mid-winter. His trail of hair ran like a highway straight down into those sweatpants.

Noah sat at the table, eyeing the food. His stomach rumbled audibly.

Wes set down two massive plates, pancakes stacked high, butter melting into the steam.

“You’re both lookin’ good. Filling out. Way more your speed.”

Jake finally spoke. “What is this place?”

Wes leaned in. “Let’s just say… this house has a way of bringing out the real you.”

That night, Noah caught himself flexing in the mirror. He wasn’t even doing it on purpose—it just felt good to see how his body moved now. The small bulge of his biceps, the soft, hairy roundness of his chest. His beard had officially crossed into patchy stubble territory. And every time he scratched his pits, the smell made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t know it could.

Downstairs, Jake sat on the couch alone, rubbing his stomach. He was shirtless now, too, not even realizing when he pulled his tee off during dinner. His happy trail had thickened. His chest had sprouted more. There was a buzz in his bones, like static under the skin. Hunger. Warmth. Change.

And Wes? Wes was in the kitchen again, cleaning up, smiling to himself. He could smell both of them from here.

And they were coming along nicely. The heat was thick by noon. Heavy. The kind that settled into the floorboards and clung to skin. The kind that made shirts feel like traps.

Noah didn’t wear one anymore.

He stood barefoot in the hallway, fingers digging absently into the side of his softening waist, trying to process just how fast it had all escalated. His boxers barely fit—they rode up over the swell of his thighs and clung damp against the hairy bulk of his upper legs. His calves looked like they belonged to someone else. Coated in a layer of dark fuzz, thicker near the knees, denser around the ankles.

He scratched his side—his hand brushed through coarse hair that hadn’t been there a week ago. His chest was officially full. A wide, soft mat of dark brown fur that curled over his pecs and made his nipples feel constantly sensitive under the breeze of the ceiling fan.

And then there was the smell.

Noah’s musk had become part of the house now—rich, earthy, deep. He caught a whiff every time he moved. From his pits. His belly. The soft crease forming under his chest hair. And somehow, impossibly, it smelled good.

Jake sat at the kitchen table, still shirtless, fidgeting with the waistband of his gym shorts. His gut pushed softly against the table edge. His armpits were dark now—so much darker than yesterday—and every time he lifted his arms, the scent hit like a wave. He didn’t even apologize for it anymore. Just shrugged.

“Something’s seriously wrong with me, man,” Jake muttered, scratching at the wild patch creeping up toward his shoulder.

Noah smirked, barely hiding it. “Dude. Us. Look at this.” He raised both arms and flexed. Not a bodybuilder flex—just a big guy stretch. Hairy pits, thick arms, belly hanging out soft and proud.

Jake blinked. “Holy sh—bro, you’ve got like, lumberjack chest hair now. You’re like a damn werewolf.”

“Look who’s talking. That’s a full-on happy trail, Jake. And don’t even try to say you haven’t noticed the beard coming in.”

Jake instinctively rubbed his chin. The stubble had gotten scratchy. Coarse. There was even a shadow creeping up his cheeks and curling under his jawline. He hadn’t shaved since that first night. Somehow, it didn’t feel like he needed to. The growth wasn’t messy—it was right.

Wes walked in, sweating, shirtless, carrying a cooler of beers like he wasn’t phased by the heat. His gut was glorious now—round and firm under his thick trail of stomach fur, which met his chest hair like a wild overgrown forest. His arms were sun-kissed and dusted in golden hair, glistening in the light.

“Pool day,” Wes grinned. “C’mon. You two need some vitamin D and fresh air before the house eats you alive.”

Day Five –------------------------------------------------------------------

The backyard was all sunlight and green. A long stretch of overgrown grass, a half-forgotten pool, and trees that lined the fence like a secret. No neighbors in sight.

Noah stripped down to just his shorts. His stomach caught the sun now—soft and pale in some places, darker in others from all the new hair. The sun hit his chest, and it shone. A wet, sweaty sheen over a thick rug of curls that clung to his pecs.

He sank into the pool with a groan, arms resting on the edge, chest hair floating lazily on the surface.

