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rileysluvr · 11 months

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cliché jealousy trope except i suck at dialogue and ghost is a manchild in this but i still love him anyways!! nsfw <3

“Gaz is about to set the rack, if you’d like to join, Lieutenant.” You leaned one hand on his table and twisted your pool stick in the other, bending down to be heard over the loudness of the building.

Something about the way his title rolled off your liquor-smoothed tongue in that syrupy, almost meddlesome tone, had him swallowing thickly under his balaclava. He leaned back against the wall, toying with the glass of a thin line of bourbon in his gloved fingers. He made sure nobody got a peak of his face when he lifted the fabric for a drink, and despite your efforts and lingering eyes on him throughout the night and years that you’ve known him, he would continue to remain a mystery on that end.

“You really enjoy playin’ that nonsense with them?” he glared over at Soap and Gaz, downing shots and flipping the glasses upside down on the table as they waited for your return. You looked over your shoulder, and Soap threw his arms up to ask what was taking you so long. You returned to Ghost:

“I do. No harm in celebrating, Sir.”

“I’ll consider, but try not to make a scene out of it, Sergeant. You know those boys ‘ave got a hard-on for you.”

“Is that such a bad thing? Maybe tonight one of them will get lucky,” you smiled. Your words were uncharacteristic of you, and he was drawn back a bit in a mix of amazement and bitterness. He looked past you once more and Soap and Gaz were beginning to grow impatient.

“Don’t let me hold you back. Go on, I’ll watch.”

You pushed yourself from the table with a toothy smile, and returned to the game. You went up against Gaz, while Soap helped you to position yourself as you claimed to be relatively new to the sport. ‘Ladies first,’ and you broke the game, the end of your stick striking the white ball. Soap hovering behind you to guide your hits, and you got stripes, leaving Gaz stuck with solids. With each turn, Soap leaned heavier into you, hands staying on yours and your hips for longer to adjust you. You’d be a dirty liar if you said you didn’t enjoy his big arms around you, and his Scottish accent whispering tips directly into your ear. In full transparency with yourself, he had you worked and shuddering, and if your Lieutenant wasn’t already fuming with the last words you left him with, he would be sure to rub them in your pretty face later and have you gasping for air as the thought of another man, let alone member of Task Force 141, touching you had surely slipped from your memory.

You sent the white ball rolling into the black ball, pocketing it with the help of Soap and you dropped the stick on the table, both leaning up and cheering, embracing each other in a hug. You squeezed his waist as he praised your victory in your ear. Gaz was emulous, not so much because of his loss, but of the way you celebrated with Soap. Though, it was short-lived when you were pulling away from Soap and making your way over to him. You walked around behind him, placing your hands on his shoulders and massaging them lightly. You leaned up on your toes to whisper, “Good game, Garrick,” and he sarcastically crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. You dropped with a residual hand on his bicep, and you spoke to the two men, “You two play another round, I need to speak with the Lieutenant.”

Gaz mourned the loss of your hand as you walked across the bar and back to your Lieutenant. You clocked that he hadn’t touched his drink, or barely moved an inch since you were last there, as you slid into the booth opposite of him.

“You made quite the show.”

He spoke up before you could, an obvious change in his tone; disappointed and dropped down a notch from his already impossibly intense voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant,” you teased, but he was clearly not in the mood. His brows pulled together, distraught. How could you not know what you fucking did? To him?

He immediately relaxed his face. “Drink this, we’re leaving.” He pushed his glass towards you, the small amount of brown liquid sloshing with the movement, and he stood from the booth.

“We’re leaving?” you nearly scoffed out loud. Eyes staring down at yours when you caught his attention, he towered over you with the new dynamic. “I’m having fun here, Sir.”

“I noticed. Practically givin’ ol’ Johnny a fuckin’ lap dance over there.”

You definitely weren’t, and you took offense to his crudeness, but you also wouldn’t argue with him, a superior, and mentor - the only reason you were where you are. “And what am I supposed to tell them?” You nodded over to the pool table you came from.

“Make somethin’ up. Or don’t say anythin’ at all.”

He abandoned you at the table and walked to the bartender. As he pulled out his wallet, you watched in worry, knowing you had fucked up. You weren’t just going to leave without saying goodbye. You downed the little remaining bourbon in his glass with a wince before standing to tell Soap and Gaz you were leaving. Some bullshit reason and apology that you yourself could barely understand, your mind being everywhere else in that moment. Ghost paid cash for the drinks the three of you had racked up, plus some more for the boys to have a good rest of their night. He shoved his wallet in his back pocket and met you at the door without as little as a nod to the others.

“We’re stayin’ at the hotel across the street. You got a problem with that, Sergeant?”

He spoke to you like you were a little kid. You shook your head, and followed him out the door when he muttered a quick ‘good’ and nothing more.

The walk to the hotel was dead silent, and the ride up to the room was ten-times worse. You disrespected your Lieutenant, and while you couldn’t tell if you were actually in the wrong, or if everything was being blown out of proportion, the consequences would remain the same, whatever they may be.

The elevator dinged, doors opening up to the modern suite that the Captain had rented for the Lieutenant. The Sergeants never got rooms nearly as luxurious, on the rare occasion of being stuck in a different city for the night. Ghost’s palm landed on the small of your back, walking you both into the room as you gawked at the tall ceiling and fully glass walls looking down on the city. You stopped in your tracks to admire the view, though Ghost’s form passing you quickly snapped you back to reality. He began taking his jacket off when you finally broke the silence.

“…I’m sorry, Sir-”

“You disrespected a direct order.”

He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair, along with his wallet onto the table that went with it. He could barely face you, now unhooking his gun holster from his belt.

“I didn’t think you were serious.” Your voice was minuscule compared to his, but still held on to some confidence.

“‘Course I’m bloody serious, _____.” He brought his handgun down onto the table harshly, noise lining up with the peak incline of volume in his words.

Your name through his teeth struck your heart like a dagger, never sounding dirtier. He walked closer to you, watching his space.

“You think I wan’ t’watch another man touch you? Let alone Soap? And you fuckin’ let him?” he pried, allowing his tone and the likely apologetic answers in your mind to lecture you for him. “Bloody hell, _____, you’re testing me.”

“I said I was sorry, alright? It won’t happen again.”

He scoffs, turning away and back to his stuff on the table. He wouldn’t let up. “Bet it fuckin’ will.”

His words replayed in your mind. ‘Another man’? As opposed to who, himself? And his demeanor the entire night, practically screaming at you to focus. You relaxed in your stance, your next words coming off a little too straightforward.

“You’re jealous.”

“What?” he snapped, trekking towards you in an instant. For a man who appeared as unbothered as himself, he tended to pace quite a bit when he was angry. He halted once you were faced with his chest, dark squinted eyes set on your devilish ones.

“You don’t want ‘another man’s’ hands on me, you just said.” You pried, and pried back, trying to get a reaction. “That’s why you’re doing all this?”

He stayed silent. You took a risk and snaked your hands to the sides of his waist, tugging at the fabric and looking up at him.

“It’s called jealousy, Sir.”

“M’not jealous…trying t’teach you a goddamn lesson.” He lied; he was all sorts of jealous, and possessive with you, but he’d never admit it to you or himself. He stared down at you, dumbified by your actions.

“So you don’t like me?”

“I don’t appreciate it when you act like anyone knows you better than me.”

“Well, you know me best,” your hands trailed up his chest, to the base of his neck, where the fabric of his balaclava ended. “Wouldn’t’ve brought me to your room otherwise.” His skin was on fire under yours, and his mind abandoned all sense of reasoning once you called him out. “…But I barely know you.”

“You’re really goin’ to make me do this?”

“If it’s what you want.”

He let out a frustrated sigh, giving it some time. His choice was obvious—not even close to needing any deliberation—but he relished in the sight of you biting down on your lip, heels rolling back and legs flexing in anticipation.

“Oughta be the death of me, Kid… Take it off.”

He shocked you with his sudden leniency, while his voice did remain the same amount of gruffness and authority.

You tilted your head, “Really?”

“If it’ll help you sleep at night. Don’t make me regret it.”

With a smile, you slipped your fingers under the fabric and dragged it up his neck. Gently pulling it over his jaw, unveiling his dark stubble and pinkish lips. His eyes stayed on yours as you scanned every detail on the lower section of his face. The end reached his nose and you folded the fabric over the bridge of it when he suddenly grasped your wrist with his gloved hand and muttered a breathy ‘stop’. He didn’t give you much time to think before he was leaning down, pulling you in with his other palm on the nape of your neck. He kissed you deeply, and you moaned on his tongue out of stupefaction. You couldn’t say exactly how long you two stood like that, drunk on the released tension and few sips of alcohol from earlier. You pulled away, and your eyes met.

“Thought you were going to let me take it all the way off, Sir.”

“Always been a greedy girl,” he dragged, before drawing you into another kiss, much hungrier than the previous. He began to walk you back towards the bed, and you trusted his path and blindly went with it. You giggled, stumbling over your feet and, consequently, words.

“Can’t help it. Wanna see all of you,” you smiled.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and he pushed both hands lightly on your shoulders to get you to sit down. He got on one knee in front of you, and you swooned over the view.

“Go on.”

His words were simple, but you grinned dumbly at them. You reached your fingers out and slipped them under the fabric of his balaclava once again to pull it all the way off, discarding it to the mattress beside you. You’ve seen him without it a few times throughout the years, but his strikingly good looks always took you aback. Short hair that matched his beard in color, and the bump on the bridge of his nose. Dark circles under his eyes he usually had covered with the black greasepaint of Ghost’s look, a half-inch, horizontal scar right in the middle of his eyebrow that complimented the one on the opposite cheek. You’d never gotten to examine his face this close-up, so you couldn’t help but stare. You pulled him back up for one more kiss before he was back to his knees.

He untied your boots for you, throwing them to the side before he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your cargoes and harshly pulled them off from under you. You gasped at the cold air hitting your thighs, mostly in pleasure from his uncaringness for the formalities, and roughness with your plush body. You could even consider it desperation, manhandling you like you were not but a feather in his grasp, still, more valuable than any prized possession a man could own. He soaked in every inch of your skin he uncovered before you were only left in your panties, black, and laced as if you wore them for him, and the long sleeve, wooly shirt that matched his, and he absolutely reveled in the sight of you.

He really shouldn’t be doing this; you’re still young, and his responsibility, and he’s your superior - it’s wrong, written out in every language. Even a blind dog could see it. But he needed it. He needed you, so bad, he couldn’t even recognize himself in his thoughts. And you were just so fucking pretty, and witty and smart, a perfect soldier. He’d end up dead if he were to ignore it any longer.

He rolled up his sleeves before pulling you closer to the edge of the bed, simultaneously lifting your legs to hook over his shoulders. Your stomach was lit aflame, sweet butterflies and lively, strident sparks on burned wicks fighting for dominance. The eye contact this man held, you swore you would be a giggling puddle on the ground if it weren’t for your profession; still, it showed through in your blinding smile, painfully obvious, and it struck him with something he could only describe as a longing infatuation, so incredibly uncharacteristic of him it almost made him sick.

His beard against the bare skin of your thighs already had you squirming under his hold, and his bourbon-tainted breath only made it worse when he spoke.

“Such a pretty, little cunt of yours, Love.” He looked you in the eyes, “Are you gon’to let me taste it?” he hummed, and you leaned back on your elbows. His dirty words sounded native on his tongue, in that gruff, Manchester accent of his, the same one that had you dizzy when he was barking commands over the comms device in your ear.

You couldn’t have been more attracted to him than you were at that moment. You always admired his maturity, the experience he had over you, so you could only learn from the best. His strength and confidence in the field had you head over heels, and seeing it carried over to the bedroom, his prioritization and utter devotion to you, was a sight for the history books. While he saw his age as a flaw, you knew he’d be the only one to treat you right, and you wanted nothing more than for it to be mutual.

“Please, Sir.”

“Please, what?”

“Just- eat me out, please,” you whined. “Taste me.”

His lips pulled tight and curved at one corner. “Atta girl.”

He left messy kisses all up and down your inner thighs that encased his head, some leaving behind marks that would be there the next morning, as a reminder. His heavy palms, cold against your natural warmth and with bruised knuckles, massaged at the plush fat of your hips and below, and he finally landed his lips on your soaked-through panties.

You gasped at the first contact of his mouth with your clothed cunt, followed by the sweet moans and swears spilling from your swollen lips and slack jaw from the feeling of his rough tongue and the heat of his mouth painfully close to your center. The bump of his nose relentlessly teased your clit, and after one-too-many pleas from your breath, he wasted no time in slipping your panties down your legs and to the floor next to him, and shoving his tongue where you needed him the most. You watched on with dazed eyes, utterly drunk on the sight, while his couldn’t decide on what to focus on, your pretty sex-face or the messy cunt in front of him, wanting both engraved in his mind forever.

You tasted better than what would be described as heaven, and he could be like this for hours if he wasn’t so badly off, further straining his jeans with every noise you made, every second his eyes were on you. He had to take care of you first, warm you up for his taking, because he actually cared.

His tongue worked at your core like any task given to him; effective and efficient, and with the same rigorous aptitude he carried through the most important parts of life. You came apart under his mouth and grasp, the air filled with a mix of your pointless begging and sweet praises as to how well he made you feel, along with his occasional groans and hums from your taste and attempted grinding in search of more. He fed you everything you needed, but you couldn’t help but want more. More of him, his touch, the feel of being his.

As if he could read you, he granted your wish by bringing a hand to your cunt, and he slid two of his fingers in you without warning, maximizing your pleasure and overwhelming your every sense. Unable to hold yourself up anymore, you fully leaned back on the mattress, hands coming up to your chest to grope yourself through and under the fabric of your shirt. A heavy, tattooed arm on your lower belly weighed you down as you fought to arch your back, to find more within his mouth, cum faster, anything, as his two fingers slid in and out of your tight cunt, matching the pace of his tongue.

“You think any’ve those mutts could do this to you?” he mumbled, about the soldiers back at the bar, vibrations of his voice having you feeling more depraved than ever.

“No. Never,” you panted. “Only you, Sir. It’s only you- shit…I’m your girl.”

Your hand flew to the back of his head, the other finding his on your belly. He laced his fingers with yours, squeezing tight as those beautiful, soft moans spilled from your lips, uncontrollable and needy.

“That’s right, Love…you’re mine, and I’ll be yours here soon enough…just cum on my fingers for me, yeah? Can you do that, Sweetheart?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, nodding an “mhm” as you rolled your head back against the mattress, attempting to find solace with the pressure in your head growing stronger by the minute. With labored breathing speeding up, the thick rope in your lower belly finally tore, and you came hard on his fingers like he asked you to, pleasure intensified by the heavy weight of his hand on your gut. Your nails clawed at the nape of his neck, the pain combined with the warmth of your cunt pulling guttural moans from his throat as he helped you through your high. You whined when his tongue left you, a smug look on his face you couldn’t even see, and again when he pulled his fingers from your cunt, humming in satisfaction.

“Look at that, Love.” He stood from his position on the ground, eyes scanning over your body, height towering over your form. “Fuckin brilliant. You want t’taste yourself?”

You sat up and leaned back on your palms with straight elbows, a wave of dizziness hitting you despite your leniency as you moved, and you nodded, with big eyes and a fucked-out expression from just his fingers and tongue alone.

He brought his soaked hand to your face and shoved the digits between your lips. You opened graciously for him, and he pressed the pads of his fingers down against your tongue, your lips tightening around him. You moaned around him at the tangy taste of your messy arousal, and the overbearing space just his fingers took up in your mouth.

“You like it?” he asked, almost mocking you. He pulled them out of your mouth once your tongue had sufficiently cleaned them, and a short-lived string of your drool followed.

You stood from the edge of the bed, a stupidly-bright smile on your lips. “Mhm. And I like you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Your fists locked onto the front of his sweater, leaning into his frame and spinning him one-eighty.

“How much?”

“Can I show you?”

You pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed, and he more than complied.

“You may.”

You gave him a sweet grin and climbed onto his lap, thighs encasing his much larger ones as best you could. His palms immediately found your waist, and he hummed. You littered his face and jaw with kisses as you reached for the bottom of his sweater, pulling it up and over his head and discarding it to the floor, leaving him shirtless and you speechless. Broad shoulders and frame built of muscle naturally obtained through his line of work, scars ranging from all sizes and causes scattered across his torso. Abs still prominent even when slightly slouched and not flexing, and the squishy pectorals you knew you’d be falling asleep on tonight, wrapped in the blanket of his big arms.

You engulfed each other in another kiss—deep, sensual, and downright desperate—as your hands trailed down his neck and chest, finding the buckle of his belt and pulling the leather apart. The sounds of metal clashing together rang heavily in your ears, and his breathing was jagged. You eagerly undid his jeans and finally pulled his boxers down far enough to pull out his hard cock, shamelessly gawking at the size. His desperation showed through his sighs and strengthened grip on your waist as you wrapped your smaller fingers around his thickness, his brows knitting together and eyes prying shut at the limited touch. You swiped your thumb over the wet, swollen tip of him, and he just about lost it right there, grumbling a quiet swear and tensing his shoulders.

A distraction, or his downfall, he curled his fingers under the hem of your sweater. He asked with his eyes, and you answered by raising your arms and letting him take it off, his cock falling against his stomach. You sat perched on his lap, in nothing but your bra, and for once, taller than him. His lips connected with the flat area of your chest above your breasts as you held the back of his head, and he looked up through his eyebrows. He didn’t have to ask for you to reach behind yourself and undo your bra, and it fell and you pulled it to the side, allowing it to join the shirts on the floor. His mouth was immediately on your sensitive bud and after a moment, the other, and you felt the phantom of cool liquid pour down your back once the cold air of the room made contact with where his hot mouth was. You held him close, something of a motherly instinct washing over you for this behemoth of a man, dominating killer and all suddenly gone. You had Simon Riley, rather than the Ghost you were familiar with.

