celestialseph

[celestialseph]

† 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — charlie mayhew x f!reader. | mdni

tags: mature content・mentions of religion・angst・flashbacks of smut・fem!reader・self-inflicted flagellation・blood・not proofread / wc: 1158

⟡ a/n: sorry if there are any grammatical errors or mistakes. english is not my first language

father charlie mayhew sat on the edge of his narrow bed, the white walls of his private chamber closing in around him. the small space was sparse, almost ascetic, with only a few religious artifacts cluttering the windowsill. the emptiness mirrored the discipline he tried to embody—from the polished metal sink in the corner to the stiff, neatly made bed beneath him. everything in his life was governed by order, by control—everything except you.

he glanced toward the tiny window where rain trickled down the glass, his chest tightening with a dull throb. leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands, fingers pressing into his temples as if he could will you away like a migraine.

but you were always there.

your fingers clawed at the buttons on his collar, desperate and needy—tugging him closer as he struggled to cling to any vestige of control he possessed. plushy lips brushed the edge of his neck, and he could hear the slight tremor in your breathing. “charlie,” you pleaded. not “father” this time. you had stripped him of that sacred title, and reduced him to a man in your arms—a sinner. your body pressed against him, warmth seeped through the fabric of his robes into his bones, hands traveling down the line of his chest, and it was at that point when he realised… he didn’t give a damn about sin or salvation.

rising to his feet, he stripped off his cassock, letting it slip past his shoulders before pooling on the floor. cool air bit against his skin, the bruises and scars on his back crisscrossed the pale skin in a web of guilt. charlie didn’t dare look in the mirror, couldn’t stand to see the evidence of his weakness. instead he knelt down and stared at the cat o’ nine tails resting on the bed before him, its nine strands splayed like serpents awaiting to strike. the handle was a rough wooden club, and as he gripped it tightly, his fingers brushed the frayed ends of the ropes, already darkened with blood and sweat from last night’s penance. he rearranged the nine strands carefully, spreading them out methodically before each lash.

he began to ease himself inside you, the tightness and warmth making him groan into the crook of your neck. he paused briefly, allowing you to place your hands on his shoulders, before fully sheathing himself, dragging out a broken moan from your lips. then he curled an arm around your waist, slowly withdrawing his hips, before thrusting inside you again.

he slammed the whip across his back, the sharp crack echoing through the small room. the nine strands bit into his skin like the nails that had once driven into his saviour’s flesh. pain was instantaneous, cutting through the haze of memory. he sucked in a breath as the second strike followed, then a third.

the heat of your skin burned under his fingertips, the sheets had tangled around your legs in a twisted mess of linen and heat, as you arched beneath him, crying out his name—charlie—over and over, like a prayer. his hand tightened on your waist, guiding your hips against his, guilt warring with the heady pleasure that coursed through him with every deep thrust. he pressed you into the mattress, lips tracing the column of your throat as your thighs clenched around his waist.

charlie’s grip faltered, his body hunching forward as he gasped for air. he could feel blood dripping down his back, onto the floor, but he didn’t care. he deserved this. he needed this.

the punishment was supposed to cleanse him. it was supposed to scourge away the sin. (it never worked, not really.)

he laid the whip down, trembling as he reached out to rearrange the strands, spreading them evenly across the bed before lifting it again. his hands shook as he braced himself for the next blow, muscles tensing as if to ward off the pain he knew was coming.

“don’t stop,” you begged, voice cracking as his body moved against yours, the sudden clench of your walls leaving him dizzy. the sheets were a tangled mess, your hands clutching at them. but it hadn’t been the sheets you clung to in the end—it had been him.

with a swift motion, he brought the whip down again. the impact sent a shockwave of agony through his body, his knees buckling slightly under the force. a guttural sob tore through his chest. fresh welts overlapped the scars from the previous nights, the pain melding together into one throbbing, pulsing reminder of his weakness.

(charlie mayhew was a weak, pathetic man.)

“you’re so beautiful,” you murmured as your nails scraped along his back, leaving faint red marks in their wake. his hips rutted into yours with a rhythm that had made him forget who he was. hand slid beneath the sheets, fingers digging into your flesh before he buried himself deep inside you. you let out a strangled moan, biting down on your lip as your eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, and it took everything in him not to cry out in response, to keep his own sinful need locked behind his clenched teeth.

the pain was nearly unbearable now, his skin raw and bleeding from the repeated lashes. but still, he struck again, his eyes squeezing shut against the images of you.