Jake followed, slower. His body wasn’t as hairy as Noah’s—yet—but his thighs were coated now, and his chest had sprouted little tufts on both sides that looked ready to connect. He scratched at his thicker forearms and waded into the water, not even realizing he let out a soft grunt of pleasure.

They sat in silence for a while, heavy and slow.

Then Wes dropped in beside them, a cannonball of hot weight and laughter. The water surged. When he surfaced, he pushed his hair back and gave both boys a long look.

“You're coming along,” he said, voice low. “Real good. Thick. Solid.”

Jake laughed nervously. “You keep saying that. Coming along into what, man?”

Wes leaned back. “Into who you were supposed to be.”

That night, the air was damp and electric. Noah stood in front of the mirror again, rubbing lotion into his shoulders without thinking. The hair kept coming in thicker. Curlier. His chest looked huge now, not just from fat—but from hair. It clung to his belly, thick around his navel, then down into a thick V leading below the waistband of his sleep shorts.

He turned. His ass was rounder. Meatier. Covered in fuzz, even the backs of his thighs were coated now.

He leaned forward, scratching under his jaw—and froze.

His beard had come in full.

Thick, brown, dense. Framing his face in a way that made his eyes look deeper. Rough around the jaw, darker near the chin. He rubbed it slowly, the sound of bristles like sandpaper on wood. He ran his hand down his chest, over the curls. And smiled.

He liked this.

Down the hall, Jake lay in bed shirtless, staring at the ceiling. One hand on his stomach. His skin was warm and tight over new fat. Hair surrounded his navel now. His pits were soaked in musky sweat. He pressed his nose to his own bicep and sighed.

“No way I’m going back to normal,” he mumbled.

Downstairs, Wes turned the lights out and opened the window. The night breeze carried the scent of their musk into the yard like incense.

He smiled. The house was almost done with them.

Day 6------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day had a thick, almost suffocating quality to it. The kind of heat that made everything feel sticky and overbearing. Noah was awake early, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The stubble on his face had thickened again overnight, and his chest hair was more than just a rug—it was a fucking forest. He traced his fingers through the curly mess of it, the feeling of the bristles turning him on in ways he hadn’t expected.

It was like he was becoming someone else. Someone bigger. Someone... more. More what, though? More manly? More like the guys he’d used to idolize? Like Wes? The thought hit him harder than usual as he caught his reflection—his jawline more defined, his stomach fuller, his legs, thick with muscle and hair. The transformation felt... good. Hell, it felt right.

He let out a deep breath, rubbing his hand down his chest again. The softness of his belly was becoming more pronounced, but the hair over it was a badge of pride now.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself. “I’m turning into a goddamn beast.”

Jake’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Yo, man, I need your help with something.”

Noah smirked, scratching under his armpit as he swung open the bathroom door. There Jake stood, shirtless as usual, looking even thicker. His chest wasn’t just a couple of tufts anymore—it was full on. A thick trail of dark, coarse hair ran down from his sternum, disappearing into his waistband. His arms had grown even broader, and there was no mistaking it now—his stomach was pushing out in a soft, round curve.

“You feeling yourself, too?” Noah asked with a grin.

Jake shot him a glare, but the blush spreading across his face betrayed him. “Dude, I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me. Look at this.” He waved his arms around. “I got more body hair than I had two days ago, and I don’t know what the hell’s up with my stomach, either. It’s—uh—growing.”

Noah didn’t try to hide the way his eyes flickered to Jake’s midsection. His stomach had definitely taken on more roundness, and the hair growing there had thickened in places that used to be smooth.

“Let me guess,” Noah said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not just worried about the changes, huh?”

Jake’s face reddened more. “Shut up. I’m serious, man. What’s going on here? First we get more hair, then we get bigger, and now my fucking pits smell like a damn locker room.”

Noah laughed softly, the deep, almost guttural sound making Jake bristle. “Welcome to the club,” he said. “You really think I didn’t notice it? My pits are so fucking ripe right now I could probably knock out a grizzly bear with just my smell.”

Jake groaned and sat down on the couch. “Goddamn it. I’m turning into a hairy mess.”

Noah smirked again. “I don’t know, man. I’m kind of starting to like it.”