You took his cock in your hand and raised your hips, sinking onto him, letting him feel you in full, pulling a long and loud moan from each of you. You adjusted to his size for a moment, catching your breath, and he latched his lips onto your neck when you started to move, marking you as his. The stretch burned wonderfully; you had never had anyone even close to his size, and your belly fluttered fiercely because you knew he could tell.

You rode him sweetly, like you were the one taking care of him this time - the insatiable feeling of being on top of a man of his making, the same man you’ve seen snap bones and necks like they were twigs, ruthlessly torture an unfortunate accomplice with no complaint, and end the lives of helpless soldiers of the opposition with no remorse. Nothing could beat looking down at his agape lips and furrowed brows, twisted in the pleasure that only you were giving him; you relished in the explicitly nurturing power, and you’d do it til the day you dropped, if he would allow you.

He consumed every inch of you with his eyes and hands what his lips couldn’t reach, enthralled by your entire being, on him, with him, after knowing you for so long. He wondered if you’ve wanted this for as long as he did, and for a moment, he had completely forgotten about his responsibilities, his soul focused entirely on you, and your needs only. Those needs of yours, being to fulfill his, and just finally be his.

You took his right wrist in your hands, dragging it up your waist and chest, and brought it to your neck. He rested his calloused fingers on your skin, loosely wrapped just under your jaw, and you urged him to be harsher, to squeeze. A craving look in your eyes, virtually screaming at him, ‘go on, punish me.’

punish me for misbehaving at the bar, disrespecting your wishes even if they were unfair and selfish. punish me for not seeing it earlier, for thinking anyone else could have me in any way. show me whose girl I am, and will always be.

He would never turn you down, nor would he deny that he wanted it just as much, despite the gut feeling of guilt clawing at him through skin and muscle. He tightened his grip, feeling the throaty vibrations of your moans amongst the pads of his fingers, and you smiled with the small victory over him.

“Fuckin Christ, Sweetheart. You enjoyin’ this?” he taunted, panted, almost, and you saw right through his words; he enjoyed it, too, supported by his flexing muscles, labored breathing, and willingness to comply with the dynamic in the first place. You nodded feverishly, whimpering under his weakening gaze.

The sight had him crumbling; his hand dwarfing your neck, rough skin and veins and all, having yours appear to be the silkiest, most fragile object one could lay their hands on. While he wouldn’t, he could, so easily squeeze tighter, strip you completely of your breath and blood flow, crush you, and the idea had him lightheaded, hungrier, and you squirming around him. Needy, and desperate to redeem yourself.

He wanted to gain his control back, be the strong mentor you always knew him to be, the one to never give a second thought to his actions, think too long or get attached, compromised. But by God, did it feel good to let you take him, take care of him, and the needs he tried so hard to suppress. Deep whimpers faltered in his throat, unruly in their attempted and, only partially failed, escape.

“This is what you wanted, right, Sir?” you nearly pouted, small hands doing their best in grasping onto and clawing at the thick arm that led to your throat. You felt your thighs becoming weaker, shaking as you tried your best to keep going, make him proud. “Make sure I’m yours for good? Fuck some sense into me I needed so bad? ‘Cause it’s working…I’ll be yours for however long you’ll have me, Sir,” you devoted, eyes big and innocent.

“Fuckin hell, Darling,” was all he could muster up, stuttering slightly as your cunt took him so well, squeezing vigorously in addition to your already there tightness.

With his hand at the base of your throat, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, continuing to aid you in riding his heavy cock, back and forth with the lazy raising of your hips a mere inch or two from his lap. He brought you down and his lips engulfed your swollen ones, tongue bullying yours as the hand on your neck kept you in place to his liking. Rougher, meaner than before. Ravenous, desirous and aching, and you fed into his craving like the good girl you were, wanting nothing more but to please him.

He pulled away to rest his forehead on your shoulder, eyes glued shut and hot breaths fanning your skin as he could no longer control the groans emitting from deep in his throat. You were so good, your small body on top of him, riding him, and he knew he wouldn’t be lasting much longer.

He twisted his body, and yours with his, held tight to his chest, and he laid you down on the bed, pushing you further up and situating himself above you; like you were not but a featherweight toy, made to be molded into any position of his liking. He hungrily slid his cock back in your cunt with a groan, you a moaning mess, and he buried his head in the crook of your neck, hot breath having you struggling and failing to keep still. Your hands found his back, nails digging into the skin encapsulating pure muscle, moans amplified with the new angle at which he was rutting into you. His hand had abandoned your throat to grope at your breast, momentarily pinching the painfully sore bud between his rough fingertips.

Your moans became more unraveled by the second, blindly nearing your second high of the night as he continued to hit the deepest point in your womb, the friction of the stretch of his cock and pelvis against your cunt driving you up the wall in ways you never had experienced before. The tightening of your cunt around him, combined with the dragging of your nails down and between the blades of his shoulders, had him seeing galaxies, with you at the center of each of them. He twitched inside you, leaving you drunk on him, and him only.

“Cum inside me, please, Baby- whatever you do, don’t stop. Please, wanna feel you,” you whined, and he raised his head slightly to look you in the eyes, hips slowing.

‘Baby,’ you had called him, unintentional but undoubtedly sounding right in your voice, and it sealed the case of your dynamic, future and present. He was so used to Sir, Lieutenant, Ghost…he’d forgotten what it was like to be addressed as an actual person - a lover, with whatever names you would assign him. And to let him cum inside you? He would’ve never imagined it, actually being able to claim you as his own, or allowing himself to do something so risky. Funny, considering his job.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, just trust me, Baby- fuck, m’so close!”

“Fuck- call me that again, Love,” he unwinded, damn-near begged. He resumed his pace, wanting nothing more than to please you, gut feeling dizzier than ever.

say it again, please, say it again. i’m yours, i’m your baby- christ, how the fuck are you doing this to me?

You smiled at the request; the older man, stronger than the meanest bull on riding day, wants to be babied by his junior. Simon Riley — possessive and deadly, was actually a man who wanted nothing more but to be held, be had, by the willing girl he knew so well.

You would’ve started much earlier if you knew.

“Of course, Baby, making me feel so good,” you said through shaky moans, and he groaned against your shoulder, movements becoming sloppier. “Gonna make me,” you choked, “…cum on your cock, Sir…and I want you to cum with me, please? Give me everything you have, Baby- fuck!, you’re so good for me.”

Your hands moved to cradle his head as you spoke, his groans uncontrolled against your soft skin, almost whimpering, and your whines erratic as he hastily rutted into you with shambolic thrusts, refusing to cease. The zipper of his jeans grinding against your inner thighs drew to you pain, but you couldn’t be bothered whatsoever, so consumed with him, and reaching both of your highs, and nothing more - you’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn't enjoying the pain, and wanted more, as long as he was at the other end to deliver. He mumbled incoherently in your ear, back muscles flexing and his cock twitching inside you every time you squeezed around him, until the coil in your stomach finally snapped, washing over and you came quickly on his cock with a pornographic moan. His arms and pace weakened, the tightness of your overworked cunt and voice sending him spiraling into his own high of the night, and he spilled his warm cum deep in your pussy, there to stay. Nails clawing down the sides of his torso only making it all the more pleasurable, shown through the choked moan directly against your ear, having your entire body shivering under him. It all hit you without a moment to think, leaving you both winded, catching your breath, actually smiling, as he could barely hold himself up on his forearms above you.

He kissed from behind your ear and down to your collarbone, soothing each of the red, swollen marks he peppered your skin with. You giggled lightly when his lips grazed the most sensitive parts between your shoulder and jaw, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. He swore if a laugh, or face, could save lives, prevent bloodshed, it’d be yours.

“Can we stay like this for a bit?” you asked, almost in a whisper for the close proximity.

He muttered back, “I’d crush you if I let my arms up.”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad way to go,” you joked. His heart swelled, uncomfortably, and somewhat painfully.

He adjusted to his knees and pulled his cock from your cunt, the loss of his size making you whine into the sex-filled air, and he groaned lightly. The sight of his hot cum spilling to your thighs already had him hard again, and he fought his desires for another round with the sense that you both needed to rest. After a moment, he shoved his cock back in his boxers and zipped his jeans, standing from the bed.

You, too, sat up, bringing your legs together as you leaned on your elbows, shivering with his cum seeping out and staining your thighs. “Will you at least lay with me?”

Oddly, your words struck him like a dagger; something he hadn’t prepared himself for, both the concept and the impact of it.

“Need t’check on the boys at the bar.” He reached for his sweater on the floor, and you frowned. “Y’know what happened last time I left them to make it home on their own.”

You smiled as you recounted the memory; the drive to the police station and back, the relentless teasing and cleaning duties that followed as they clung to their foreheads in hopes of relieving the nasty hangover they endured.

“They’re grown men, Sir. I’m sure they can handle crossing the street and finding their rooms on a few pints,” you quipped.

He spun his sweater in his hands, and you could tell that, deep down, he didn’t want to leave in the first place.

“...I suppose you’re right,” he admitted, ditching the sweater once more.

You smiled giddily as you watched him return to the bed, around the side you were closest to. “I am about a lot of things.”

He got on the bed, slotting himself on his knees in front of yours. His hands on your knees, pushing them apart, just a bit. “Don’t get cocky, little girl.”

“I learned from the -mph- best-! Fuck, Simon!” Your sentence is strangled by your giggles when his fingers are suddenly between your upper thighs, unapologetically teasing your sensitive nerves as he collected his cum on the tips of his middle and ring fingers.

He brought them up as he taunted, “Is that right?” and he shoved his two fingers in your mouth without warning, watching your body jolt and eyes light up in shock. He quite enjoyed the view of you taking in his fingers, a little too much. “Where’s all that bite gone now, Darling?”

You savored the taste of him, paying no heed to his jeering, and instead your doe eyes returned a bashful, surprised look as you moaned audaciously around his thick fingers.

He pulled them from your lips with a pop, smirking at the expression on your face. he’s so pretty when he’s happy.

“You’re an asshole,” you laughed, failing to keep yourself in a serious, scornful manner.

“Is that any way to talk to your superior?” he jokingly ridiculed, and you rolled your eyes. An assertive hand on your jaw pulled you in for a gentle kiss, plump and pinkened lips meeting his.

“Is it protocol to fuck your Sergeant whenever you’re feeling a bit jealous?”

“Only when she doesn’t listen.”

He moved to be next to you, and you naturally gravitated to half-laying on him, head on his shoulder and a palm flat on his chest as he wrapped an arm around you. Softly, as to not break you, or himself, despite you holding him so tightly, trying to be as close to him as you possibly could without actually cracking open his ribs and crawling inside.

“Maybe I should do it more often, then.”

He scoffed. “You’re annoying, y’know that?”

“Yeah, well. You’d hate me if I wasn’t. You like the challenge.”

“That’s true.”

You’d settle for listening to his breathing, and him the same for you, attempting to not think about what was to come next, and instead actually be in the moment, and what just was. An impossible feat, of course, but it wouldn’t change what had happened. And neither of you would want to, ever.

His eyes landed on the balaclava at the corner of the foot-end of the bed, flat and straight and almost like it was placed with the intent to taunt him. Remind him of what he had abandoned, to be with his Sergeant. His Sergeant, who was far too young, and naive for him. His Sergeant, who, unrealistically, wanted him just as bad as he wanted her.

#cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x female reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut

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highlandwhackamole · 2 months

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A Grand(ish) Theory of What the Heck

I love the utterly unhinged, super detailed theories about what's going on in Good Omens, especially in season 2. I hope one or more of them turn out to be true, as some kind of glorious puzzle-box-hidden-code monstrosity. And also I think that there has to be a simpler explanation for things, for the people who are at least Somewhat Normal (tm) about this show. (... I assume such people do exist somewhere...) This is what I have been pondering recently.

The thing that started me thinking about this was this post, containing some promotional materials for season 2 that feature main characters with scenes in their heads. Like this:

Seeing this created a very similar situation in my own head, but with a nice shiny lightbulb.

All the weirdness: the car, the sideburns, the clock, the behavior of the folks of Soho, the vanishing storefront signs. The absence of God. I think this is all because everything we see is in their heads.

I don't mean it's made up. At least not entirely. Memory is already a plot point. Why not explore it on a deeper level? I've read theories emphasizing the minisodes' stories being retold by Aziraphale and Crowley. I think the whole season is like that.

You know that sort of conventional-wisdom-fact-concept that you can only dream faces of people you've seen before (or variations therein), because your brain can't make new faces up? So it just fills in what it thinks is close enough? I think that idea, applied to remembering or recollecting things, could explain so many things that are wonky in this show.

Wonky Things

Crowley parking in an impossible London location? He definitely remembers it was in London, so his brain just stuck some obvious London landmarks in there.

Awkward clattering happening when Crowley throws the stacks of books he's inexplicably carrying around the bookshop? He wouldn't actually throw Aziraphale's books! But he'd like to think he's cool and nonchalant enough to do that, and if he did it would definitely make Some Kind of Noise.

Jim walking toward the bookshop from somewhere mysterious? Maggie and Nina saw him first, and he came from that direction, so he must've walked all that way. They don't know about the elevator in the Donkey.

Aziraphale remembers tartan hills and the Loch Ness monster because he was having a jolly time driving through Scotland, so obviously the scenery must've been whimsical Scottish things.

Nina put the Honolulu roast sign up, so she remembers its presence, but perhaps the occult/ethereal visitors to her shop do not.

Maggie really did text Aziraphale about the rent, but a note through the mail slot is a much more dignified way for a scholarly angel to imagine he received a message.

On the Fallibility of Recall

This season is loaded with unrealistic inclusions. The colors are turned up to 11. Some of the scenes are more caricature than believable interaction. Remembering things never copies or reproduces them with what one might call high fidelity.

Scenes recalled by separate memories will inherently vary. One person's hefty jigger might be another person's dash. Who knows for sure where the sun was that day? You and I might recall an event having different lighting or a different color palette, sort of like viewing something with different lens filters.

According to Neil, Crowley is an unreliable narrator of the story of his Fall. He labels the variations in clock times as a continuity error in a show where Everything Is Meant, but he doesn't say whose continuity error it is. He insists that the Bentley is the same through the whole season; maybe it was the same, but remembered differently. Maybe this is part of why there's more CGI but it's harder to spot.

So What?

Is this all there is to it? I sure hope not. I like my Good Omens with enough layers to put to shame an onion wrapped in a cake and covered in a parfait.

Is this possibly the fancy footwork that's distracting from the real magic trick? I wouldn't put it past Our Gaiman. There are a lot of things one could hide in the narrative of unreliable memory.

Is this going to stop me from rewatching and repondering and remaking theories for the next couple years? Not even at gunpoint.

#good omens #good omens meta #ineffable mystery #neil gaiman #good omens questions #good omens 2

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benzedrine-calmstheitch · 6 months

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Good Omens season 2 referencing Powell & Pressburger films

Crowley's angel hair is modeled after Kim Hunter's hair as June in A Matter of Life and Death (1946).

Maggie's shop is called The Small Back Room in reference to 1949's The Small Back Room.

The red ballet shoes on the door of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death are a nod to The Red Shoes (1948). (Note : the klaxons sounding in Heaven at the end of episode 1 are said to be a nod to the alarm bells in The Other World in A Matter of Life and Death. Personally, I don't think they sound at all alike; they are only similar in both being alarms. Plus, it's an audio reference, which I don't have the skill or patience to include here. But it's there!)

In The Small Back Room, Maggie has a poster for the film Stairway to Heaven displayed. A Matter of Life and Death was released under this title in the US.

The tartan hills welcoming Aziraphale to Scotland are a reference to the tartan hills welcoming Joan to Scotland in I Know Where I'm Going! (1945). And of course, the third episode is itself titled "I Know Where I'm Going."

Jim drops the book My Best Games of Chess, 1924-1937, by Alexander Alekhine, onto a table in the bookshop repeatedly as he is discovering how gravity works. This book is featured prominently in A Matter of Life and Death.

When Aziraphale enters The Resurrectionist pub in Edinburgh, I Know Where I'm Going! is playing on both televisions (I'm pretty sure I found the right scene to match this screenshot). You can also make out the name 'Pressburger' on one of the posters in this screenshot, but we'll get to that later. . .

The family name on the mausoleum where Aziraphale and Crowley hide out with Elspeth and Wee Morag is Archers. It's never clearly seen in the show, but it can be seen in this BTS photo of the model used for Crowley's embiggening. The Archers was the name of Powell and Pressburger's production company. The interior of the tomb and the urns outside the full-size set also reference the Archers, and Powell & Pressburger individually.

In Mr. Arnold's record shop, one of the posters on the wall is for a UK music tour; either the band or the tour is titled Met By Moonlight. This is referencing Ill Met By Moonlight (1957), the final film Powell & Pressburger made together. (I personally think this one is a reach, as the title of the film is a line from A Midsummer Night's Dream and thus not really clockable to the outside viewer as a direct Archers reference, but apparently the intent was there so we're counting it!)

The Pressburger posters are more clearly visible during the Gabriel and Beelzebub rendezvous scene in The Resurrectionists pub. We can see they advertise 'Pressburger Scottish Lager,' which is of course a nod to Emeric Pressburger himself. (Unclear if Michael Powell has his own label that we just don't get a clear view of. . .)

-- -- -- -- --

I clocked a couple of these myself, but they are all referenced in the X-Ray trivia on the Prime Video player. Would love to know if anyone has clocked anymore that aren't divulged. . .

#as a side note : please watch a matter of life and death #it is exquisite as a film and also very relevant to gomens interests #it's on youtube!#good omens #powell and pressburger #the archers #a matter of life and death #the small back room #the red shoes #i know where i'm going #ill met by moonlight

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birdsthatsingaftermidnight · 2 years

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This Evening, in UK Politics - What Even is Happening?!

Suella Braverman, somehow an even more vile person than Priti Patel, has resigned because she sent an email from her personal account and also governments should be held accountable for their mistakes. Agreeing with Suella Braverman makes me feel dirty all over. Still, a stopped clock is right twice a day.

The fracking vote is being framed as a confidence vote.

There is a three-line whip. Any Tory MP not voting in line with the party will be removed from the parliamentary party and have to sit as an Independent MP.