(the memory of you writhing beneath him, the sheets twisted around your bodies as his hips rolled into yours, was burned into his soul.)

agony built to a crescendo, the sharp sting of the rope tearing at his flesh, but it still wasn’t enough. it was never enough. chest heaving, he let the whip fall from his hands and clutched the edge of the bed for support. his back was a mess of blood, bruises and torn skin, but the pain in his back was a dull throb compared to the ache in his chest.

you had told him, in the quiet of your shared sin, that you loved him. he hadn’t responded. he couldn’t. because if he had said it back, it would have made everything worse. he couldn’t love you—not the way you wanted him to. not the way he already did.

charlie ran a hand through his hair, slick with sweat, staring blankly at the white walls that had seen too many nights like this one.

he didn’t know how many more nights like this he could endure. how many more times he could sit on the edge of his bed, flogging himself for the pleasure he found in your arms. how many more lashes it would take to absolve him of the sin of loving you.

you were worth every drop of blood, every sting of the rope. you were his temptation, his punishment, and his salvation all at once. he would willingly suffer for you, again and again.

masterlist

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[celestialseph]

i don't think i could stand to be where you don't see me

rhaenyra x alicent, modern day au: Rhaenyra shows up on Alicent's doorstep with an arts and craft project for the next concert they're seeing together. Alicent plays dress up for Rhaenyra without totally meaning to. Neither girl is good at communication, it would seem.

content: 18+, minors dni. . . smut, religious themes & guilt, spanking, dom/sub undertones, dubious consent, angst, degradation, wlw, explicit photography, best friends to lovers

word count: 3,860

“Is this silly? I know we’re halfway through it, but maybe this was a silly idea,” Alicent mumbles from her spot on Rhae’s couch.

Rhae is across the room, struggling with her needle and thread. She laughs, but the sound is forced. “You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to. At this rate, mine won’t even be legible.”

“Oh, Rhae,” Alicent sighs, looking over at her friend. “Here, stop that. You’re staining them so much with blood that the thread isn’t going to show. I’ll do yours.” Rhae gives in, throwing the hot shorts to the side with a frustrated noise. She pulls the tip of her forefinger into her mouth, sucking at one of many pinpricks. Alicent swallows as her eyes linger on the image, then looks back down with shame. On Alicent’s own project, the thread has become clear words, although the embroidery has been done in such a way so that the lines are somewhat sloppy, rugged. Such is Alicent’s own artistic take on the project. Across the front of the shorts, right over where her pelvic bone would be, now reads the words Rockstars Only.

A few months ago, Alicent’s mom came home with tickets for an up-and-coming band she claimed the girls would adore. Alerie worked for recording companies in their PR departments, and had always gotten them tickets for different artists depending on what label she was working for. 

“You’re really gonna like this band, guys,” Alerie told Alicent and Rhae the night she came home with the tickets. “And,” she started, with a twinkle in her eye, “the bassist is super hot.”

Alicent had seen pictures. The bassist was hot. And the lead singer. And the drummer. And the guy on keys. Or, Alicent figured they were hot. The boys certainly seemed like the other rockstars and boy bands that girls her age went crazy for. A few weeks ago, kind of laughing about it, Alicent and Rhae had come up with the idea to wear bras and skimpy shorts, with the embroidery they were working on now. Alicent wasn’t sure she had meant it at the time, but Rhaenyra showed up earlier tonight armed with clothing and red thread.

Alicent looks at her own work, which she really only needs to tie off. And then she glances to Rhae, who had discarded her work at Alicent’s offer and is now scrolling on her phone. Thread drips off the side of the chair that Rhae’s socked feet dangle from, and Alicent’s eyes trace from the bottom of the thread, to her friend’s ankles, then her legs, then her hips. . .

By the time Alicent gets to Rhae’s face, Rhae has turned to make eye contact. “You done? Go try it on then!”

“Oh, I don’t know. . .” “Ali, just go try it on. If the vision doesn’t work I won’t make you finish mine.”

Alicent nods, and ties up the thread on her own shorts. The words stare back at her. What was the goal? To get a band member to take them back to the bus, like groupies dying to be fucked by men they don’t even know? Alicent grimaced. 