Jake stared at him like he was nuts. “What the hell are you talking about? This ain’t normal.”

“Normal? Nothing about this is normal,” Noah shot back. “But... fuck, man. I kinda like it. It feels... natural? Like, I feel like I’m turning into someone I’m supposed to be.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, the heat of the day starting to make his skin itch in places it didn’t used to. “I don’t know, man. I just... I’m not sure I’m cool with how fast this is happening.”

“I wasn’t either at first,” Noah admitted, walking closer and plopping down next to him on the couch. “But the more I look at myself... the more I fucking love it.”

Jake eyed him skeptically. “You’re saying you love this shit?”

“Yeah,” Noah said, voice low, almost a growl as he ran a hand through his thickening beard. “I mean, look at me. I’m a fucking stud. I didn’t have shit before. No muscles, no chest hair, no thick beard. Now? Now I look like a damn man. And it feels... right. Feels like I’m supposed to be this way.”

“Dude, you’re fucking crazy.” Jake laughed but the sound was a little too tight, a little too unsure. “But maybe you’re right. I’m not—uh, I’m not hating it as much as I thought I would.”

Noah gave him a knowing look, leaning in closer. “You’re feeling it too, huh?”

Jake shifted uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.”

Noah watched him for a long moment before grinning.

The evening had arrived quietly, the warm summer air settling around the house like a comfortable blanket. The smell of dinner filled the air—something hearty, savory, the kind of meal that could make a person feel full and satisfied both physically and... in other ways. Wes had worked his usual magic in the kitchen, and now it was time for Noah and Jake to truly experience the effects of his “special touch.”

Noah sat on the couch, his body leaning back slightly, a new, subtle heaviness in his posture that he wasn’t used to. He ran a hand through his messy hair, still getting used to how thick it was starting to feel. His shirt, which had once hung loosely off his frame, now clung tightly to his chest and belly, the soft roundness of his stomach visible through the fabric. It wasn’t just his gut that had changed—his arms had thickened too, his muscles not quite as toned, but they were big in a way that felt... comforting. More to hold, more to love. The hair on his chest was becoming thicker, sprouting out in thick patches, each one adding to his growing sense of masculinity. He could feel it, all of it—he was becoming someone different, someone stronger.

Jake sat next to him, his presence always a bit overwhelming, his shoulders broad and powerful, his body a solid mass of muscle and soft curves. But today, he was different—he had grown since the morning. His belly had expanded, rounding out as a thick softness spread across his midsection, the waistband of his shorts pulling snugly against his expanding form. His chest was a wild landscape of thick hair, dark and rough, each strand feeling more and more like a part of him with every passing hour. The thickness of his arms, his biceps, felt heavy, solid—he was turning into something more... real, more powerful.

The tension between the two of them had always been there, but now, it felt different. Noah couldn’t stop glancing at Jake, his eyes drawn to the way his body seemed to radiate confidence, power, and strength. And Jake—well, Jake was staring at Noah with a mix of admiration and something else, something deeper.

“Man,” Noah said softly, breaking the silence between them, “look at you. You’re... massive.” He could feel his heart rate pick up as he took in the sight of Jake’s body, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. The sight of the dark hair covering his body, his belly pushing out from his waistband—God, it was hot. Jake’s body was a revelation. And Noah couldn’t tear his gaze away from him.

Jake turned to him, a grin pulling at his lips. He looked Noah over, his gaze lingering on his thickening chest, his growing belly, the trail of hair that now ran down Noah’s stomach. “Yeah? You’re not looking so bad yourself, man. Hell, you’re bigger than I thought. All that muscle you’re hiding under there... I can see it now.”

Noah smiled, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at the compliment. But he couldn’t help but feel more than just admiration for Jake. There was something about the way he looked at him—like he was seeing Noah in a way no one ever had before.

Wes, who had been observing quietly from the kitchen, finally walked in, his usual mischievous grin on his face. He had prepared the dinner, but he knew the real magic would happen in the moments that followed. “Dinner’s ready, guys,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “You’re gonna want to eat... trust me.”