The Chief Whip has resigned maybe.

It is no longer a confidence vote.

The deputy Chief Whips have also resigned?!

Jacob Rees Mogg and Thérèse Coffey are manhandling MPs into the lobby to vote?! There's an account of at least one MP crying as they did so.

Liz Truss was too busy arguing with Wendy Morton, the possibly-former Chief Whip to vote. On a vote with a three-line whip.

No Votes were recorded for 40 Tories, including not just the actual Prime Minister but also Boris Johnson (who has more important things to do than represent his constituents in parliament apparently), Nadine Dorries (no doubt wherever Boris is, hoping he notices her or something), David Davis, Greg Clark, Sir Iain Duncan Smith, Kwasi Kwarteng, Theresa May, Wendy Morton, Alok Sharma, Priti Patel, and Ben Wallace (who's actually in Washington D.C. on government business, so he gets a let). These are all party grandees, former Prime Minsters, former leaders of the party, and Nadine Dorries.

I mean, I'm assuming they're not going to withdraw the whip from the Prime Minister and members of her own cabinet (Alok Sharma in this case since Mr Wallace is abroad), although I'm willing to bet there are several Tories darkly hoping that someone will. That's one way to get rid of her!

Wendy Morton apparently has resigned.

Wouldn't it be amazing if she said, "No, I didn't resign and I've withdrawn the whip from Liz Truss!"

According to various sources and polls, if there was an election tomorrow, come Friday the SNP would be the official opposition, because the Tories would have fewer seats than the Scottish National Party and Labour would, obviously, be in power.

If Liz Truss had become Prime Minister and then done nothing whatsoever she would be doing better than she is now.

Let's have a look at some quotes!

“It’s a shambles and a disgrace. I think it is utterly appalling. I am livid,” veteran Tory MP Charles Walker told the BBC. “I hope all those people that put Liz Truss in Number 10, I hope it was worth it. I hope it was worth it for the ministerial red box, I hope it was worth it to sit around the Cabinet table, because the damage they have done to our party is extraordinary.”

Asked if the government can survive the night, one Tory MP replied: “I hope not.”

Labour MP, the shadow Scottish secretary Ian Murray, tweeted that he had "never seen scenes like it" in the voting lobby. He said he'd seen Business Secretary Jacob Rees-Mogg shouting at his colleagues, whips "screaming at Tories", and "dragging people in".

Alexander Stafford tweeted - "Lots of rumours flying around tonight. This vote was never about fracking but about Labour trying to destabilise the country, and take control of Parliament." This is my favourite, because he's trying to blame the Opposition for this!

#I remember when minister resigned #uk politics #what the actual hell #wtf #no really what #HOW IS THIS HAPPENING HOW IS LIZ TRUSS STILL PRIME MINISTER #I mean I still wouldn't want Boris back #but holy shit #HOLY SHIT

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ficmashup · 6 months

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Feral

A/N: I'm feeling silly, so why not post an almost 3k little fic of TF141? I have literally no thoughts other than 'hey, why not' so no clue if I'll continue this or not. Just fooling around! This is my first time posting anything like this by me, so don't come for me if I got the terms wrong. Also, I'm a first-person girly, so forgive me.

Warnings: I'm pretty vague, but for full disclosure, possible SA mention? (Nothing explicit or even mentioned, but more a general vibe, sorry that's not more specific) shooting, guns, very minor character deaths, f!reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Read part two here.

Masterlist

I’m absolutely feral and determined to make sure everyone knows it.

Being in a male-dominated field hasn’t been easy and I’ve tried a lot of avenues before settling on this one. Something about being a female medic just really seems to set off everyone’s internal misogyny and nothing shuts them up faster than the little female medic literally punching their teeth in. I get into three fights my first month after being assigned to the 141.

The first fight I get into, I nearly bite a man’s finger off. (He was pointing it in my face and I warned him before going for it, so—deserved.) The second, I punch a man so hard while he’s talking that he bites off the tip of his tongue. (If he wanted to keep it intact, then he should have stopped wagging it.) During the third, I come away holding a chunk of a soldier’s hair. (He touched mine without permission and gave it a little tug. Enough said.)

After that, people seem to get the message. There are still a few smartasses that press their luck, but usually those situations are diffused without physical means. My relationship with my team however…that’s a bit more complicated.

I meet each of them when I arrive, the hulking soldiers lined up like pallbearers waiting for the coffin. I shook their hands, exchanged names, then didn’t say another word. None seemed to know exactly how to react to me and I wasn’t sure how to act around them. We’re supposed to trust each other with our lives, but I wouldn’t trust a single one to pour me a cup of tea. They struggle too, but for different reasons. They’re clearly close and know each other well, that’s why they’re such a deadly team, and I’m an outsider. A suspicious and cautious outsider, although I try to temper my attitude into passive indifference while I try to figure them out.

Naturally, Soap tries to break the ice first.

“You’ve got a thousand-yard stare that could rival Ghost’s, lass.” He comments one day in a charming Scottish accent as he risks sitting next to me in the mess hall. “You can bend my ear, if the fancy strikes ya.”

“I doubt that it will.” My voice is cool, indifferent, and I can’t keep myself from leaning away from him a bit. Too many times did I let myself trust another service member only for the friendship to quickly turn into something else. Something I did not want.

Soap quirks a brow and takes the cold shoulder in his stride. “But if it does. Don’t hesitate to find me.” He pats my shoulder before walking off and I feel the stirrings of something in my stomach as I watch him go. Loneliness, longing, the desire to be part of…something. I shake my head and throw away the rest of my food as I leave the mess hall, trying to ignore that little ember flickering in my gut.

* * *

Gaz tries next, but it’s a bit more subtle. Be it by luck or some other divine intervention, none of the team were ever present when I got into the fights. But they definitely heard about them afterward. There’s no judgement in their gazes, I’m sure they heard why I got into those fights, but there is curiosity. Gaz shifts a touch closer after a briefing about an upcoming mission and I clock the movement instantly, my eyes cutting to his. Gaz’s eyebrows pop up and the corner of his mouth lifts warmly. “Heard you were in a hell of a fight recently.” He starts, an elbow propped up on the arm of the chair he’s relaxed back into.

“Her last.” Price says with a pointed glance towards me and I nod, but we both know I didn’t start any of the fights. I simply ended them.

“The boys telling the tale were practically shaking in their boots.” Gaz presses on and I can’t help feeling a brief bit of pleasure at that. Price distracts himself with maps and papers on the other side of the table, but I’m not foolish enough to think that he isn’t listening. Soap perks up, turning to me as well while Ghost lurks near the door.

“Glad to hear the message got across.” I keep my voice low with little inflection. Usually I’m up and out the door after a meeting, but since everyone else is lingering, I figure I can give it a chance.

There’s a quiet hum from behind me that has my back straightening. “Trying to scare off the whole base?” Ghost asks and it’s the first time he’s asked me anything directly.

My head turns so that I can see his silhouette behind me. “Not all of us strike an imposing figure and wear a scary mask. Sometimes people have to see the blood on your teeth to know that you mean what you say.” I keep my voice soft to avoid the appearance of a threat, but let the words have an impact. Gaz and Soap glance at one another while Price’s hands stall over his papers across the table. A beat passes, then Ghost huffs what could almost be considered a laugh. The sound gives me a strange sense of relief as the tension over the room breaks.

“Can’t wait to see you sink your teeth into the enemy then, sergeant.” The corner of my mouth lifts and I nod, glad to have the opportunity to prove myself. I turn a bit more in my seat to see Ghost’s piercing eyes and don’t flinch away.

“I’ll save a blood-stained smile just for you, Lieutenant.” I promise and I think I hear Gaz swallow while Soap blinks. Ghost responds with a simple nod and I swear I see the fabric of his mask shift as he smirks before he slips out of the room.

* * *

The first real test comes when we’re sent out on our first mission together.

A month after I’m stationed with them, we’re sent out and it’s a bit jarring for all of us. They’ve been on their own for a while and introducing a new person into that dynamic…it’s enough to make everyone a bit off-center. But I’m used to sliding into places that I’m not wanted and I’m not about to be an idiot and risk everyone’s lives by being difficult, so I tuck myself into the small gaps left by the men. It’s not like they don’t want me here anyway, they’re just…apprehensive. Same as me.

We spend the first day trekking up a mountain through snow and I push myself hard, wanting to prove myself and leave no room for anyone to call me lazy or unfit. The entire day, I’m on Price’s heels as he leads us and I soak in his nod of approval despite myself as we file into an empty cabin for the night. I’m utterly exhausted, but I force myself to look through the house to memorize the layout before returning to the living room. Soap is eagerly setting up the hot plate for us to have a hot meal, even if it is an MRE, while the others are laying out their sleeping bags. They lay them in a row and I watch with trepidation as I put my bag down in a corner of the room, then sit alongside it as I rest for just a minute.

My eyes shut before I realize and I only become aware of it when I hear boots stop in front of me and they snap open. I look up instantly to see Price standing over me and I shove myself up onto my feet, teetering just slightly as I focus on his face. “Sir?”

“At ease.” He soothes and my shoulders lax just a touch at the command. “It’ll get below freezing tonight, so we’re huddling together. I’ve put you between Soap and I, but you can settle where you want.” Price chooses his words carefully with his clear eyes looking over my face for a reaction, but it’s clear that this isn’t optional.

“…yes, sir.” I respond, glancing over at the spot left bare for my sleeping bag. Anxiety gathers in my stomach and my hands clench at my sides. “Permission to take first watch?”

He considers me a moment, fingers smoothing over his facial hair. “Granted.” I glide away to the other side of the house and perch on a window sill as I look over the snowy landscape. Soap is kind enough to bring me my MRE and stalls next to me for a few moments.

“Feel free to snuggle close tonight. Or kick me if I start to snore.” He winks at me and my lips barely twitch at his effort to relieve the tension I know is clear throughout my body. After that, no one bothers me as night falls. The cold seeps into the house and I keep myself curled into a ball to conserve body heat even as I shiver. My anxiety about the impending sleeping arrangements keeps me awake and alert easily enough, but I can’t keep watch all night.

“Oi.” Ghost’s deep whisper disturbs the near silence and my head whips to my left, seeing him standing a few feet away. He moved quietly. Impressive for a man of his size. “I’m taking over. Get some sleep and get warm.” He flicks his chin back towards the others. I swallow and reluctantly leave my perch, brushing past him before I feel his gloved hand catch my bicep. My hand clenches into a fist automatically as I turn back to him to find his gaze locked on mine, his eyes dark and considering.

“I don’t know your story. Price has kept your file under wraps and we trust him enough to accept that. But whatever you’ve been through, don’t assume that you’re going to go through the same thing with us.” I’m pinned in place by his gaze and his words, my eyes widening slightly. I hadn’t known Price was keeping my file to himself, but the show of consideration and loyalty surprises me. It also hits me deep.

“I hear you.” I whisper back and he lets me pull my arm from his light grip. “But I’m not about to trust anyone blindly.”

He nods once. “Fine. But don’t rule it out either.” He quirks a brow at me pointedly before pulling away and settling in my place in the window, effectively ending the brief conversation. His words swirl around in my head while I head over to the others and gather my sleeping bag in my arms as I squeeze it. I kneel on the floor and roll it out between Price and Soap while my heart thunders in my chest. I’m still shivering as I do my best to be quiet while unzipping my sleeping bag, then slip down into it. My shoulders bump against Soap and Price before I shrink, curving my shoulders inward to try not to touch anyone despite that very much not being the point of sleeping like this.

Price shifts and turns towards me while I freeze, still shivering in place while I hold my breath until I see that his eyes are still closed. I release a small sigh of relief before choking on it as his eyes flash open. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as an apology perches on my tongue, but he says nothing. Instead, he shifts a bit closer without taking his eyes off mine, then lays an arm next to me before holding his other up a bit. An invitation.

I swallow and blink a few times as I take in the offer. Out of everyone, Price is the easiest for me to be around. He treats me like anyone else, he keeps his distance, and while he doesn’t hesitate to wield his authority, he wears it lightly. “Make a choice, soldier.” He murmurs with a voice gruff and deep from sleep. My jaw locks as a violent shiver wracks me before I force myself to shimmy closer to Price. I’m not about to freeze my ass off because of idiocy or stubbornness. He takes that as my answer and reaches out, hands wrapping around me and gathering me to him. The only noise I make is a small squeak as he pulls me against his hard body and I melt almost instantly into his warmth.

He cradles my face against the warm crook of his neck with his cheek resting against the top of my head. His other arm wraps around my waist and his hips shift slightly so his legs drape over mine while still in our respective sleeping bags. Like a heavy blanket. My heart is still beating fast as a hummingbird’s wings while my body fights my mind, but luckily, I’m so cold and tired that instinct wins out. My eyes shut and I feel my cheeks heat as his hand falls to the back of my neck, his gloved fingers gently kneading the skin. “Thanks.” I breathe and his grip tightens around me for a moment before he releases a long breath, draping me in the scent of his cigars. I don’t hear Price make another sound because I’ve fallen asleep before he takes another breath.

* * *

Price wakes early the next morning and I feel it the instant that he moves. I pull away without hesitation and his arms fall from around me while I avoid his gaze, my cheeks hot. I’m quick to roll up my sleeping bag and check over my pack while I cool down a bit. The morning passes and no one says a thing about our sleeping arrangements despite every soldier having to pass by Price and I while they took watch. Their eyes linger between us a bit, but I’ll take that over any smart comments.

We move out and the mission goes smoothly enough. Gaz and I perch on a cliffside while the others clear a town below. He’s my spotter while I keep a steady eye on the areas they’re heading into through my scope. Being a medic means I have steady hands, which makes me a hell of a sniper.

“So…did you know the Captain before being stationed here?” Gaz says quietly, the first words not mission related that he’s said to me today.

I scoff softly and keep my eye glued to my scope. “No. And if this is a way to get me to talk about the position Price and I were in this morning, it’s a poor segway. It was cold. We were all pressed together like sardines. That’s the end of it.”

“Right, right, sure.” He agrees and silence falls over us again. For a moment. “Ghost and I spoon all the time. Soap too. Like three little peas in a pod.”

I snort, unable to keep the corner of my mouth from lifting. “And leave Price out? Criminal.”

Gaz chuckles and the sound is warm, especially in this cold landscape. “Oh we invite him. He just doesn’t usually show much interest.”

“Hm. He is the captain. Maybe he has higher snuggle standards.”

“You saying the rest of us aren’t snuggle material?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Ouch, newbie. You strike for the heart.”

“I’m a sniper and a medic. It’s kind of my job.”

Gaz chuckles again and I realize that I’m actually…having fun? At least a little bit, anyway. “I’ll get a laugh out of you eventually, newbie.” My mouth opens to reply before I see a flash of movement in the town below.

Two figures pass by a second-floor window and I spot a hatch on the roof. I focus and take a breath as I aim at the hatch, waiting. I take a second to flick on my coms. “Two tangos on the northeast roof. Hold position.” The hatch begins to open while I remain steady, all my attention on that roof and my gun.

“Copy.” Price’s voice comes over the coms before there’s silence. The hatch opens and I wait for them both to get out, making sure it’s closed behind them before shooting. My breath funnels out of my chest and I make the shots without blinking, the action practically reflexive after so long in service. Both fall without getting to fire off a shot. I’m pretty sure I hear Gaz curse quietly beside me.

“Tangos down. You’re clear to move forward.” I report, heaving a relieved sigh as I see them move through the last stretch of town without incident.

“Copy, move out. Nicely done.” Price responds and I finally get to move out of my horizontal position. I stretch just a bit, wincing as my muscles pinch from being in the same position for so long, before I pack my gun and turn to Gaz who is shaking his head slightly.

“You took out those guys like a damn surgeon.”

The corner of my mouth lifts again as we head out. “Sniper and medic, remember? Let’s get out of here. Your comrades are missing their third pea in their pod.” I comment dryly and he grins, following me down the path where we agreed to meet the others.

“Did you just make a joke?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You did. I’m flattered to be the first one to hear it. Was starting to worry you didn’t have a sense of humor at all.” I roll my eyes and we keep arguing playfully as we go. Gaz reports my shots to the team, talking me up while I shake my head, but from then on, he calls me Surgeon. It catches on and the others follow suit, but more often than not, they just call me G.

#cod #cod mw2 #call of duty #fluff #angst #mw3 #possibly #tf 141 x reader #?#price x reader #captain price #price snuggles #he just looks cozy #price fluff

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sinon36 · 22 days

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Husband!Ghost x teacher!reader HC - Part 2

Part I

Author's block and tummy aches don't make a great team. Apologies that it took some time to post this. Enjoy!

Warnings: none other than mistakes, it's fluff.

Being a primary school teacher is far from easy. From the endless hours spent correcting homework or grading tests to preparing visual materials, your work never ends. Maybe you should listen to your colleagues and double down on the work you put into this. But you can’t deny the satisfaction you get from seeing your students get excited in class even when you assign extra work for them over weekends and holidays. But now that you came down with the flu, another downside of working with kids, you couldn’t care less about the little punks.

You lay down in bed covered in the thickest of blankets, shivering and barely able to breath. The house is empty and you’ve never felt so alone. You wish Simon would walk through the door and snuggle you until everything is better again. He was deployed again, and in the past few months you managed to talk to him for a total of 10 minutes. He’d call you to check on you and let you know he was fine, but he’d be quick to tell you he can’t say more about his whereabouts.

Being married to him brought a hell of a lot more stress than you could have imagined. Not knowing where he was or what he did was eating you on the inside. You worried about your husband’s well being but you always reminded yourself not to pester him too much. His job is stressful as it is, no need for you to put anymore pressure on him when he was home. You painted an image of his coworkers through his brief comments on what they did on base. The most you heard about was the Scot, Johnny, the young lad had made an impression on Simon. Even though he’d complain that Johnny was a ‘pain in the arse’, you couldn’t miss the small chuckle he let out whenever he spoke of him. You concluded that this young Scottish man was the closest thing to a friend your husband had.