But Rhaenyra wanted to see the finished product, and see it she would. Alicent never denied her best friend of her pleasures. And this did seem to be a pleasure to Rhae. She was practically kicking her feet as Alicent went to her room to change. “You’re gonna look so hot!” she hollered. 

“Shut up!” Alicent squealed. Rhae made her so happy, it made her forget any thoughts of icky band members and their gross dicks.

In her room, Alicent strips down to her underwear. First, she put on the bra. It’s a deep red color that matches the thread. It scoops in a way that none of Alicent’s bras do, but she knows this is the cut that Rhae prefers for herself. And sure enough, it manages to give Alicent a type of cleavage that she usually avoids.

Besides her underwear, Alicent had left one other article on her body. A cross hangs from her neck. A black chain, with red rhinestones decorating the middle of the pendant. Her fingers trace the shape, feeling the edges of the plastic and metal. Part of her screams at how wrong it feels, to see herself so nude and performative while still wearing her necklace. It was a gift from her father, who had passed down his own strict view of religion onto Alicent’s conscience. 

He lives in Seattle now. Alerie divorced him years ago. On her birthday, Alicent still gets a card. But besides that, this necklace is what she has of him.

She knows she should remove it if it makes her feel this bad. Whether it is the bra or the necklace, she isn’t sure. But they go together so well, in a way that feels. . . raunchy in a way Alicent has never felt.

She quickly pulls on the shorts. They’re simple, creamy cotton. They may as well be underwear, with the amount of ass they show in the back. But the cut isn’t quite right. Alicent’s actual underwear pokes out the top and the bottom. It makes her pout, and takes away the inflated confidence she was trying to avoid that came from the bra. 

The idea that comes to her feels bolder than anything she has ever done. But, she thinks, if she doesn’t feel comfortable she can always just say it didn’t work.

Slowly, Alicent slides the shorts back down her legs. And right after, she slides her underwear down, too. She looks at herself in the mirror, in nothing but the bra Rhae picked out for her, and her cross. There is a cropped thatch of hair between her legs. Alicent is almost certain it will show through the fabric. She trims, but she doesn’t shave; too afraid to cut herself with the razor and have to tell her mom.

Without breathing, Alicent slides the shorts back up without her underwear on this time. Even though she and Rhae are recently twenty, and she knows Rhae owns all assortments of thongs and bikini-cut underwear, she herself has been unable to purchase anything beyond her standard, full-coverage Hanes. Another remnant of her fathers teachings on modesty.

The shorts hug her in a way they didn’t before, free from odd lines caused by her underwear. Alicent turns in the mirror, and her jaw drops at just how much cheek hangs out from the sides. And, as she suspected, the cream color is just not dark enough to hide the brown, wiry hair on her pelvis. It’s a scandal just to watch herself in the glass. 

Initially, she is certain she will not go to show Rhaenyra. The appearance is vulgar, sinful. But, almost against her will, she moves on autopilot. She grabs red ankle socks from her drawer, and her Mary Janes.

She goes back to the mirror, with socks and shoes now on for the full effect. She reaches up, and pulls out the claw clip holding her curls. All of her hair falls down at once, framing her face, and covering her back. Alicent can’t be sure if she’s beautiful or not - all she knows is that she’s never looked like this, and she wants Rhae to see her this way.

Taking a deep breath, she walks out her bedroom door and down the hall to where Rhaenyra waits.

Rhae is still lounging in the chair, but she’s moved her shorts onto the couch for when Alicent comes back to finish or discard them. She mumbles along to a video on her phone, still sprawled with her legs over the arm of the chair. Alicent clears her throat.

Her friend smiles, turning off the phone and setting it down before looking at Alicent. Rhae’s face drops, her mouth hanging open on the first syllable of a word as she stares in wonder at Alicent’s final outfit.

Alicent wonders if she is imagining the way Rhae’s eyes stick on her pelvis for a second longer than they do everywhere else. “Oh, Alicent. . . you have outdone yourself,” Rhae whispers.

“I guess I’m finishing yours then,” Alicent jokes, trying to cut what she now feels is a new kind of tension she isn’t sure she has ever shared with her friend. Rhae meets Alicent’s eyes, fully sitting up now. She meant that she liked them, right?