Noah and Jake glanced at each other, then moved toward the dinner table, their bodies heavy with the changes they were feeling. They sat down, though neither of them could really focus on the food. Every bite seemed to be feeding something inside them—something primal, something growing. And with every bite, they felt it. More muscle, more fat, more hair.

As they ate, the changes continued. It was subtle at first, but soon Noah felt his stomach pushing out even further. He couldn’t help but notice how his fingers seemed to sink into his soft belly as he took another forkful of food. He didn’t mind it though. It felt natural, like he was exactly where he needed to be. His shirt had ridden up, exposing more of his stomach, and the thick trail of hair on his chest had spread down further, now disappearing into the waistband of his pants. He could feel the weight of it all, the heat building inside him as his body stretched and shifted.

Jake was in the same state. His hands rubbed against his belly, feeling the softness there. His arms felt thick, and the veins were almost completely hidden by the layer of muscle and fat that had built up. His chest, wild with dark hair, heaved as he took another bite, his eyes never leaving Noah’s.

There was something magnetic about their connection, something deeper than the transformation itself. The changes in their bodies seemed to heighten their awareness of each other. They weren’t just seeing each other as the growing men they were becoming—they were beginning to appreciate the strength, the confidence, the raw masculinity they both shared. And in that moment, something shifted.

Without thinking, Noah reached out, his hand brushing Jake’s arm. The roughness of his body, the way his muscles tensed under his touch, sent a thrill through Noah. He could feel Jake’s heat radiating off him, the smell of their combined musk filling the air. It was intoxicating, the scent of their shared masculinity mixing in a way that made Noah’s chest tighten.

Jake’s eyes flicked down to Noah’s hand on his arm, his fingers gently squeezing the flesh there. “You’re getting pretty damn strong, Noah,” Jake said, his voice thick with admiration.

Noah felt a rush of warmth flood through him at the words. “You think so?” he whispered, his heart racing as he leaned in closer, his breath shallow.

Without another word, Jake tilted his head, leaning toward Noah slowly. Their lips met in a soft kiss—gentle at first, exploratory. Noah’s hands moved to Jake’s chest, feeling the warmth, the softness of his growing belly under the firm muscle. Jake’s hand slid around Noah’s waist, pulling him closer, their bodies pressing together as the kiss deepened. Noah could feel the heat between them, the weight of their growing bodies, the way their hearts beat faster, the blood rushing through their veins.

Their lips parted only for a moment before they came together again, this time with more intensity. Jake’s tongue flicked against Noah’s lips, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a shiver down his spine. Noah responded eagerly, his tongue sliding into Jake’s mouth, tasting him, exploring him. The kiss deepened, becoming more passionate, as if neither of them could get enough. Their bodies shifted against each other, the heat of their skin mixing, the feel of their growing bodies sending sparks of desire through them both.

Noah’s hands wandered, tracing the thick muscles of Jake’s arms, his fingers brushing the dark hair on his chest. Every touch felt more intense, more real, as their bodies grew together in this intimate dance. They kissed and kissed, their lips slick with desire, their hands roaming over the other’s body, exploring the softness of Noah’s new belly and the rough, solid muscle of Jake’s chest. The deeper they kissed, the more they felt each other’s growth, the changes that had brought them to this moment.

Noah could feel the heat building between them, the electricity in the air that had always been there but was now undeniable. His heart was pounding in his chest as he kissed Jake, his hands sliding down to feel the soft fullness of Jake’s belly, the way it pushed out from under his shirt. Jake’s hands were everywhere—on Noah’s back, his chest, his sides, pulling him closer, feeling him grow under his touch.

They paused for just a second, staring at each other, breaths heavy and shallow. Noah’s lips were swollen, his chest heaving as he gazed into Jake’s eyes.

“Fuck,” Jake breathed, his voice husky with desire. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Noah couldn’t help but smile, his own breath coming in quick bursts. “You are too.”

And with that, they were kissing again, deeper now, their mouths hungry for more of each other. The air between them felt charged, thick with the intensity of their desire, and their bodies—changed, growing, evolving together—couldn’t help but respond in kind.

#hairy #fat tf #hairy tf #gainer tf #male tf

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