The clock on the nightstand reads 2AM. The fever and headache are back. Your body hurts everywhere. you stand up readying yourself to leave the warm cocoon of the blanket and go to the kitchen to make some tea and take some more medicine. The otherwise short trip to the other side of the house seems now like an endless maze, it’s dark and you can barely see; you keep one hand on the wall just to be safe if nausea takes the better of you. You take a seat at the dinner table as the kettle starts warming up.

There is a faint click at the front door, so soft that at first you believe you imagined it. But it turns out that it was real, that the sound was a key turning the lock and the knob twisted, and the door opened. You watch everything as in slow motion, your brain too fuzzy with the flu. The massive body dressed in all black walks in illuminated from behind by the street lights, leaving their shoes on the rack. It’s Simon…. He’s home but you don’t have the energy to move. In the still and quiet atmosphere of the house the bloody kettle lets out a blood curling whistle signalling the water is boiling. Simon’s eyes dart towards the kitchen space, not having noticed you until now.

‘What’re you doin’ in the dark, love?’ he chuckles coming over to you. He’s becoming suspicious when you don’t make a single move to get up and greet him as you would. He first reaches for the knob to turn off the stove, then he pulls off the balaclava, reaching down to your sited position to kiss your forehead. ‘You a bit warm…’ he hums and you nod sniffling your runny nose. The rest is a blur, you can faintly remember him pouring the tea for you and handing the medicine. Next thing you know strong arms carry you to the bedroom, the same arms you fall asleep until morning.

Simon is trained in the art of staying still no matter what waiting to get a clear shot of the enemy. But since he met you, that skill has been put to a better use. He had no qualms with becoming your body pillow over night. He just loves the feeling of you pressed so closely to him, head rested on his peck near his beating heart. He would gladly stay there for an eternity is you asked him.

Anything for you. Always, no matter how costly or how small, he’d do anything to see you happy. That’s his love language, while he struggles to word it he makes up with his actions. And you’d never trade him for anyone else in the world. The following days are spent with him not leaving your side, pampering and loving you the way you’ve never been loved before.

Once you feel better, he asks you to go on a date just like first time he asked you accepted with a school girl giggle. It’s safe to say you’re in love. The date goes well and you find yourself walking through the park like two hopeless romantics, talking and laughing. He tells you that Soap caught a whiff of him being married to you and now he won’t stop pestering him with questions about you two. ‘Maybe you should invite him to dinner… if you want to.’ You smile at him. ‘Maybe’ he grunts not looking at you. Bringing Johnny to your house, to meet you, it involves risks. But he knows that he can trust the sergeant with his life, so what if his only friend meets his wife. Nothing can go wrong, right?

Bonus:

On base, Ghost approaches Soap in the armoury, making sure no one is in ear shot. He gives the Scot a date, time and the name of a bus station somewhere in suburban Manchester. At Soap’s questioning look Ghost lets out a grunt ‘Wife wants you to come to dinner.’ At that Soap grins and accepts politely which prompts the lieutenant to threaten to kill him if he tells anyone about this.

The day when Johnny arrives at your doorstep comes faster than expected. You open the door and greet him, rather warmly which is a stark contrast to your husband’s harsh demeanour. Opposites do attract, he supposes. At dinner you listen to him talk, about their time on base, stories from missions, nothing too detailed though, and about his own family. He shows you pictures of his sisters and his nieces and nephews. They’re cute. You talk about your pupils, sharing stories of your own. Johnny perks up at the knowledge that you are a primary school teacher. He asks if he can have your number in case he needs help with their homework. You gladly give it to him, asking in return to keep an eye on Simon for you. He accepts your deal.

Johnny leaves after a couple of hours, going back to the hotel, even though you insist he can take the couch. But you know that Simon is glaring at him over your shoulder daring him to accept. Once he left you turn towards your husband hugging him and kissing him. You thank him for letting you meet his colleague, and he reminds you that he’d do anything for his lovely wife.

A couple of weeks go by. You’re in bed with Simon having a heated kissing session when your phone rings. Groaning you pull off from him and grab it. Johnny’s name lights up the screen and you answer. The conversation is short, something about math and how to use the graphic method to solve a problem. Simon listens intently seeing you smile conspiratorially. When you end the call, he grabs you and pushes you underneath him, trapping you between his body and the bed. ‘Why does Johnny have your number?’ the low rumble pulls a laugh from you. You know you have no chance to lie to him, he’ll see right through. You explain to him that he wanted it so he can ask you whenever he doesn’t know how to solve his nephews’ homework. He watches you not really convinced by your answer. ‘You hate talking to parents on the phone. What did you get him do? Spy on me on base and report back to you?’ Busted. You laugh and let out an even more unconvincing ‘no’ for an answer. He knows you too well.

#ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod mw2 #cod x reader #simon riley fanfic #simon riley imagine #shi #shinnochiwrites

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firsttimewriter92 · 1 year

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We were young

John "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader

Summary: A fun evening at your home with task force 141 turnes slightly sour when the topic switches to your previous partners. Soap takes it particularly hard.

Minors, don´t interact!! This is heavy! No smut. Hurt/Comfort

Part 2

Word count: 4.088

Warnings: comfort/fluff in the end BUT: mentions of sexual abuse, talks of virginity taken, abusive ex, stalking, mentions of porn, blood, crying, protective Soap, cursing, heavy topics in general

Authors note: I would like all of you to proceed with caution when reading this fic. Everything you read here actually happened to me and this is MY outlet because I wish I had a Soap at the time I actually realised what had happened to me. I chose him for this fic because I think he´d be just the right person to help. As I said, please be careful but I still hope you enjoy the story and my version of our favourite Scottish golden boy :)

“Okey! Most embarrassing thing your ex ever did!”

You rolled your eyes at a tipsy Gaz trying not to smile. This actually was an interesting question and would surely make this little get together more fun. You were currently sitting on your plush couch in your small living room/kitchen. Around you an assortment of the task force 141.

Gaz was sitting on the floor on one of your throw pillows, leaning heavily onto your wooden coffee table. Next to you on the couch sat Price, contently nursing a beer and smiling mildly. You even got Simon to come. Although it was probably his Captain who forced him to come and unwind from a particular rough mission. Three weeks they had been gone. Another three weeks of worry over your friends.

You had met them when your new neighbor moved in. When you´d heard the ruckus outside your door, you had peeked out carefully only to see three men shouting at each other, trying to maneuver a massive couch through the door. “I swear to god, Soap! You tell me to pivot one more time, I´m goin´ to fuckin´ kill you!” That had been Gaz shouting at a snickering man who had been holding the back of the couch. Meeting his gaze, you´d immediately noticed his piercing blue eyes, full lips and 5 o´clock shadow.

After your initial meeting, things just took off naturally. You would notice when he came back from a mission, quickly moving to the door to say welcome back. He´d always smile at you, no matter how banged up he was, holding a small conversation and then vanishing into his apartment to sleep for days it seemed. After a few months you made it a habit to bring over food every time he came back. He seemed to genuinely worship you for that and at one point didn’t even bother walking into his own living space. He had just knocked on your door, waited until you´d opened it and gave you a tired smile. “Hiya, lass. ´M back and starvin´.

Meeting the other members of his task force had happened gradually. Johnny had invited you out to a bar one evening and the whole group just seemed to kick it off with you. After that evening you´d brought home a very drunk John MacTavish and helped him into bed. He´d grabbed your arm and tried to cuddle it as he was laying on his bed fully clothed. Snorting you´d knelt down and waited until he was asleep. By the time you´d seen his face relax and his breathing had evened out, you couldn´t help yourself and had touched his face very lightly. Mapping out his features, you had wondered what this usual sunshine of a man had to endure anytime he went away.

You only knew that they were in the military and went on missions. They wouldn’t tell you more and you always thought it was a good thing. You worried none the less about them. If you would actually really know what they were doing, you´d probably lose your goddamn mind.

Johnny had been your neighbor for three years now and you enjoyed those little get togethers at your place immensely. You knew of course that Simon for example only came around because he wanted you to see for yourself that he was okey. Johnny and Gaz were the ones who genuinely wanted to unwind and just have a nice evening and you guessed so did Price. Even though he never really drank much , he always gave the warmest hello and goodbye hugs.

“Good one, Gaz!” bellowed Johnny and plopped down on your recliner giving you a little wink. “You go first, then” he toasted towards Gaz who blinked slowly and pinched his brows. He looked as if he tried really hard to remember something. “He got piss drunk because he thought I was out cheatin´…found him butt naked on my balcony creaming slurs from the top of his lungs. My elderly neighbor almost called the coppers.” He shook his head. “It was just a fling but I called it off the next mornin´. I can´t deal with jealous and crazy.”

Prize sucked in a breath through his teeth and tried to look put off by the story. You could see his beard twitch though and the little laugh lines around his eyes appeared. Johnny was wheezing into his glass of whisky and even Simon had scooted to the edge of his seat on your armchair.

“`Aight, Captain. Let´s hear it then” Gaz said with a grin and leaned back onto his hand. Price huffed and took a swig from his bottle. “´S no way I´m tellin´ that. ´M very happy with the missus” he waved his hand in front, showing off his wedding ring. “We´re talkin´ about our exes, Cap. Not our spouses.” Johnny rolled his eyes good naturedly. It was hard to be annoyed with Price when he was talking about his wife. The man was obsessed. He smirked. “My ex- fiancé is my wife, ya muppet.”

“I don’t think you´ll get an answer out of him, Gaz” you giggled and bumped Price softly with your shoulder. He just shook his head in denial and sipped the rest of his beer. “Fiiiiiiine,” Gaz groaned. “Ghost, your turn.”

You whipped your head around to the bulging figure sitting in your chair, his elbows on his knees. Simon never really talked much and you were sure he wouldn’t get into these kind of shenanigans. To your surprise though (and to everyone else´s as well) he leaned back a little, pulled down his mask to take another big gulp of his scotch and slowly spoke. “She… got a little too excited and uhh…bit me.”

Silence.

“WHAT?!” Johnny almost jumped out of his seat, his full attention on Simon. “What do you mean, she bit you? You realise that can be pretty hot though, right?” Your tipsy brain really tried not to imagine biting into Johnny´s delicious neck. Simon hung his head. “Believe me, she bit a part of me where teeth really aren´t supposed to be used.”

“Yer arse and parsley, Ghost (You´re talking shit)!!! She bit yer doaber (dick)?!?!” Gaz was already crying with laughter on your carpet as Johnny looked at Simon as if he´d suddenly grew a second head. Until he as well dissolved into cackling wheezes, holding his stomach. You couldn’t help but join in on the laughter whereas Price actually looked mortified this time. “We were fourteen!!” Simon groaned. “We knew fuck-all about what we were doin´.”

Still trying to catch your breath you looked at Simon who gave you an almost pained look, understandably. “But you did have….relationships since then, right? Your last girlfriend wasn´t at the age of 14, was it?” You looked at him with raised eyebrows.

His eyes suddenly narrowed and you knew he was smiling underneath his mask. His eyes glinted a little. “Relationships? None. I joined the military at 16. Not much time for that. Relations?...Plenty.”

Hollering and whooping Gaz and Johnny started clapping while Simon sat back into the chair again. You could feel your face burn pleasantly. Simon coming out of his shell this much and even cracking innuendos made you really happy. “Johnny,” you looked at him. “Your turn.” You were almost bouncing out of your seat out of sheer excitement over what kind of story he would tell.

He still had tears in his eyes but they looked a bit sheepishly at you. “Well,” he drawled. “Not so much an embarrassing story or a story about an ex but…more of a crazy one.” He winked at you and continued. “There was this young lass. She worked at the front desk of the military accommodation office. When I fist joined, she took a likin´ to me. Didn´t think much off it. I was there maybe three or four times. I´ve never seen her outside of the office.” Somehow you didn’t think this story would end that well. You stomach sank a bit. “By the time I was 18 and just about to join the SAS I came home one night with me mates and well…there she was. Naked as a wee baby, standin´ right in the middle of our room.” He shook his head when Gaz started to grin and wiggled his eyebrows. “Would have been funny…if she hadn´t brought a fuckin´ knife and held it to her own throat.”

Ice made its way into your veins and you stared at Johnny disbelievingly, almost in horror. He had a tight lipped smile on his face. No real joy adorning his features.

“We were quick enough so nothing happened but when they dragged her screaming arse out the barracks, she looked more like a banshee than a human.” He sighed heavily. “She seemed like a nice girl. Quiet, but nice.”

“Why in the shit did she do that, though? What did she want?” Gaz looked seriously taken aback.

Johnny took a deep breath through his nose and gave you a nervous side glance. “Me, apparently.”

The ice in your veins was replaced with rage and you balled your fists. What would have happened to Johnny if some crazy stalker hurt herself because of him or worse yet, for him?

Johnny continued. “When they searched her flat they found…stuff. Missing shirts from my room, pictures, something like a shine…I don´t funkin´ know. I never saw any of that. They just told me she lost her shit when she heard I was leaving and joining the SAS.” He shrugged his shoulders and the little glint in his eyes was back. “I´m glad I didn´t see what she had been up to. Freaks me out just knowing about it.”

Gaz pushed out a long breath through his lips. “Maaaaaaaate, what the fuck?! We know you´re a pretty boy but, damn. That´s fucked up.” Johnny chuckled and nodded his head. “Tell me about it. Makes you a little cautious about who you want to date. Not that there is much…dating.” You could clearly see his eyes flicking over to you. You gave him a sweet smile that he immediately returned. His shoulders relaxing more and more. “You can say that again,” Gaz said and grossed his arms behind his head. “We can´t all be as lucky as our dear Captain.”

Price snorted but his chest swelled with a content sigh. It was adorable, really.

“Right then,” Johnny clapped his hands and sat up straight, his torso turned to you. “Onto the most interesting story” he winked. You scoffed. “Don´t be a creep, Johnny” Simon said lowly from his place across from him. He just waved his hand at him dismissively without looking away from your face.

You also sat up straight again and giggled. “It´s not about my recent ex...I don’t have many of them anyway but…” your shoulders shook in an effort not to laugh out loud. “My first ever boyfriend? He tried to take my virginity…in his moms bed!!” You started cackling. Gaz and Johnny joining in. “Jesus” you heard Price mutter from next to you, chuckling.

Gaz was rolling on the floor “You´ve got to be shitting me” he wheezed. “He did not!” Clutching your stomach you wiped away at your eyes and nodded. “´M not kidding.”

“H-how old…How old was that idiot?” Johnny asked you through hearty laughs. “He was eighteeeeen” you wheezed. Another roll of laughter went through the room. “I was only sixteen and had no idea how relationships were supposed to work but I did get that that was NOT it.”

Johnny seemed to sober up a little bit, though still grinning he looked intently at you. “Please tell me you dumped his arse, lass.” You nodded. “Eventually yes. I mean…like I said, I didn’t have any experience with having a boyfriend. But by the time he tried to actively isolate me from my friends and my family, I´ve had enough. He tried to take me away from a family event even though I told him I couldn’t spend time with him that weekend.” Slowly their laughter ebbed away to little chuckles. You felt like something shifted in the air. Johnny´s grin looked forced all of a sudden.

Trying to light up the mood you quickly turned back to the previous topic, starting to laugh again. “Also…get this…this idiot was so hellbent on taking my virginity, he even undressed me in my sleep! Telling me I probably did it myself and I should listen to what my body wants.”

This time the change in the air was almost tangible. Johnny´s face fell completely and his eyes went stone cold. Gaz was staring at you from the floor with a disbelieving look on his face and Simons knuckles turned white. Your stomach clenched uncomfortably. You tried to think about these events in a comical way whenever you could, because if you didn´t, that would only mean these happenings were nothing else but…

Price´s face appeared in your peripheral and you turned your head. His eyes were warm but stern when he spoke. “___, love. You know what he actually did, right?” You took a long breath through your nose and nodded your head. “Yes, yes I know what he did. I sensed the danger and got out. Believe me, bullshit like that will never happen to me again.” You tried to give your friends an encouraging smile. “Nothing else happened. He was just a massive creep.”

Gaz finally caught himself. “Yeah, no kiddin´” he said with an angry huff. “What a dick! Who thinks that´s how you woo a young lady into giving you her virginity no less? Bleachch…” He made a retching sound with his throat. “Yeah, yeah” you said. Feeling Johnny still boring his eyes into you from the side you tried desperately to change the mood again. “So tell us then, Gaz. How did you do it?”

__________________________________________________________

Thankfully your distraction worked and after another two hours of drinking and light-hearted conversation, Price and Gaz got up to go home. Price mumbled something about not wanting to leave his wife alone for too long while hugging you to his broad chest. You wound your arms around his shoulders and whispered in his ear. “Again…I´m so happy for you. Make sure you get some ice cream and pickles on your way back.” He grinned adorably when he let you go and walked outside, waiting for the others. Gaz too hugged you and gave you a small wink. “Thanks for having us,___. As always.” You nodded and he hesitated for a second. “If there´s anything you want to talk about, call me.” Your heart swelled for your friend as you smiled at him. “I will” you promised him.

Next was Simon. He raised one of his large hands as he always did, put it on your head, as he always did and gently rubbed your scalp, as he always did. Smiling up at him he gave you a meaningful look. “I know, Simon” you said before he had to speak. Huffing a little bit he patted your head once more and also left.

You had a feeling you knew why, when you turned away from the door, Johnny was still standing in your living room awkwardly. He made eye contact with you and tried to smile but his eyes were still full of concern and anger. You didn’t like that look on him. He turned quickly and began cleaning up the various bottles and glasses, bringing them to your kitchen.

Thinking it was probably best to give him some time you picked up the throw pillow and rearranged your furniture back to its original place. You could hear him take a deep breath behind you.

“Was that really all he did?” he asked in a seemingly calm voice. You knew better. He was boiling up inside. “Johnny…” you breathed in a small voice. This was truly not something you wanted to get into too deep tonight. “Did he. Do. Anything. Else?” He didn’t sound angry. In fact his voice was clear and soft. You knew he would not let this go. Johnny was way too stubborn for that. Giving into your fate you sat down on the sofa again and patted the space next to you. He moved quickly but didn’t sit down next to you.