“Are you wearing underwear?” 

Alicent feels herself blanch. She had not been imagining then, but maybe it was for the wrong reasons. Suddenly she feels gross, like she has done something wrong. “Oh, yeah. Ha. Shorts looked weird with, uh, granny panties, as you like to call them. I can go change. I was worried it was a bad move.”

“Don’t!” Rhae exclaims. Alicent’s eyes widen. “I mean. I mean. Sorry, I was just curious. You know I’m all for going commando.” A playful spark ignites in Rhanyra’s eyes. “I think I’ll do the same when we go tomorrow.”

A slickness appears between Alicent’s legs and she feels herself grow embarrassed at its presence, especially considering the color of the shorts and the fact it probably won’t take much to make her problem clear to Rhae.

“Right. Okay. I’m going to go take this off and then get started on yours.”

“When you got all dressed up? No, c’mon, we’re gonna take some pictures.”

Alicent thinks she’s going to throw up. “We can take pictures tomorrow,” she says weakly.

Rhae shakes her head, smirking. “You look good, Ali. We’ll take more tomorrow, but I want some now.” Rhae stands, grabbing her phone and Alicent’s hand. “Come with me.”

This is not a change Alicent is prepared for. Suddenly she’s on autopilot again, following Rhae to the sliding glass doors that lead onto the balcony of her mom’s apartment. Rhae slides the door open, and ushers Alicent out.

It’s sunset outside, and below people honk their horns in five o’clock traffic. Alicent lives eight stories up, so the wind is blowing constantly on her balcony. A breeze shoots by now, ruffling Alicent’s hair.

Rhaenyra ponders for a second, then seems to decide how she wants Alicent. This is always how it is with Rhae, with her moving Alicent like a mannequin to take pictures whenever she wants. Alicent isn’t sure why Rhae likes having so many pictures of her. The one time she asked, Rhae only said she liked having pictures of her best friend, and why make it more complicated?

Pale hands move Alicent until she’s against the railing. “Trust me, okay?” Rhae whispers. Her eyes are a deep blue, and they stare into Alicent with a ferocity that makes her feel hot behind her cheeks. Alicent allows Rhaenyra to push her chest until she’s hung over the railing and her eyes are trained on the sky. Then, gently, Rhae pulls both of Alicent’s hands to spread across the iron bar her back now arches on. 

In her ear, Rhaenyra whispers, “Cross your legs for me. At the ankle.” Alicent does, but mourns Rhae’s hands on her, doing the posing for her. She hears Rhaenyra step back, admiring her work. “That’s good. Hold onto that,” she says, and then Alicent hears one of the balcony chairs scrape and presumably Rhae stand up on top of it. Alicent closes her eyes, feeling the wind pass over her. Her stomach, her arms, her breasts. . .

“Okay, that’s good. Stay just like that, but spread your legs as far as you can.”

Alicent’s eyes pop open in shock. She doesn’t move an inch. “Rhaenyra. . .”

“Just trust me! You’ll like what you see.”

Slowly, trying to ignore the wetness that has only gotten worse in her crotch, Alicent begins to spread her legs. She screws her eyes shut, feeling mortified. There is no telling whether her shorts are showing what she’s going through right now, but if they are there will be no hiding from it. She feels debauched now, and pathetic. 

Rhae groans, annoyed. “Bend your knees, it’s not quite right. Now spread further. Okay, keep your knees bent, but pull your knees in. Like inwards, don’t push them more outwards. Ugh!” 

Alicent’s best friend is not known for her patience. And though she is trying to listen to instructions, she knows she isn’t doing it right when she hears Rhae get down from her chair-perch. Delicate, chilled fingers graze on the insides of her knees, and it makes Alicent shiver.

“Like this, Ali,” Rhae says, pulling her left knee inwards. She does the same to the other knee, and then Alicent feels her friend stop moving entirely. She holds her breath, but Alicent just knows. She knows Rhae has seen a wet patch between Alicent’s legs. And Alicent nearly screams at herself when she feels her cunt clench from the realization, forcing more slick out.

Hot air hits Alicent’s thigh, and it feels so new and different that it makes her groan aloud before she can stop herself. She slaps a hand over her mouth, in shock at her behavior. She hears Rhaenyra move back. “Stay just like that,” Rhae says, sharp and clear. “Keep your hand on your mouth, too. I like that.”

She says nothing else, but Alicent can tell she leaves the balcony to go inside. A few moments later, Rhae returns. Alicent still cannot see her, but she doesn’t hear her get on the chair this time. There is silence, and then the next thing Alicent hears is a click, click, click.

A camera. Rhaenyra has retrieved her real, expensive camera, rather than continue using her phone. “I wasn’t even sure you had sexual desires if I’m going to be honest with you, Ali,” Rhaenyra says. Her voice is strong, and gives nothing away. “You’ll have to forgive me for wanting to capture this moment on film. It’s not everyday you see your best friend give into kink for the first time.”

“I’m not-” Alicent’s voice breaks, and she curses herself. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“What made you wet, Alicent? No panties? Being photographed like this? Or is it the thought of one of those band boys seeing you in this. . . getup?” Suddenly, Alicent realizes that Rhaenyra sounds angry. Almost vengeful.

“I’m- I’m-”

Rhaenyra makes a mean noise. “I’m- I’m-” she mocks. Then Rhaenyra reaches forward and grabs Alicent by the shoulder. For a short moment, they’re face to face, and Rhaenyra snarls. “Get on your knees.”

Alicent doesn’t hesitate. She drops to her knees so fast it hurts, but she likes the way they scrape on the concrete. Makes her feel like she’s paying for this in some way, whatever she has caused in Rhaenyra. Tears spring to her eyes. She keeps her vision upwards, on Rhaenyra. A part of her is begging for clarity, to understand this sudden shift in Rhae’s tone. But another, newer part of her is worried clarity would bring an end to whatever this has become. She lets her gaze fall to the ground

“Look up at me,” Rhaenyra mutters the minute Ali’s head drops. Alicent listens, and one single droplet falls from her eye to her cheek. She can’t see Rhae behind the camera now, but she hears the click and sees the flash to let her know that Rhae can see her, and she finds the image photo-worthy. She takes a few more like that, with Alicent gazing up with big, pleading eyes. Then Rhae moves back into the apartment, and gets down on one knee. Without removing the camera, she orders, “Start crawling to me. All fours.”

Alicent gulps. Surely Rhae can’t be serious? But as her friend trains the camera on her again, Alicent knows there is nothing to do but follow instructions now. She crawls towards Rhaenyra, and she feels her pussy throbbing against her shorts as she does. Rhae takes multiple photos again, then finally puts down the camera. Alicent freezes, staring and not moving until told. “I’m tired of this weepy, begging bit,” Rhaenyra claims. “Roll onto your back.”

By now, something has begun boiling in Alicent’s groin that cannot be undone. And she feels herself become almost stupid in its wake, not knowing what to do but listen, obey, do as she is told. Rolling, Alicent watches as her friend stands and walks around her, grabbing her phone from outside and then closing the door behind her as she comes back in. The room goes quiet once the noise from outside is no longer present. Looking up, Alicent is silent as Rhaenyra comes to stand over her, then drops down to her knees at Alicent’s feet.

“Spread your legs again,” Rhae says, still sounding annoyed but more removed. Alicent frowns, but still follows Rhae’s instructions. As soon as there is room, Rhaenyra scoots in closer. Without another command, Rhae grabs the camera again and brings it to her eyes with one hand. She points the lens at Alicent’s face, and Alicent is so wrapped up in staring at her own reflection that she doesn’t notice Rhae’s other hand moving swiftly toward her chest.

The moan Alicent lets out is unseemly, and she feels her eyes screw shut again - in pleasure, this time - as Rhae fondles her through the bra. She hears the clicking of the camera shutters again, but it hardly matters to her as she loses herself to the sensation of being touched where no one else has touched her before.

Rhaenyra squeezes her fingers, and Alicent’s back arches off the floor at the foreign feeling. Her clit aches, and she feels another rush of slick from between her legs. “Rockstars only, huh? Or does anyone get to touch sweet, virginal Alicent if she gets to be on camera?”

Alicent knows in her head that Rhae has got it all wrong. But now she can’t think straight with Rhaenyra’s hand on her, and she can’t make words come out. All that leaves her is whimpers and moans at the camera clicks and Rhae squeezes and gropes. 