He sat down on your sturdy, wooden coffee table right in front of you, leaning onto his knees. Your gaze shot to his jean clad thighs and folded hands. Thank god he was wearing a long sleeved Henley. You didn’t think you could´ve handled a peek of his forearms right now. He was so close your heart began hammering. Not just because of the conversation you were about to have with him. He smelled so good. Like laundry detergent, peppermint aftershave and warm summer winds at the sea.

Looking back up into his face his eyes were soft and warm. Ever present though, was the piercing colour that always reminded you of blue shattered glass.

“You don’t have to tell me” he reassured you in a whisper. “But sometimes talking about these things can actually help.” You knew he was right, so you nodded your head softly and took another deep breath. Folding your hands in your lap, nervously rubbing them together you began to speak.

“As I said, he was hellbent on taking my virginity. It was like he was obsessed with it. Always wanted to talk about it. Everything we talked about kind of always ended there. To be honest…I was flattered at the beginning that he wanted to give me that experience so badly. He was my boyfriend, I liked him a lot.” Johnny nodded in understanding.

“But when he started to become obsessive I felt less and less comfortable. He´d pick me up from a friends birthday party way before it actually ended. He tried to pick me up from school so I could spend the rest of the day with him and bring me back to my parents’ house later. Basically just to sleep there. On the weekends I basically had to force him to meet any of my friends because he didn’t want me to leave him to go see them.”

Saying all of this out loud made your blood boil. “Yes, I know I was only sixteen but I should´ve realized sooner what he was doing. He undressed me in my sleep!!” Your voice rose while you spoke your last words and your hands suddenly became fists. Without hesitation Johnny grabbed them and soothingly rubbed his fingers over your knuckles. “___, listen to me. What he did is nothing short of…I´m so sorry…sexual abuse. He took advantage of the fact that you liked him. But seriously. All I can hear is that you stood your ground. You still went to see your friends, you ended it when it was too much. What he did…” his features became hard once more. “What he did happened without your consent. That´s inexcusable.”

“It´s not all” you choked out, realizing horrified that your eyes began to water, threatening to spill over if you actually told him. He stilled for a moment and then relaxed again. Still holding your hands protectively he said “Tell me. I´m here, just tell me.”

“When he saw that talking about having sex with me wasn’t going anywhere he…he tried to take my, as he put it ´fear´ away by showing me…these…I´d never seen porn like that before, Johnny.” You could hear the fear in your voice as your sixteen year old self tried to explain herself. The tears were there, falling onto your cheeks as you looked him in the eyes. His hands moved to your face and carefully wiped them away while speaking. “He showed you videos?” You nodded, sniffling. “Of women having their virginity taken. `See? It´s not that bad´ ´They´re not scared´…They were bleeding, Johnny.”

He was next to you on the couch in an instant, hugging you close to him. His gentle hands and reassuring presence warmed every cell of your body and without thinking about it you clambered onto his lap and buried your face in his neck. Immediately his arm wound around your waist and pulled you as close as possible to him. His other hand came up to your face and gently held it, softly dragging his fingertips over your damp cheeks and jaw. From this angle you couldn’t see his face of course but by the way his thighs were shaking and his pulse was thumping wildly against your forehead you knew he tried to hold himself back from exploding.

And still, right now he was so calming and comforting. His body heat encasing you, warming your clammy hands, his gentle fingers rubbing security and safety back into your body. You´d always felt like that with him. Secure and safe. He was playful and earnest. He flirted with you but only if you responded in kind. It was fun. He´d never given you the feeling of being pushed into a corner. That you had to respond, that you had to react. Suddenly a very clear revelation came to you.

If it came to him, to Johnny, you trusted him. Not just as a friend. You´d trust him with every aspect of your mind…and body. Not being able to remember when the last time was you trusted someone like this, you grabbed onto his Henley and nuzzled your nose into the base of his neck.

_______________________________________________

Johnny was in trouble. Big, big trouble. He could feel the rage boiling in his veins as he still held your sleeping form on the couch half an hour later. His chin propped up onto your head, he was still drawing patters onto your waist and neck. He felt twisted. Finally he was able to hold you the way he wanted to for a very long time. Securely tucked into him, without a worry in the world. But that was just it, wasn’t it? There was worry. Worry and fear were the reasons he held you right now. He´d take it, though. All of it if it meant he was able to sooth you, help you. He´d listen to every single bad experience you´ve had, just to slowly and gradually show you that not all men were these…absolutely fuckin´ spineless, narcissistic, balls less, creepy, psychopathic….calm down, Johnny. He took a deep breath. When it came down to it, he just wanted to show you, let you know that he wasn’t like that. That he cared for you, adored you, respected you.

Hearing what you´d been through with just the first romantic relation in your life, he realized that this venture would probably proof to be more complicated than he thought. Screw it! He was determined.

He looked down onto your sleeping face and his heart squeezed in his chest. You were the most caring, selfless person he´d ever met. He was genuinely impressed with how you managed to be such an angel of a person even though something like this happened to you at such a young age. And it wasn´t like you couldn’t handle yourself. He had seen you feisty. Nothing that would scare him but it sure did the baw bag that had tried to feel you up one night.

Shaking his head lightly he carefully got up and maneuverer you onto your couch. Your fuzzy blanket was draped securely over you when he quickly scribbled down a note for you and lay it on the coffee table in front of you. You mumbled something in your sleep. Johnny leaned down to you and carefully lay a hand on your cheek. A smile made its way onto your lips and he nearly sat down on the carpet to watch you sleep all night. Making sure you were well rested. But then the knot in his stomach twisted once more.

He felt it. The unbearable rage he´d felt for the last three hours almost making its way up his throat like bile. With the last ounce of gentleness he had in him he lightly kissed your forehead and turned towards the door.

As he was walking outside he pulled out his cell phone.

Johnny, she alright?

“Yea…well, kind of. You at the base´s gym, Lt?”

Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. Why?

“Meet ya there in 20 minutes”

Wha´ happened?

“I need to punch the shite out of someone without actually killin´ em!”

He could hear his Lt chuckle.

´Aright. See you in 20.

________________________________________________________

Thank you very much for reading. I hope I didn´t scar you for life. :) I would love a like, comment or reblog. They always make me happy. If you experienced anything of the likes of what is written above, I hope you´re doing okey and have someone to talk about this. If not, send me a message. I´d like to help.

A part 2 is not planned but if requested, I´ll find a way to do it :)

Love you all and please take care of yourselves! <3

@lolis-pikt @thychuvaluswife @rand0m--fangirl @biggiecheeselover @fullldash @radishdoodles @deceive-me @f0rg0tmynam3 @starthewolf-146 @polnareffsbouncybaraboobies @konig-breedme @rainhopesforbetterdaystomorrow @kdkj122920 @thychuvaluswife @deceive-me @radishdoodles @depressedacidtest

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chxrrylime · 10 months

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❝ scottish whiskey. ❞

I deleted the ask by accident but this is a req from @rats-and-clocks for a fic where Soap wears a kilt to make FTM!Reader feel more confident about wearing a skirt :) Except this is just pure smut sorry not sorry.

Soap x FTM!Reader ↪ 422 words — 18+ / SMUT.

Content tags — cis male service top Soap, trans male power bottom reader, skirts and kilts, fem terms used for trans male reader's genitalia, bare grinding, mention of gender dysphoria, unsafe sex, praise kink, reader's state of transition is not specified, and piv sex.

Soap groans, his big hands gripping your hips with bruising force. His kilts shucked up just high enough to expose his hard cock, pointed up and pressed down flat by your core grinding up and down the swollen length.

Your skirt covers just as little, already short and stretched wide with your spread thighs.

You’d just wanted to sit with John for a bit in your skirt, to try and readjust to the feeling—keep your dysphoria from overloading by going out in public your first time in a skirt since you came out. He’d said he’d wear one of his kilts if it made you feel more comfortable (anything to make you more comfortable).

John had made a comment about how kilts are traditionally worn, and you decided to see if he was bluffing for yourself.

Now you were here, Soap pinned beneath your thighs, rubbing your creamy cunt up and down his pulsing, dripping length, feeling the rim of his cockhead catch on your own swollen cocklet with each upward motion.

Soap’s enraptured by the sight, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he stares down with wide, glassy eyes, hands moving from your hips to soothe up and down your hairy thighs, squeezing the fat and muscle there almost reverently.

His eyes flicker up to your face, and he seems to flush deeper at being caught watching, though he speaks all the same.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out in one rush, like the words were punched from his lungs. You smile, leaning down to kiss him, rocking your hips until you feel his tip catch on your rim, pushing down and taking him in one swift movement, feeling how his fat cock fits so snug and deep inside of you.

He moans loud and raspy, head rolling back. His legs kick slightly, trying to get leverage on the slippery bedding to rock his hips up into you as you slowly bounce on his cock.

“Ffffuck—” he groans, grabbing the back of your neck and whipping his head forward again to drag you into a wet, mostly tongue, kiss.

“Yeah?” You murmur, smiling against his lips as he finally manages to find his balance and begin rocking up into you, meeting your movements with rolling waves of pleasure. Feeling how your slick drips wet and sticky to the both of your thighs—feeling how Soap’s cock pulses and twitches inside you, surely leaking pre-cum within your contracting walls.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs again, hiding his face against your shoulder.

#smut #mine #modern warfare #soap x reader #modern warefare 2 #john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #trans male reader

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random-thot-generator · 11 months

Text

Promises, Promises

Johnny ‘Soap’ Mac Tavish x Fem Reader

Summary: Soap has been trying to move your relationship out of the friend zone for months, and finally gets his chance when an innocent game of pool and a friendly wager lead to progressively dirtier tactics to make the other lose. Let’s just say Soap is “in it to win it” and makes a bold and filthy claim that he’s more than eager to prove to you.

Aaaand... then smut happens. Yeah, I know. Big surprise, right?

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, explicit sexual descriptions (bc that’s how I roll), thigh riding, oral- fem receiving, improper use of a pool table, Soap has a filthy mouth- for multiple reasons, no Y/N,

(N/A: This thot hit me Friday night and it’s been rotting my brain ever since, so I’m purging this smut. I was going to share it for Super Soap Sunday, but then my internet died, so you’re getting a MacTavish Monday special event. So, gather ‘round the pool table, my good hoes, and let’s get into this.)

Word Count: 4489

🎱

“Ah, c’mon, hen. Give it up. Ya know yer gaggin’ t’go out with me. Admit it. Yer mad fer me, ain’t ya?”

You rolled your eyes at the handsome sergeant sitting in front of you at the bar, a rueful little smile quirking up your lips. He didn’t even realize how right he was. You were mad for him, and that was the sad truth of it. Head over heels for him, in fact, but you would never admit it to the cocky Scottish bastard. His pretty head was big enough as it was, already.

You had decided a while ago that it was best to just stay friends with Johnny MacTavish. He liked to keep his sexual relationships casual, and you couldn’t do that with him. You already cared about him too much, and you didn’t want to go through the pain of losing him when another woman eventually caught his eye. It sucked not being able to have him the way you wanted him, but it was better than not having him at all.

“Oh, come on, Johnny. I doubt you could even find the time to take me on a date, considering how crazy your schedule is,” you pointed out, trying to deflect his advances. “Besides, weren’t you dating that redhead? What’s-her-name? You’ve not mentioned her in a while. Things not work out?”

Soap made a frustrated face, waving a dismissive hand. “Tha’ happened months ago, Ya know good an’ damn well it was jus’ a quick feck in the lavvy every once in awhile t’relieve some stress.”

You tried your best to ignore the ugly pang of jealousy that curled in your chest. “Relieve some stress, huh? And what’s got you so stressed? Your job?”

“’M stressed ‘cause ya won’t go out with me,” was his quick retort, giving you an impish grin. His blue eyes sparkled in the low light, and you felt your heart give a pitiful little flutter.

Shaking your head, you tossed your towel on the bar and huffed in exasperation. “What’s it going to take to get you off this? Besides, going on a date with you?”

His face fell into a pouting frown. “Don’t see why ya won’t do it. It’d be a proper date, none o’ that ‘Netflix an’ chill’ shite.” Then his frown morphed into a dirty little smirk. “We can do tha’ after the date,” he added, waggling his eyebrows.

You couldn’t help but laugh at him. “You’re an idiot.”

“Aye, but I’m yer eejit.”

You wished.

Exhaling a weary sigh of resignation, you turned to check the clock on the wall. Finally. Closing time. “Last orders!” you shouted out to the pub at large. You glanced back at Johnny and pointed at his empty pint glass. “Do you want another?”

“Naw. ’M good.” He leaned his arms on the bar and smiled at you..

After the last of the customers had shuffled out, you locked the door behind them and started sweeping. Johnny jumped off his seat and began turning up the chairs and stools for you, then went to fetch the mop bucket from the supply closet. He had gotten into the habit of hanging out with you after hours and driving you home after you locked up for the night. On nights like this, he usually ended up passed out on your couch if he didn’t have to be back at base, his snores drowning out the telly. You didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed that he had never tried to follow you to your bedroom.

Working together, you had the pub cleaned and the bar restocked in less than an hour. Ready to call it a night and go home, you went to turn off the lights when you spied a couple of cue sticks left out on the pool table, a few pool balls scattered about its felt top. Figuring what the hell, you picked up one of the cue sticks. Johnny grinned as he watched you line up a shot, knocking the two ball into a corner pocket with a satisfying crack.

“Didn’t know you could play, hen.”

You gave him a lopsided smile and shrugged as you took aim at the seven ball next. “My uncle taught me how.” You sank the seven in a side pocket.

“If I’d known tha’, I would’ve ‘challenged ya to a game. I’m pretty good myself, ya know. I bet I could take you.”

You quirked a brow at him. “Oh, yeah? Willing to place a friendly wager on it?”

He crossed his arms across his chest and smirked. “What d’ya have in mind?”

“If I win, I get to choose where we order takeaway, and you have to pay for it. If you win. I’ll pay your tab tomorrow night.”

“Alright. I’ll rack, you break. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The match was fairly even, Johnny just barely beating you by knocking in the eight ball first. You took the loss in stride, ready to put your cue stick away, when he stopped you. “Let’s go double or nothin’.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, cue stick held aloft to be slotted back in the wall rack. “What d’you mean? I have to pay for takeaway twice if I lose again?”

“Nooo,” he drawled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m changin’ the stakes. If I win, ya have t’go on that date with me.”

“Really? And if I win?”

He grinned. “Then I’ll let you take me out on a date.”

You scoffed, snickering at him. “Unh-unh. No, if I win, you have to stop pestering me for a date.”

He sniffed, frowning. “If tha’s what ya want,” he grumbled, pouting.

You dropped your chin, shooting him a dubious look. “I thought you were sure you could take me. What have you got to worry about?”

He sneered at you, unable to ignore the challenge. “Alright, hen. Just be prepared to pay up when ya lose, again, aye?”

This time you racked, and he broke. Two solids dropped in their pockets, and his grin went wide. “Best decide now what yer goin’ t’wear for our date, hen.” He gave you a cocky wink before lining up his next shot.

Left to his own devices, you knew he would end up running the table, and you couldn’t let that happen. Sidling up next to him, face simpering, you murmured in a high, sweet voice, “Who said I was planning on wearing anything, Johnny?”

His shot went wide and glanced off the cue ball, making him swear under his breath. He turned to glare at you. “Tha’ was a dirty trick.”

You giggled at him. “Oh no! You missed your shot. That’s too bad,” you crooned in mock sympathy, poking out your bottom lip.

“So, tha’s how it’s goin’ t’be, then?” He gave you a slow nod. “Alright then, hen. We’ll do this yer way. Jus’ remember, it was you tha’ started it.”

You grunted, not in the least bit intimidated. Let him talk all he wanted. You could ignore him if you had to. You walked around the table, choosing your next shot, then bent over to line it up. Just as you went to tap the cue ball, Johnny leaned over and breathed hot on the side of your neck. “Mm. Ya look good bent over like tha’, sweetheart,” he hummed low and filthy in your ear.

Goosebumps erupted all over your skin as you flinched away, your shot just barely tapping the ball you were aiming at. You gave him a baleful look. The bastard knew his voice always got to you. “That was a cheap shot.”

His grin was smarmy as hell as he patted you on the head. “No. That was a missed shot.” He bumped you out of the way. “Now, if yeh’ll excuse me, I got a game t’win.”

Ooh! That cheeky little shit. You’d be damned if you were going to let him get away with that. When he bent over to take his next shot, you ran your cue stick up between his legs and giggled when he startled, missing his shot. He spun around to pin you with a warning look as his lips pressed into a grim smile. He cupped your cheek, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip. “Keep it up, hen. See what ya get,” he told you, his voice gone sinfully low and husky.

You swallowed, feeling your belly swoop in arousal. Keeping a wary eye on him, you circled the table away from him and chose your next shot, being mindful of where he was standing. He remained on the opposite side, hands braced on the table’s edge, a salacious smile on his face. As you lined up to take your shot, he hummed, a dirty, rumbling purr that skittered up your backbone and made your lower belly grow warm. Your core pulsed in sympathy.

“Got t’say, love, ya got some gorgeous feckin’ chebs,” he commented, and you lifted your eyes to see he was peering straight down your shirt. “How ‘bout givin’ us a taste, hm?” he drawled, a wicked smirk tugging up the corners of his lips.

You shook your head, scowling. Just ignore him, you reminded yourself, but it was really hard to do that when you could feel your nipples tightening into hard little peaks. You growled under your breath and took your shot.

Johnny grimaced when you made it, scoffing, “Got lucky,” he mumbled.

Feeling like you had the upper hand, you strutted around the table until you were standing beside him again, then bumped him out the way. “Are we still talkin’ about this game or, uh... your game?” you asked, with a nasty little smirk.

He narrowed his eyes at you. “An’ what’s tha’ s’posed t’mean?”

You took another shot, sank another ball, then straightened to give him a sly smirk. “You talk a good game, Johnny, but you’re never gone for more than five or ten minutes when you sneak off with one of your little birds. The way I see it, if they managed to get off at all, it would have to be pure luck.”

His mouth fell open in shock, and an airy little giggle bubbled up out of your throat at his expression. You turned your back on him to line up your next shot, feeling all full of yourself and confident, but then gasped when you felt his hands take hold of your hips and tug you back against him.

His mouth was right at your ear when he rasped out, “So you’re timin’ me, are ya, hen? Are ya jealous? Hmm? Don’t you worry tha’ pretty head o’ yers, sweetheart. I promise, I’ll take good care of you. I’ll have ya screamin’ my name in five minutes. Give me ten, an’ I’ll have ya cummin’ 'round my cock.”

You literally shuddered at his words, a trembling breath stuttering out between your parted lips as lust coursed through you, hot and heady. Holy shit, were you actually shaking right now? Get your head back in the game, you silently admonished yourself. Averting your eyes, you sniffed in derision, “Please. You think you could get me off in five minutes?” you scoffed and shook your head, but there was little force behind your words with you voice gone all quavering and breathless.

He pressed himself closer, a low, filthy chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I’d get ya off in three, hen,” he murmured, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

Heat pulsed through your core and you felt your panties grow damp. Shit! You bit your bottom lip and did your best to maintain your composure. “Hah! Th-Three minutes? I call b-bullshit,” you stammered out.

His hands gripped your hips tighter and he pulled you right up against his crotch, letting you feel just how much this little back-and-forth was affecting him. He gave a slow rut of his hips, rubbing the bulge in his jeans on the swell of your ass. “I wouldn’t even have to use this on ya,” he taunted, rutting against you again. “Jus’ me mouth.” His tongue traced the curve of your ear.

A strangled little whimper caught in the back of your throat, your knuckles going white as you gripped the edge of the pool table. “F-Fuck, Johnny...”

His lips were skimming down your neck, his breath coming out in soft, hot pants against your skin. “Let me show ya what I can do fer ya, sweetheart. Let me be good to ya, make ya feel good, aye?”

He hadn’t even really touched you yet, but you could already feel your arousal seeping out of your clenching channel to pool in your panties. “W-We shouldn’t...” you breathed out, trying to argue, but then his hands slid around your waist, one hand trailing down until he was cupping your clothed pussy in his big hand. A low, guttural moan clawed its way out of your throat. Your knees gave a little wobble.

You were in trouble.

Of its own volition, your head tilted to the side to give him better access, and he groaned into your neck before he began trailing hot, wet kisses up to your ear. He caught the lobe between his teeth before pulling it between his lips to suckle at it. The hand cupping your pussy squeezed, and another filthy moan escaped your lips.

“Y feel s’good, love. S’feckin’ hot,” he whispered, and your heart gave a hard thud in your chest. When his hand came up to clutch at your breast through your shirt, you whimpered. He gave a frustrated growl and turned you in his arms, crowding you back against the pool table as his arms wrapped around your back, hands gripping and pulling at you. “Feck, let me kiss ya, hen. Please?” he asked, voice desperate and plaintive.

You peered up at him, enthralled by the darkened blue of his eyes, the expanded void of his pupils. The way he looked at you had your hands shooting up to grasp the sides of his head, pulling him down to crash his lips to yours. This time, he whimpered, melting into you for a brief moment, but he soon recovered and took charge of the kiss.

No one had ever kissed you like that before. There was hunger in his kiss, an aggression that spoke of pent-up lust and insatiable need. The fierceness of it had you gasping against his mouth, and Johhny, never one to miss an opportunity, delved between your parted lips, tangling his tongue with yours as he groaned into your mouth.

He had slotted his knee between your thighs while he kissed you, and he lifted it, now, notching it firmly against your aching sex. You whined at the contact, hips bucking on instinct to gain more friction for your swollen clit.

“Feck, tha’s it, love. Ride it,” he encouraged you. One hand supporting your back, he used the other to help guide your hips, hissing out curses as he dragged your aching pussy back and forth along his flexed thigh. “God, I bet yer feckin’ soaked, aren’t ya, sweetheart?”

You could only whine and drop your head to his shoulder as he slowly pushed and pulled you to the very edge of orgasm. “J-Johnny... I―”

“Jus’ let go fer me, love. Let it happen,” he crooned at your ear, pressing a kiss against your temple. “Jus’ like that. Tha’s it. Feckin’ hell, yer so beautiful like this. Cum fer me, sweetheart. C’mon. Let me have it.”

A wavering cry fell from your lips as your orgasm swept over you like tidal wave. Sparks danced behind your eyelids, and your body went slack in his arms as your knees clamped around his thigh.

“Tha’s good, sweetheart. Ride it out. Did so good fer me,” he murmured, grasping the nape of your neck as he helped grind you against him, not stopping until your legs gave out and released the vice grip on his thigh.

His voice and hands were both trembling as he caught you by the thighs and lifted you up to set you on the pool table, whispering praises in your ear. You could do little more than lean into him, pressing sloppy kisses at his throat as you pawed at his chest. “Oh, my god...” you breathed into his skin, panting.

His hands were rubbing circles over your back, giving you time to come down from your high. “I want ta make ya feel good, sweetheart, show ya what I can do fer ya. Will ya let me, love?”

You nodded like a dashboard bobble head, as you gasped out, “Yes! Please, Johnny.”

That’s all he needed to hear. Leaning past you, he swept his arm across the pool table, scattering the remaining pool balls in all different directions, before laying you back on the crimson felt. His hands went to the waist of your leggings, fingers curling into the material, giving them a quick tug. A sexy little smile appeared on his face when you eagerly lifted your hips to accommodate him. He pulled them down your legs, taking your underwear with them, giving a sharp inhale when his eyes finally landed on your slick lower lips.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, rushing to yank the shoes from your feet before stripping off your leggings and panties, and then tossed them aside. “Would ya look at tha’,” he whispered, brushing his thick knuckles down your wet slit. “Yer s’soft, love,” he murmured, bringing his hand up to his mouth to drag his tongue over the bony ridge. A grating moan was exhaled. “Mmm, ya taste so good, too.”

Your whimper came on the heels of the slick you could feel seeping out of your quivering folds, running along the seam of your pussy to drip onto the edge of the table. You were staring up at the ceiling in a daze, not caring what he did, so long as he touched you down there. “Johnny, wh-what are you―”

“Shh, love. Jus’ lay back an’ let me take care of ya. Tha’s a good girl.”

His hands were gliding up and down your sides, pausing briefly to massage your breasts. “Sweet Jaysus, cannae wait to see these,” he mumbled, brushing his thumbs over the nipples. He gave them a teasing little pinch, huffing out a breathy laugh when you whimpered and squirmed. “Sensitive little thing, ain’t ya, sweetheart?”

You threw an arm over your eyes, embarrassed. “C-Can’t help it. Don’t laugh.”

“No no, love,” he cooed, pulling your arm away. He leaned over you to stare into your eyes. “Not laughin’ at ya, love. I jus’ can’t believe I finally have ya like this.”

He pressed his lips to yours, sighing into the kiss. You could feel his cock flexing inside his jeans, straining to get out. He pressed himself against your weeping core, slowly grinding against you until you were whimpering again. “Can’t wait t’be inside ya, love, but there’s somethin’ I got t’do first.”

His body slid down yours, lips grazing over your sternum, kissing each breast, pushing your shirt further up to plant soft kisses over your belly and hips. He licked a wet stripe above your mound, catching your hips in his hands when you rolled them up into his face. “Bless me, the way ya move, hen. Drives me feckin’ mad.”

His pressed his nose into your sex and inhaled, moaning into it before you felt the first touch of his tongue. He had dipped the tip of it into your wet folds, flicking it over your clit, before drawing back as you jolted in his grip. You looked down your body, worried that you had done something wrong or did something he didn’t like, but when he lifted his eyes to meet yours, all you saw was the wolfish grin on his face and the devilish gleam in his eye. He fiddled with the watch on his wrist, removing it and noting the time, before pressing it into your hand.

“Keep an eye on it, hen,” he husked above your folds. “Remember. Three minutes.”

Your brows shot up, mouth gaping open. “Wha― Haaah! Fu-Fuck!”

Johnny didn’t waste any time, plunging his tongue into your wet heat. His hands were like vice grips on your bucking, squirming hips as he devoured you, making the most lewd, wet, sloppy sounds as he devoured you. He slurped at your juices, sucked at your clit, slithered his tongue up into your clenching channel, all while you mewled and cried and flailed, helpless against the onslaught. You could feel the orgasm building, rocketing towards that blissful peak, and you panted out his name again and again, your hands clutching at his head, not sure if you wanted to push him away or pull him in closer, it was so overwhelming.

He was lapping at you, snaking his tongue from your entrance up to your clit, swirling it around the taut little nub. When he sealed his lips around it and began flickering his tongue over it, you gasped, then a warbling cry flew past your lips when he drew it between his teeth and sucked, so hard. The cry turned to an escalating wail as your back came off the table, but his hands held you down, and he moaned into your pussy, the vibration sending you right over the edge.

Your climax hit you like a Mac truck, barreling out of your core in a rush of hot slick. You could hear Johnny, still buried between your legs, moaning and growling as he gorged himself, refusing to let a single drop escape his greedy mouth. Tremors shook through your frame, your legs flopping to either side of him, unable to control your shaking muscles. You were a virtual rag doll, helpless against his lewd ministrations as he drew your orgasm out to the very last quivering spasm.

You laid there, spent and shaking, heaving for breath, mind spiraling in a tailspin. You were barely aware of his hand coming up and taking his watch from your limp fingers, wondering at his grunt of satisfaction. At some point, he stood, and you could feel his hands on you again, petting you with soothing, languid strokes.

“Look at me, love,” he coaxed, cupping your cheek in his palm. “C’mon, sweetheart. Come back t’yer Johnny, now.”

You blinked your eyes open to see him hovering over you. The entire lower half of his face was smeared with your slick, lips swollen and shiny, a gleaming bright red hue. His mohawk was a wild, spiky mess, his flushed cheeks bunched up, blue eyes crinkled at the corners by the huge smile stretched across his face. “There’s my girl,” he whispered, before capturing your lips in a slow, sensual kiss.

You could taste your cum on his lips, on his tongue, and so help you, if you didn’t feel that heady swoop of arousal in your gut again. You were ruined. He had completely and utterly ruined you for anyone else, and he knew it.

He lifted his watch up in front of you, brows raised. “Two minutes, forrty-seven seconds,” he informed you, grinning. You huffed out an exasperated breath and rolled your eyes shut. “Ah-ah,” he murmured in a tender but teasing tone. “No hidin’ from me, now, love. C’mon. Open those pretty eyes fer me.”

You dragged open your heavy lids, peering up at him with hooded, glassy eyes. “What?” you rasped out, your voice gone husky from― God help you― screaming his name. Just like he said you would.

His face softened. “Are ya alright, lovie?” he asked, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “It wasn’t too much, was it?”

Your hand came up to cradle his jaw, your thumb brushing over his swollen bottom lip. “I’m okay. Think I’m just still a little out of it. No one’s... Nobody has ever made me feel that way before, Johnny,”

If Johnny thought he had fallen for you before, he was dead certain of it now. Your confession sent him soaring into orbit, even as it melted his heart. “Yer never gettin’ rid o’ me now, hen. Yeh’ll have t’beat me off with a stick, an’ even then, I’d still come crawlin’ back t’ya.”

Your brow creased. “Don’t tease me like that, Johnny.”

He gave you a wry smile. “Not teasin’ ya, sweetheart. I mean it. I finally ― Jaysus, I finally got ya, an’ I ain’t lettin’ ya go.” He dipped his head down to catch your eyes. “I hope ya feel the same.”

You stared at him, eyes searching his face, looking for that smirk to appear, for him to say he was just messing with you, but all you saw was sincerity and affection reflected in his eyes. It felt like a weight lifted off your chest. “I do. Always have.”

His smile could have lit up the whole of London. “Aye?”

You smiled back at him and nodded. “Aye.”

He darted his head down to kiss you again, his hands starting to roam again with purpose. Your arms came to twine around his neck as his hands grasped your thighs and tugged you forward.

You broke the kiss, startled, and looked up at him. “What are you doing?”

He reached over and grabbed his watch, wrapping your fingers around it. “Did ya ferget what I told ya, lovie? Remember? I said I’d have ya screamin’ me name in five minutes, an’ have ya cummin’ on me cock in ten.” Your eyes went wide as he reached down and undid his belt and jeans, pushing them down til his cock sprang out. It smacked against his lower abdomen, and you gulped as you took in its length and girth. Apparently, they grew ‘em big in Scotland. Holy shit.

“Now, love,” he murmured, grasping your thighs and wrapping them around his waist. “I’d advise ya to hang on, ‘cause I’m about to make good on the rest o’ that promise.”

And let it never be said that Johnny MacTavish was nothing if not a man of his word. Needless to say, you didn’t make it into work the following evening, not the way you were walking.

#super soap sunday #cod soap smut #johnny soap mactavish x fem reader #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap x fem reader #mactavish monday

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kattze · 2 months

Text

PT.2 GHOST X GN READER SLOW BURN

Please tell me if there's any mistake it would be the greatest. Also sorry it took a while to post. I got real lazy hahahhah.

I unpacked my belongings, and let out a sigh of relief. I look at the clock. “Christ lunch already? Good, I'm starving.” I quickly make my way towards the lunch hall. Everyone is sitting and joking around with their friends. Suddenly, someone with a mohawk makes his way towards me.

"You, the new recruit, ain't you'?" He smiles as he pats my shoulder, like he's greeting an old friend.

"Yeah, I guess I am, huh?” I smiled back at him and let out a small chuckle at his Scottish accent.

“John Macktavish, but you can call me Soap! Follow me; I'll introduce you to Gaz!” He starts walking away and leads me to a table with someone else sitting there, which I assume is Gaz.

“Gaz,” Soap speeds up his walking. “Look at the new recruit!” He gestures towards me as I finally catch up to him.

“Hello…I guess.” I wave and shrug awkwardly.

“Hi, Kyle Garrick, call me Gaz.” He waves back.

“Alright, Gaz.” I say

Soap sits down and pats the spot next to him. "Well, I'm sure you've met Ghost.”

“I have…he's..” Before I respond, Soap cuts me off.

“Let me guess, broody?” He says in a matter-of-fact way, followed by a laugh.

I laugh at his words, “Right on the money!”

“He's not heartless; you just have to wait for him to warm up, ain't that right, Gaz?” He looks toward his friend for approval.

“You're making him seem like some snake,” he replies back, “but yeah, he's not too bad to be around.” He shakes his head as he talks.

"Hmph, I'll say he called me a ‘twat when I first saw him." I laugh remembering the insult. Gaz and Soap laugh at the comment as well.

Gaz speaks up. “You'll get used to him, trust me, you'll be fine.”

“You sure? I won't be surprised if he kills me or something.” I shake my head and chuckle.

"Noooo, I'm sure you'll actually be his favorite. Just watch and wait.” Soap pats my back. “I'm sure you'll get along well!” Suddenly, heavy footsteps approach, and we all look behind us to find Ghost walking towards us.

“Who's favorite?” Ghost asks with a glare.

"Nothing, LT, just getting to know the new recruit.” Soap shrugs as he starts eating his meal, which is when I realize I never grabbed my damn food.

"Shit, I forgot my food.” I sigh and stand up. “I'll be back. I need to grab a meal.”

I hear Ghost scoff before mumbling “dumbass.” under his breath. (Bastard fr) I grab my meal and return to the table. Ghost barely acknowledges me, and I don't pay him any attention either. Later in the day, training starts, and it feels like hell.

“Holy shit I'm going to die, aren't I?” I grumble and wipe my forehead, and sweat basically covers my whole body.

“Don't know what Price saw in you if you can barely handle a basic workout.” I hear a voice from behind. I turn around, and I am met with Ghost.

I glared daggers at him before responding, “who knows?” I shrug my shoulders and continue to workout. I can feel Ghost stare at me like he's trying to kill me. I'd probably be dead if looks could actually kill. Hours later, when the workout finally ends, I head to the shower room. As I leave the shower room, I pass by Price's office, and I hear a few voices. I decided to be nosey and listen for a little.

I hear Ghost's voice talking to Price, and I make out some words: “Why do we need someone like them? They can barely handle the workout.” His voice is sharp, and he sounds pissed.

Price responds calmly, like he's already been through this multiple times. “They're a great asset to have, and trust me, you'll warm up to them soon.”

“Doubt that,” I hear Ghost scoff, “they're just dead weight at this point.” I roll my eyes as I hear Ghost complain, and I assume he's complaining about me.

I start walking back to the barracks and decide it's better to just ignore Ghost and decide to hopefully one day get on his good side. "Ugh, I'm not going to last,” I say as I lay down on my cot. I rub my eyes and decide it's better to get rest rather than think about stupid things.

~~next day~~

I wake up to the annoying alarm and quickly turn it off. I stretch my arms, popping my joints. “Wow, what a beautiful morning.” I say to myself sarcastically as I get up and prepare for breakfast. I make it to the lunch hall, and Soap waves me over to sit with him, Gaz, Price, and Ghost. I sit down next to Gaz, and he passes me a breakfast tray he saved for me. “Thanks Gaz.”

“No problem, C/N,” he says with a smile.

Price speaks up. “so? How is the base? Up to your standards?” He said in a joking tone.

“It's more than I expected.” I laugh. I notice Ghost is still quiet and cold as ever. I turn to look at him. “Had a good sleep?”

He glares before answering, "It would be better if you weren't here.”

I put my hand up to show my innocence: “no need for the hostility.”

Soap looks at Ghost and chuckles, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” He laughs trying to lighten the mood.

“Shut it, Johnny.” He says sternly.

“Just sayin,” he responds with a smirk.

~~Time skip to the afternoon~~~ (wow I'm so good at this/jk)

After breakfast, I head to the shooting range and practice my shots. After a couple of hours, I decided to leave the shooting range and do something else. As I start to clean up and pack my belongings, Ghost approaches me.