“You’re making a mess in your brand new shorts, Alicent,” Rhaenyra notes, and then before Alicent can protest she feels the hand on her breast move down between her legs as Rhae cups her cunt with her hand.

“Rhaenyra!” Alicent screams. Rhae moves two fingers against the shape of Alicent’s hole, and her palm digs into Alicent’s clit. It’s like nothing Alicent has ever felt before, nothing like she has been able to do to herself. “Uhhhngggg,” she moans, and her eyes roll back into her head. Distantly, she hears more clicking.

“Is this what you want that bassist to do to you, Ali? He won’t. He’ll use you to get his dick wet and you’ll be lucky if he remembers your name long enough to sign an autograph.” Rhaenyra is panting, and Alicent opens her eyes enough to see the camera get put down. Rhae’s now-free hand goes back to Alicent’s chest, and it all begins to seem too much for her. She screams again, a tidal wave inches away from crashing over her.

Rhae’s other hand, still firm on Alicent’s cunt, suddenly is gone. And then immediately it comes back, striking Alicent’s mound with force she isn’t prepared for. Alicent’s whole body arches from the floor, and her hand comes to grasp her cross as her heels dig into the carpet. Fingers push into her hole as much as they can from the other side of the fabric, and Rhae’s thumb rubs fast and hard circles onto her clit. 

Her vision goes white, and her ears begin to ring as Alicent feels herself come on Rhae’s fingers, arch into her friend’s hand on her chest and her pussy. Vaguely she thinks she may be screaming in a way that could concern neighbors if she doesn’t stop. 

And then the world comes back into a hazy, light existence, right where Alicent left it a few minutes ago.

The hands disappear. There are shutters clicking from miles and miles away. A dazed expression rests on Alicent’s face as she gasps for air without a thought in her head. And then she realizes Rhae has gotten up and is moving to pack her things away. “Rhae?” Alicent asks, her voice shaky and weak. 

“Finish my shorts for me, you’re better at embroidery than I am. I’ll be by tomorrow a couple hours before the concert to pick you up so we can walk together.”

Rhaenyra does not look at Alicent. Alicent feels herself begin to cry. “Rhaenyra, why did you do that?”

The pleading in her voice must be what stops her friend cold. Rhaenyra turns to Alicent, the venom gone from her eyes that was there throughout the impromptu photoshoot. “Did you. . . not enjoy it?” Rhaenyra asks, her gaze downcast. Ashamed.

“I-I did, but. . .” But not for the reasons you think, is what Alicent leaves unsaid, unable to finish the thought.

“Well then. Consider it prep for the drummer. Or the bassist. I’m sure any of them will like what they see,” Rhaenyra spits, then finishes grabbing her things and storms out the door.

After the door has closed, into the silence Alicent says, “I don’t want them. I wanted you.” She curls into a ball on the carpet, and lets the tears fall freely. Finally, Alicent feels everything she wanted to tell Rhaenyra come to her, but it is already too late. They’ll see each other tomorrow, but what will it matter then? Everything will be different. And the moment to speak will be gone.

Alicent lifts her head to gaze at the shorts Rhaenyra has left for her to finish. She’s going to have to undo all the stitches Rhae did, Alicent can tell even halfway across the room. But, feeling her strength begin to come back, she has an idea that will either permanently damage what is left of her friendship with Rhae, or fix everything she couldn’t come clean about today.

Pulling herself together, Alicent stands and walks to the shorts to begin her work.

part ii here

[celestialseph]

Price eats pussy slowly. He’s savoring every single second of it.

He’s using his fingers to stimulate your g-spot while he sucks ever so gently on your clit.

He tells you to cum whenever you’re ready, then edges you for hours.

Oh you already came? That’s too bad cause he isn’t done yet. He doesn’t care how overstimulated you are, he wants to drown in your pussy.