“Price wants us for a meeting in 5 minutes.” He says sternly before turning and walking away.

“Yes sir.” I mumble. I finish packing and cleaning up and head to the meeting room. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Price, and a woman who looks like she's ready to tell us some life-changing shit.

“Nice to meet you, y/n l/n; I'm Laswell.” She gives a slight smile.

“Nice to meet you too.” I respond back quickly and come to the conclusion that she's probably the head of the 141 team.

"Well, let's get to the point. There's a mission you guys need to do to gather some valuable Intel. It is very important that it goes perfectly, so Ghost and C/N will be paired while the others provide support. I expect the utmost best on this mission." She looks around, making sure everyone understands the importance of the mission.

"Yes, ma'am,” everyone replies in unison.

“I'll be in contact.” She says and quickly leaves. She seems to be very busy.

Price speaks before anyone can say anything: “You guys heard her. We'll leave for the mission tomorrow at 0100 hours. I expect everyone to be ready. You'll have the rest of the day to rest up and prepare.”

“Yes sir.”

~2330~~

Everyone is in the meeting room, discussing the mission. I look at everyone. 'Hopefully I won't die’ I think to myself. Ghost suddenly spoke, snapping me out of my thoughts. “you sure they're ready? They're already daydreaming.” Ghost voice is teasing, and it's pissing me off.

“At least I have an imagination.” I say without thinking, and everyone stares at me in surprise. “Oops…sorry…” I try to avoid everyone's eyes.

Ghost rolls his eyes as Price speaks, “Just get along and don't fuck up this mission or your arses will be the ones to blame, got that?”

“Yes sir.” Me and Ghost respond. I see Soap and Gaz laughing at us. It finally reached 0100 hours, and we all got into the helicopter. We arrive on the mission, and we hide in the forest, waiting for an opportunity to get inside.

“Don't forget you two; don't screw up." Price glares at us, making sure we get the message.

He sends us into the building, and I stay close behind Ghost. We hid around the building, awaiting the signal to continue. I look at Ghost before speaking. “Why are you such an ass?”

Ghost stares at me before responding, “why are you such an annoying prick? Hmm?” He rolls his eyes as we finally get the signal to continue.

“Christ…” I scoff. We make our way through the building, hiding and killing people if they pose a threat. Suddenly, an enemy soldier runs towards Ghost and attempts to stab him before he could stab Ghost. I shot him in the heart. “Are you okay?” I ask Ghost

“The greatest I've ever been.” He answers without acknowledging that I just saved his arse. I roll my eyes, and we finally arrive where the Intel is stored. “Grab the Intel c/n I'll keep a lookout.” He says sternly as he gets ready to fight, just in case.

“Alright…” I quickly grab the Intel and gather it into a vanilla folder. "Okay, let's go!” Ghost leads the way, and we make it back to the others.

“You guys get along?” Soap asks as he elbows Ghost in a joking manner.

“Good enough.” He says as we all start walking back to the exfile location.

~~back at base~~

I take a shower in warm water, and the feeling makes me sigh in relief. I finish the needed shower and make my way to the mess hall. I look in the fridge and notice a tray with a note stuck to it; it reads, ‘didn't want to leave you starve, so saved some food- Soap :).’ I chuckle at Soap's smiley face. I heat it up and sit down at a table. I start eating my food peacefully, and I hear heavy footsteps walking towards me. I look up and see Ghost without saying a word. He sits next to me.

“Thanks for saving my arse.” Ghost eyes meet mine as I smile.

“No problem.” Before I could continue talking, Ghost interrupts me.

“Starting’ to think you aren't such a pain in the ass.” He then quickly gets up before I could fully process what he said.

“Wait what…” I groan in annoyance, “Christ…” I finished my food and made my way back to the barracks. As I approach my cot, I see a candy bar on my pillow. I grab it “it's probably from soap…hmph.” I eat it before quickly settling in for bed.

#cod mw2 #ghost x gn reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #im lazy #simon ghost riley #ghost x male reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x female reader #ghost x f!reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader

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rel124c41 · 10 hours

Text

IN ALL MY DREAMS I DROWN. poly!octotrio

Husband/Captain says the best medicine is sleep. You plead and beg with him to find another remedy. "I know what is best for you," Husband/Captain says.

tags: mythical beings & creatures, references to scottish folklore, seasickness, implied/referenced abuse, prophetic dreams, blood and violence, forced marriage, rape/non-con elements, no abuse done by octotrio, eventual happy ending, rescue mission, & happy mermay

word count: 6,690

There is a storm on the horizon. Alas, that is normal. Your husband has terrible luck with sailing.

Truthfully, it has felt for as long as you have breathed, you have breathed in the calmness before a storm. Anticipation for something awful on your tongue. Dry, warm air before a storm hits in your lungs. There is always a storm on the horizon. You have never seen another type of sky while sailing.

Dark clouds pile onto each other like stones. Icy blue and cold black spreads across the south like rivulets of oil. There is a faint tingling in the air. You look down. So deeply tired, the motion almost causes your eyes to lock close – like when a rocker-eyed doll is tilted. Blankets of goosebumps sleep on your arms. You know with sighed resignation that the upcoming weather will be one of the worser ones you have experienced.

No matter how many waves you sail upon, your husband cannot escape the looming storms, try as he might.

In your hand, you hold a lantern. It walks with you. Burning brightly, it works effectively to prod off the combined darkness of night and storm. Hypotonic red and yellow twirls over each other. A caged calamity which sways somniferous with each step you take.

This is the forty-second time you have paced the entirety of the ship. From stern to bow, croaking wood weeps under your aimless poltergeist motions. Some cuckoo clocks, upon the stroke of each hour, release little trapped dolls to dance and spin in circles upon the stroke of each hour. You are quite similar to them. Especially, you are a doll in a broken cuckoo clock who works its dancers tirelessly. Spinning and spinning, stern to bow, then again, stern to bow, repeat, stern to bow.

With each step, the fire in your lantern sways like a hypnotist's watch, undulating red and yellow.

You have been awake for two days so far. However, you only walk at night to feed off sleepiness. In the daylight, you keep yourself busy with menial tasks. Walking helps to fight off the sleep before it envelopes and rains upon you.

Yet, it seems you are making too much noise with your endless pacing. Your scolding comes with the cry of a single creak. The wooden door of the captain’s cabin opens.

Eyes once up to absorb the sight of the creeping storm, the layout of the ship, and any sight you wanted to see suddenly drop down. Eyes now on the floorboards, you listen to the pitter of feet marching down steps. Wind howls in your ears and rakes through your hair. Endless pacing comes to a sudden halt. With retreating eyes, you stand by the shrouds.

When a pair of boots enter your eyesight, thorns wrap around your heart. Panic settles in when he speaks, “Another sleepless night, my dear?”

You have no idea what your husband looks like. Never gathering the bravery to look up and with him never having the want to tilt your chin up, neither of you have made eye contact. His face is like tenebrous darkness casted by storm. Numerous features could lay on it. Numerous possibilities yet no answers. No beard though; you know this when he places a palacting kiss on your forehead where your brain stews with undreamed dreams. No coarse hair tickles your skin.

However, your husband knows what you look like. Taller than you, stronger than you. Knowing your features and face shape in this uneven marriage, that is his right in nuptial laws. Spouses should submit to their husband, he told you when the ship first departed from the dock of your hometown.

Though, you cannot remember your hometown. Or really anything before him.

All of your life (because you must have had one) before him is blank like empty waters. From the Memory Sea, you search desperately for something. No matter how many lines you cast out, all you pull up is stringy, golden brown kelp or thick, ebony black kombu. The fishing rod of your desperation cannot possibly successfully make a catch in empty waters. How foolish of you to even cast a line, Husband/Captain would tease.

You know him only as your husband. He never gave you his name. You heard the men under his command call him captain. He adopts two names on your tongue, Husband/Captain; though you hardly use either.

You hardly address him first. He addresses you.

“My dear (Name),” a finger oscillates gently on your cheekbone. “I do not think the moon is as lonely as I am without you in bed. I miss you.” When you move your head to the side in shame, the finger guides you firmly to look at him – or at least his shoes.

“Speak.”

Lips feeling looser, you weigh your next words carefully. What can you possibly say this time around? Is there anything left to say? Fitful in your resolve, your eyes travel to take in the pulsing glow of your lantern and how it illuminates different colors. The image paints itself in your memory: the empty lantern that is devoid of anything but a pile of ash, the chest in the corner which you are not allowed to open, the bed with its silky sheets that inundate you with dreams of drowning.

You dream of drowning every time you sleep. When your head hits the pillow, it is like falling into a bottomless puddle that goes much deeper than anticipated. Idiosyncrasy to yourself, you are only one of this swaying ship that fears the reality of drowning.

Below your feet, almost breathing, the ship rocks back and forth. It feels like you imagine how it feels to be rocked gently by a mother. Maternally, even the ship wishes for you to sleep. The captain and his vessel conspiring against you together.

But – you cannot – so you must bargain some way to stay awake until the vessel docks. “I was … I was growing a bit uneasy over the storm. And I could not –.”

Husband/Captain hums and you know to immediately fall silent.

The pattern of the lantern handles indents in your hand. Digging steel hurts like a bad punishment. What a silly excuse. For two months all you have known is encroaching storms, why would you suddenly develop an anxiety over them now? You look out upon the ebony, mature cumulonimbus clouds.

“Isn’t there an old saying: out of sight, out of mind. I’m positive that watching it does little to quell this uneasiness,” he says.

If anything a rainstorm would be a blessing, diverting his attention from you.

“If I’m aware of it, it helps dispel that anxiety. If I’m away from it, not watching it, I feel quite worried about what could happen.”

“I share that sentiment. I’m quite anxious with you out of my sight.”

So it seems, you think, so it really seems. Your husband has pulled you away from the ship’s railings on multiple occasions, hand a shackle on your wrist, reeling you back onboard. Staying within his sight is an unspoken wedding vow.

You tense prematurely, already knowing his next words. You have lost for the night. Oh, how you have lost deeply. “I don’t want to sleep tonight … please … –” in all my dreams, I drown. But you cannot talk anymore because –

“Now hush, love,” Husband/Captain coos.

“Here’s your gown.”

What he holds out to you is rivulets of soft cotton. A sleeveless gown with fragile, ornamented straps which will hang gently on your shoulders. The pattern is a delicate stitch like doyle napkins and a little bow rests on the chest’s center. Ending at the shin, white lace replicates the look of distance waves, twisting up and down.

You take it within your scarred arms. Diagonal slashes racing down and then another group of diagonal scars racing up coat your forearms. Memory Sea has yet to unveil how you got these scars.

“Please,” you plead. It takes so much bravery to say that one word that you feel winded after.

Your head is patted in fruitless consolation.

The captain is not happy about today’s catch. Not happy is really too subtle of a way to put it. He boils with a rage known of a tyrant’s disposition, body exploding into a mess of volcano-esque fire. It is a strange sight to the men. What they pulled up from their nets would feed the crew without the need of rationing. Their catch was bountiful; what is there to be possibly upset about?

It is because all they caught is codfish. Codfish pyramiding upon codfish. A family reunion of hundreds of generational codfish. Oh, and one common ling. Which he took from the nets, it serpentine amber and white body oscillating in hand, as he howls at his crew, “A fucking ling! A ling!”

Eyes down, you had a perfect view of the ling being dropped to the floorboards and the captain raising his boot to mallet it down upon the fish’s head. Red and white puss splattered in a gory firework, piscine epidermis popping loudly.

Then, the captain stomped off, leaving a one-footed trail of red behind him.

Antipaction and questions lingered in the eyes of the crew. The crew looked upon you with high expectations. Well, aren’t you going to follow the yellow-brick road, the red footprint trail? Weren’t you going to head into the captain’s cabin and help your husband – lie on the bed, stomach down, as he punched fireworks into you, until he worked out his anger? This ship’s crew really has no delicate manner of speaking with their eyes.

Averting your eyes, sheepish, you shake your head. You are not inclined to want pain. Fleeing, you took to entering the kitchen to cook, growing ill at the sight of nets.

Nets. Just the cross-hatching pattern could make you feel consumptive. Like your stomach is empty or your stomach is bloated, it makes you so incredibly sickly to watch the crew pull up their meshwork that cradles school upon school of fishes.

Upon your forearms are scars, scars of an identical pattern.

When the men take to dumping their catch into a circular, steel tank that is about the size of a Queen bed, you thank them in a whisper. Looking into their eyes is like falling off a cliff, missing the water, and landing upon a bed of jagged stones. Eyes like stone, not resentful but still dangerous. You work to keep your head down until they all leave.

With the captain so vexed, you delegate yourself to preparing his meal first. The rest of the crew can wait until mid-afternoon. So, you prepare a dredging station with quick work. Find a shallow bowl, cut the lemon, mix together a double serving of spices with the flour. Your husband is fond of sharp herbs mixed in with fish.

You have learned to cook with his guidance. He likes to say, “A country’s cuisine reflects their culture and history. It’s a fascinating field of study.” Then, fingers guide you with firm resolve to work upon dicing, cutting, and slicing.

Now, you are almost a veteran at preparing fish. Mostly codfish, though you would have longed to experiment with a ling – you remember the pomace of oozing brains and otoliths, multiple streaks of red like lightning on the floor.

But you suppose you are not allowed to. It is probably for the best. Staying with your routine.

Seasonings scenting the air, you hear your stomach growl. Ah. Perhaps just a bite won’t hurt.

Triple-checking, you make certain that none of the crew lingers by the kitchen. No curious eyes are peeking through the window. When you are assured in your resolve, down to the bone and up to the skin, you crouch down by the bucket. Into the pool of threshing codfish, your hand swims.

The one you take out is a medium-sized portion. Green and yellow skin a similar hue of summer moss. As it squirms wildly, you turn it belly-side up. It takes a great deal of effort with such dull teeth. Yet, after a bit gnawing, the piscine epidermis finally breaks with a loud pop in your omnivorous mouth.

Rotating it around like corn-on-the-cob, you munch down upon the live and raw codfish with ravenous hunger.

A fortnight after, you wake up gasping for breath. Saliva is like a second tongue in your mouth, overcrowding. Unhesitant, you turn over the edge of the bed and wait for a soup of briny seaweed, torrential waves, and a codfish to splatter upon the captain’s bedroom floor. A single jellyfish tail of bubbly saliva is all that hits the ground.

Lungs so incredibly strained cannot comprehend where all the water went.

Coughing, you cringe against the sensation of water in your mouth. The natural lubricant of saliva is suffocating, pressing hard on the walls of your buccal cavity.

And though your lungs kick painfully, there is nothing more to spit out the tiny dime of water already spat out. Coughs come and go until they ebb to you panting softly in bed. Fatigued breaths eventually wither, to you just breathing steadily and staring off to the only light source.

Pointed spirals of light move in a kaleidoscope pattern. Leather red brightens to a bloody crimson. Rich blue wood absorbs the glow. You are a bit unsure what is really rocking back and forth, swaying with such somnolence: the boat itself or the chest where a star is locked inside.

The chest you are not allowed to open.

In your ears, you hear the ocean gnash and moan.

Blech and blarghhh. Blech and blarghhh, you go.

Over the bow of the ship, you puke.

Bile falls heavy into the awaiting waves below. One teary, squinting eye watches the pallid greenish-yellow sludge sink. Your nose is sour by the scent of imaginary citrus oranges; your head is a spinning dreidel. On the night of your three month anniversary on the ship, you woke up from another drowning dream with a secondary heart heavy in your throat. Prisoned, it banged and banged for release. So, you rushed up to the bow and granted its plea for freedom.

To the sea, let me go to the sea, your bile begged. And you listened.

A powerful blech and blarghhh has you stumbling feverishly. Your feet skid on wood like a lynched cowboy’s who kicks fruitlessly to feel solid ground. Stomach and railing biting each other, you lean far with the force of your next hurl. Far enough where you too could fall into the awaiting waves below.

Your heart spikes because you realize, puke only halfway out and face winking in agony, that you are falling in. You have gone far enough. Cerulean waters seem to reach out in an awaiting embrace.

Just as your feet start to lift from the ground, the saltine noose around your neck pulling, a hand wraps gently yet firm against your waist. You gasp wetly, bile lipstick thick, as you find yourself back on solid ground.

“Easy there. Easy. I got you,” Husband/Captain murmurs. He presses a kiss to your neck but does not hold your hair back when you gurgle again. Throat fluctuating with heaving breaths, he lies his nose on that weeping patch of skin. Slat is thick on you. “Sudden sea-sickness will pass. Happens even to the veteran sailors.”

Not this extreme, you want to argue. You are too cowardly to object. And besides … Vomit acts as a reliable tape over your hatred. You wish his hand would stop rubbing a thumb on your stomach and instead gather up tendril-esque hair.

“Though I would have never expected you to succumb to such an illness,” he says, awestruck as if you are breaking some bodily law. The thumb on your stomach becomes more pressing. “Perhaps … perhaps it is not the matter of the seas that turns your stomach so.”

You realize with a cold sweat what he is referencing. “It is not that.” A helpful hand (your own) rises up to start wiping off the pallid greenish-yellow cosmetic. Fingers fling and flick the remains of your regurgitating stomach into the waves.

“I would be able to tell.”

“Is that possible,” his voice doubts. “How could you?”

“Of course I could. It’s my body.”

Husband/Captain chuckles like you have told a funny joke. Now it is not his sole thumb that oscillates back and forth on the skin of your nightgown, he opens up his hand like a flower. He takes to rubbing your stomach until his hand goes down to cradle the spot between your legs.

You wish the ocean would take you.

The night sky is full of stars. Stars are a rarity. You never get to see them often because of how normal it is for your husband’s ship to be caught in a storm. Tonight, all is tranquil. Tonight, you are in the embodiment-al heart of the calm before the storm. And, lastly, tonight, you will try something new and exciting. You will use those pinpricks of light to paint pictures; you doubt anyone has ever thought of such a fabulous game before.

It takes a while for you to get into the groove of it. When there is this strange, thrusting force behind you, bile pops out your lips like blood. Stars align to make a teddy bear, fashioned with a little bow. When your tears fall into the awaiting waves, they catch them with so much tender sorrow.

There is a melody in the air. A little different from blech and blarghhh. Far different from the harsh hit of his hips. It howls below you. Water licking on the side of the ship seems to say: dont worry dont worry i will save you.

When you strike the match, it hisses and balloons with a fierce flame before shrinking down to something petite, something weaker. With great care, you press the match through the open lantern panel. It transforms with a fiery jump.

You stick the match between your lips once you wave it in the air harshly, killing it. Lantern panels now all closed, you hold it up to illuminate the revolutionary sight before you. It has been a day and three months … you have to know what’s in there. The rich blue box sits in your path with all the magnetism of precise metals. You crouch before it, nun-like.

The top of the wooden chest is an arch, so you rest your lantern to the side. Out of your sock, you pull two fishbones – ones you had cleaned down with your tongue and whittled down to points with a kitchen knife.

You cannot remember anything of your life before this boat. Against his wishes, you have been trying to remember what could have been of you before this boat. The storybook must have more pages, a prologue of sorts left unsaid. This boat … nothing but him lives your memory. Hand outstretched like thorns, sand, snakes, poison, fire, and nightmares. A hand that puts a glittering circlet on your ring finger. Your first memory is being wed.

Into the mouth of the lock, you slowly slide in the first fishbone. Behind you, the sound of a blanket hitting the floor thumps. Thin and fragile, the fishbone snaps halfway in the lock as you rise to your feet – and you rush, hand just managing to grab the lantern, as a raging storm at your back runs at you.

“YOU UNFAITHFUL FUCK!”

You run up the stairs three at a time, heart jackrabbiting with fear.

Tears are already in your eyes before you comprehend them. Your hand depresses on the door. Wood clatters and shakes with tremendous rage below you, growing closer. Run away, you scream at yourself, just as you realize there's nowhere to run to. When the door opens, water pelts your face in a thousand exploding fists.

This is the closest the storm has ever been. But it was clear yesterday ? – calm before a –?

A scream tears from you as a reaching hand misses your arm, his dirty nails almost tickling the goosebumps coating your skin. With reckless abandon, you jump down the flight of seven stairs just outside of the cabin. The deck catches you with all the care wooden arms have – which is very little. Wide yet still finite, the deck faces off with you in the fierce, piercing rain. Where to escape to, it asks, as violent waves rock below.

Left knee bleeding and a section of your nightgown ripped, you sprint towards the bow. And from the south, a savage, ravening storm follows. Dark clouds pile over. Icy blue lunges. Maybe it would not be so bad to fall off the edge. Is that what all those ceaseless dreams of drowning meant — you have to drown to finally be at peace?

An ethery scent explodes in the rain. The marriage of the sounds of breaking glass and petrified screaming kisses in the gusty air. In the blimp of chaos, both of you hit the floor, right next to where fire from a broken lantern starts to eat up the wood.

“No … No, please,” you cry. “Please no!”

By his hateful hands, you are turned on your side. Before you can make eye contact, he punches you across the face with an intensity reserved for crewmen in brawls. The wind howls mournfully in your ringing ears. Blood pops out of your mouth in tiny lightning bolts.

As ringing and blustery winds ebb in sound, you catch the last of your husband’s words, “...I know what is best for you.”

“Scold or hit me! I cannot go back to sleep! Please!”

He grabs your head in a vitriol grip. Acid burns pierce where his fingers dig in. Husband/Captain lifts you by his hold on your head, like a lion might do with a cub by the scruff of its neck. Eyes stomp shut in fear. You fear the intensity of his face will overwhelm and drown you.

“Help me! Someone! Please, help me!”

“Now hush, love.”

“SOMEONE! ANYBODY PLEASE –!”

“Here’s your gown.” Then, he slams your body on the ground. Your head cracks with the fragility of an egg. Molten dreams with rainbowing incandescence slip out from the lightning-shaped fractures, spilling all over deck.

The moon is full tonight.

You feel in your bones that you have not seen a full moon in a very long time. Despite it being a monthly occurrence, storm clouds shield it away; even when unveiled, the nude moon is caught waning or waxing. This phase of the lunar sun kisses uncloudy skies with a powerful completeness. How you missed it with a whirlpool fervor. You feel so at peace.

A silver eye not missing any weight or heft. Hanging on a vertex, it hums with the sprinkling song of moondust and moonlight. With that melody, it shaves the weight of weakness that has shackled you. Avoirdupois lightens; the full moon brightens.

I have not seen a full moon this serene since I was a little boy/girl, you remember that much. It is such a wondrous sight that you do not notice the water rising up by your ankles.

No – not water, bedsheets. Bedsheets that snake serpentine like individual rivers connecting together. With a fluidity unique to water, white linen slithers across the curve of your calf and climbs up in gusts of silk to the tendons in your hamstrings. Moisture still clings to you; dry sheets juxtaposingly soaking you.

I am going to drown again. You frown delicately at the sentiment. Yet, despite the acknowledgement that watery suffocation is going to repeat itself, you think this time it will be a metamorphosis. Something different from previous dreams.

You only think this because moondust and moonlight hug your slowly submerging body and tell it to you. Reassures you of it, to wade off fear of drowning.

Sheets climb up to your sternum. With rocking motions, they purl and lick at your shoulders. Ribbons weaving in and out of each other, pulsing up in gigantic breaths to climb upon you. Cloth falls over your mouth and silences you. Tendrils of linen rush into your nostrils. You keep your breath for as long as you can. As the bedsheets engulf you, you keep your eyes trained upon the full moon.

A silver eye not missing any weight or heft. Complete. I want to be complete again.

Once fully submerged, you open your eyes. There is a tentacle in front of your face.

There is a tentacle in front of your face. It lies on its side. Facing you like how two lovers might turn to pillow-talk at one another. About as thick as an elephant leg, it stretches fully across the deck, dipping down into unseen depths over each side of the ship.

Suckers squirm like a breathing wall before you. Voluminous in numbers. Almost replicating plasma barnacles of the underside of aquatic vessels. Individual suckers purl and roll with fake breaths. Fluctuating up and down in uneven patterns, unorganized hive mind motions. Most of them were a vibrant lavender yet – like moles on a wrinkled face – cheetah spots of violet-whitish squirms in slower beats. Moving like bubbling lava, lavender stirs and beckons.

You cannot resist. Pushing your hand upon the breathing wall, you breathe in the scent of salt.

There is an ocean beneath the surface. Blood and plasma swims warmly underneath the skin. Despite the cold and salty water that falls like tears over shells of suckers, there is a warmth. An alive warmth.

It cannot wrap itself around you; this particular tentacle is wrapped from one edge of the boat to the other like a behemoth bow strangling a Christmas present. However, touch is reciprocated in other methods. Like an expanding stomach, lavender pushes into your starfish spread out fingers. Suckers harmonize in a circle around the area where you put pressure.

Hypnotic, eldritch beauty finds primitive comfort in you. Even though the side of your head is still sticky with clotting blood, you think you feel comfort too. It is only ripped from you when a crewman shouts, “God, help us all! A Kraken! By God, a Kraken!”

Beyond the goliath, shielding tentacle, the ship and its crew are in discord. And once it reaches your ears, awareness of it crawls into all your other senses. Drawing away from the tentacle, you realize while standing up that the scent of ether in your nose is overwhelming. Half of the deck is engulfed in flames. Warmth from fire blankets you in heavy sheets. And –

“Someone! Anybody please –!!” And men are being dragged off the boat and killed by twisting, gnashing tentacles.

The boat tilts. Stumbling feet are magnetized backwards; you trip over the tentacle you were just touching. A shriek that pains the wound on the side of your head erupts from you as you are rolled across the deck like a dice across a game-board.

Your tentacle (the one you caressed) does not reach to steady or save you. Instead, it squeezes tentatively on the vessel ensnared in its grip. Splintering wood spreads up like a field of pointy grass. Then, after a moment, it slithers back into the ocean just as your spine hits the railing of the tilting ship.

Over your shoulder, you see a raging sea. Waves curve into each other, resounding claps of exploding water striking your ears. Above, bullets of water clip fast upon the awaiting ocean. That familiar saltine noose reemerges around your neck, as your feet lift with gravity. Everything happens in a millisecond and in an eternity, dream-esque.

Your knees hit the deck when a hand pushes you away from the edge. You suck in deep breaths in a panic, prematurely housing oxygen away before you were doomed to fall in. But you had not fallen in … because … because there was a hand. Sprawled on the wet and burning deck, both elbows down on the ground, you turn over your shoulder one final time.

His hair is the color of the sea. You never expected to see hair a different shade than black, brown, or blonde, perhaps a rare red, but his is breathtakingly blue. Coping, your mind fixates on it because you cannot comprehend the three-points of fins growing where his ears should be. There must be a mystified expression on your face regardless. The man smiles at you with covetous patience.

“Hello, (Name). I wanted to be first to say on behalf of us, we are terribly sorry for our delay.”

Delay? “I don’t understand.”

“Do not stress. A great deal will soon resolve itself. Are you hungry? Can I do anything for you?”

Kindness is far more alien to you than the sight of piscine traits that your mouth falls open in a tiny circle. Words fail to form. Just as your bottom lip starts to quiver, the man amends, “Is there perhaps something you don’t want me to do?”

Meekly: “Do – Don’t go.” Apologetically (and quickly too): “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

Desperately, you wish you had something to hide in but all that you wear is a slim cotton gown. It is innate to leech onto goodwill after such a drought of it. An amused warmth settles of his features, then it softly falls into a deep sadness. Once more, you fumble for words, upset that you have upset him … “I’m sorry – I –!”

A loud noise breaks the moment. There is a pyramid of hundred or so noises caterwauling in this storm, mixing together like how a tornado tears up earth and neighborhoods to mix a smoothie of different items. Something salient breaks through all that cacophony – Husband/Captain shouting, “Give that back, you beast!” And then three consecutive popping sounds as he fires his gun.

You watch the figure of your husband, his spine facing you, wrestle with a tentacle. Like an obsidian tongue, the tentacle emerges from the door to the captain’s cabin and sways back and forth, trying to tug something from your husband. It is a tug-of-war with a predictable winner.

Strength evolves into desperation. A shout undulates into the rainstorm as Husband/Captain is thrown up. His body somersaults in the air. The tongue churns back into the mouth of your bedroom like a retreating snake. Clutched in a protective grip is the blue chest. Defeated, Husband/Captain pushes himself up on his elbows, nose broken.

Through sheets of rain, you two make eye contact for the first time in ninety-two days.

People say he is the fairest of them all. Women and men in the town swoon over him. And with a husband/wife to match, those jealous men and women think when their eyes land upon your awe-striking beauty. Yet, when you look upon him now, all you see is a hideous man. Like a swan (yourself) marrying a condor (him) – he is ugly beyond putridness.

His bloody mouth moves. His shaking hand moves. You do not move.

You cannot tell if the next sound you hear is the ring of a gunshot or the bang of a lightning bolt.

It is like when I bite into the codfish, you think deliriously, watching red soak your nightgown. Hah. What a strange color. You think the man with the blue hair is trying to get your attention but the crimson color has you in a trance. Like mold, it grows slowly on the wrinkled creases of your nightgown, a little bit below your ribcage. So much – so much red.

Yellow interrupts your mesmerization. Cheeks squished together, you look into a black pupil ringed by a honey wedding band then backdropped by a white planet. The triptych of color has you equally magnetized as the man takes his dominant hand and settles it under your rib.

“Breathe in.”

You do obediently.

“Breathe out.”

Once more, you follow instructions. With your exhale, the wound in your abdomen closes up like a sleepy eye. He cards his non-dominant hand through your hair with excellent care. “There, there, are you feeling better?” When you nod, he whispers lovingly, “I’m so glad to hear that, my dearest.”

He smiles and reveals a collection of cutting instrumental teeth, shark teeth.

The man looks like he is about to inquire more yet a voice interrupts in a lazy drawl, “Caaan I kill him now?”

You turn to see your husband covered in red, down to a level where it almost looks like a second skin or a set of clothes upon him. His body is bent over the railing and a man with almost identical features holds him by the top of his torso, a piscine hand tight around his throat. “Kinda gettin’ of tired of his squirmin’ – he’s all sticky.”

Jade knows that is not a truthful admission. Floyd likes when they squirm. Jade wants that vile man dead too with as much intensity as his brother does but – “Come now, we are not barbarians. We have rules for our way of life.”

“Don’t care. He made Sealy cry. I’mma tear off his penis.”

“Please, refrain from such violence for a moment longer. Sir – well, that is too polite for you. Hm, Captain. Captain, we have customs where we challenge the owner of a particular vessel to a certain game. Will you play along?” The only response is an opaque red-white trail of slime dropping from his trembling lips. “Good. I will say the first two lines of a poem. You must complete them.

“Floyd, if you would, please.” The squeezing hand releases and your husband gasps for breath as if he has just escaped drowning on dry land. Shadow and light from the flickering flames shudder across his choking lips. “O my Luve’s like a red, red rose / That’s newly sprung in June.”

“Get off my fucking boat!”

“Hm, another verse then. As fair as thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in luve am I.”

“I’ll roast you alive, you overgrown fish! (Name), get away –”At the mere utterance of your name, the man returns to strangling your husband with an explosive vitriol that it almost seems his gold and olive-brown eyes will bulge from his face in anger.

“Shut the fuck up.” He seethes with rage.

The other man responds to your husband. “Sorry but the responding lines are: And I will luve thee still, my Dear, / Till a’ the seas gang dry. Go ahead, Floyd.”

Red. So much red. It sprays out when Floyd rips off the skin enveloping around your husband’s throat. Glittering seafoam rivulets that arch beautifully. Leaping and pirouetting through the air. Thicker rivers start to follow after the initial misting, jetting shower. Some of the spume lands upon your temple. Already sticky with salt and blood, you do not flinch at the sensation.

Then, the man, the man named Floyd, falls spine first into the thrashing sea, taking your husband with him. It takes a few moments before you realize the other man is gone too.

You are not sure how long you stay sitting on the deck, letting rain drench you. It could be three or thirteen minutes of absent minded staring at the skies. Cords of white lightning are thrown across the canvas like spools of yarn, wavy and disorganized. Water pelts your face angrily; the weight of it hurts. Below you, the watery depths wail with ghastly noises.

The noise does not lessen or quiet to announce his presence. He simply emerges. One tentacle pushing up from the railing is followed by a hand which is followed by another hand. Then, hovering about three feet in the air above you, the Kraken analyzes you.

Wind picks up, howling. If you were standing, it would be a very real threat to push you off the ship. Tangible winds pick up tendrils of your soaked hair and cheerfully play with, whipping it back and forth in painful, fast-paced oscillation. Entranced, you watch the Kraken’s very dry hair flow in the air with gentle grace.

“Hello.”

You almost faint. His voice is each raindrop, sleeping in each ebon cloud, racing through each electrical bolt that shatters in loud cracks. Blue eyes with a horizontal, pill-shaped pupil squint in worry at the shiver you give at his voice.

“Are you cold, angelfish? Ah, here,” only two behemoth tentacles have to umbrella over your form to completely stop the downpour. You lose sight of the man due to the massive, lilac parasol of muscle that covers you. He enters your sight again when his upper body slithers forward under his tentacles. “Is this better?”

He is so inhumanly gorgeous that he leaves you spellbound. Around you, his numerous tentacles wrap across the deck and into holes he has made into the ship’s helm like hungry snakes in a garden of mice. Prism-like, Stygian black glitters with each rain freckle that races down the arches of muscular tissue. Light shimmers evangelical on each part anatomical droplet.

Yet, his real eldritch splendor is in his human-mimcing top half which leans towards you amorously.

Silver hair, like the color palette of a full moon has dropped into it, sweeps across his face gracefully. The skin of his neck and collarbone pulse with each measured breath. A blue much mellower than the typical rough ocean hue shines in his eyes. His lips move and your eyes dilate just a smidgen.

He whispers to you in your little pocket universe. It feels you two are floating on a planet designed only for the two of you, heave ho-ing back and forth on waves made of stardust. He speaks so softly.

“I’m,” his voice breaks slightly like a chipped mug, “I’m terribly sorry for being so delayed. We tore down countless ships before we arrived upon this one … That is no excuse though. I should’ve been stronger and taken all of them down in a week.”

You do not really get what he is talking about but you still ask, “How many did you take down?”

“A hundred and thirty seven. Each one just another bleak joke. My angelfish, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s quite a number.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose. We would have done a thousand more. Floyd, Jade, and I –”

“Who’s Jade?” Then, as an afterthought. “Can I please know your name as well?”

He blinks at you in confusion. After a heavy, contemplating moment, he states resolutely, “Let’s get you out of this wrong skin and into something proper.”

“Proper?” You blink in replicating confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Hush now, hush love,” Azul says, more tender than – than someone that has drowned in Memory Sea, never to be remembered again. Honestly, you do not recall there being any reasons for apologizing.

The parasol of tentacles peels apart and, hand in hand, Azul guides you towards the railing. You take care not to slip.

“Here’s ya gown.” The man who had ripped out your husband’s throat – you do know his name is Floyd – holds something out to you, leaning over the railing.

What he holds in his hand is unlike soft cotton. It is wetly sleek, patterned with black and white which diffuse into each other with freckling gray. There are no straps for your arms to slip and where the train of a dress should end is hind flippers. A dog-esque face with long whiskers stares at you with hollow eyes, awaiting for you to slip it on. It is a seal pelt.

Boldly, you look into his eyes. Gold and olive-brown, warm eyes. They are so earnest that you have no inclination not to believe him. That is your possession in his webbed hands, and he is returning it to you.

In the span of three months and one day, you have had seventy-three dreams where you drown in them. In the span of three months and two days, you rejoin the ocean where you were always supposed to be, sunrise and clear skies on your tail.

#twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #if you notice the obvious azul favoritism hush i miss writing for him in 2022

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