[celestialseph]

you are a god among us peasants. your writing skills so sublime, you make tears fall from my eyes (and from between my legs); thank you for your service. 🫡

if you’re keen, may i request pain? just angst and maybe death too—if doable. of course, we cannot forget smut; because we’re still thirsty degenerates despite (or is it in spite) the masochism. but if that’s not your cup of tea, then no worries, you feed us well anyway. 🥰

anyway, just wanna say thank you very much for existing and that i look forward to reading more of your amazing fics. may both sides of your pillow be cool whenever you lay on them. 🙏

lastly, im the one who requested for the ‘read more’ bar and tbh, i was not really expecting anything from it. i was expecting it to be ignored and i was fine with it. coz let’s be honest, that was just nitpicking from freeloaders like me and scrolling a few more seconds is the least we can do to thank you for sharing your awesome brainchilds with us. i was just shooting my shot but honestly didn’t expect anything from it. so for you to implement it as soon as you got the ask is just 🤌. thank you. i appreciate you. i hope you immediately find your lost things as soon as you start looking for them. ❤️😘😘😘

LOL, stop it now I'm crying 😭 I can definitely come up with something real angst-y and slutty just for you!!!

You're so kind, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you, and the validation 🫶🏻🥹❤️

Of course!! It's my pleasure 🤍 Thank you (and a million more thank yous) for the kind words, I hope you enjoy!!

Endings

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: A sweet goodbye turns sour.

Warnings: SMUT. Cursing, fingering (vaginal), p-in-v sex, unprotected/unsafe sex, descriptions of gore, death.

The sun had just barely peaked, a glowing orange hue sneaking out from behind your linen curtains. It must've been early, early enough to catch Simon before he headed out.

You stretched out, rolling onto your side, still beneath the warmth of your heavy duvet. A soft pillow cradled your head, goose down, plush and inviting. You didn't want to wake up- you wanted to give in to the overwhelming contentment. Your hands reached out, your eyes shut as you relished in the comfort of your bed.

Your hand tucked under your cheek as you opened one eye, focusing on the man next to you, his chest rising and falling slowly, peacefully. His skin lit up in the sun-tinged room, glowing softly, an image of pure serenity, nearly God-like.

You sighed softly, your eyes scanning his face. You didn't want to wake him. He needed every minute of sleep. You carefully pulled the covers back, goosebumps erupting at the flood of cold air hitting your skin.

A hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back with a strong tug. Simon enveloped you in his arms, cradling your body against his chest. You giggled softly when his lips nuzzled against your neck, pressing a lazy kiss against your skin.

"You sneakin' out on me?" He mumbled, muffled by your hair.

"Trying to," You smiled. "But you caught me."

He hummed, "Just need a few more minutes."

"I can do that," You said, your legs interlocking with his.

His hands followed the natural curve of your waist, meeting your hips, down your thighs. He pressed a palm against your leg, before running his fingers back through the carved path.

"You're barely awake and already feeling me up," You teased, your head turning to look at him.

His eyes were still shut, though his brows furrowed.

"Always in the mood to feel you up, sweetheart." His hand grabbed at one of your breasts, making you laugh- boisterous and genuine.

"You're insatiable." You shook your head.

"Can't blame me."

He pressed his hips into your backside, his erection pressing into you.

"Good dream?"

He shifted upward, his hand on your waist as he looked over you. Half-covered with the comforter, eyes still blinking slowly as you adjusted to the morning light, a mischievous smile across your face. He loved these mornings, slow and playful, where he could appreciate you in your purest form.

He would miss it- miss you. The first woman to force her way into his life and stay there. He'd grown fond of you. More than fond, if he was honest, but honesty scared the fuck out of him. As did vulnerability. He often worried he'd grow too close to you, open up a bit too much and you'd run the other way.

He rarely spoke of his childhood or innermost thoughts, but you made it bearable. He didn't have to hide it from you, didn't have to pretend he was put-together when he was really tearing at the seams. You'd kissed every wound, loved him regardless.

He loved you. He'd only said it once, maybe twice, too shamefully afraid, but you knew. He'd never known anything like the feeling that made him think of you, all the damn time. Made him want to make you happy, do the nervous boyfriend routine when he met your parents. Become a pathetic sop when he was wrapped in your arms.

He devoured every bit of yourself that you showed to him. Every secret, every terrible thing you'd ever done. He wasn't alone, not when you were there.

His hand reached down your pelvis, inching slowly to press the pad of his finger against your clit.

"Must've been good," You held back a smile, your eyes shutting as you basked in the pleasure of his fingers rubbing circles over the delicate organ.

He shook his head against the hard line of your jaw. "'S'all for you," He said quietly, his lips honing in on yours with a delicate kiss.

You moaned softly, your hand reaching for the side of his face. His tongue slid into your mouth gingerly, gliding against yours.

Your mouths moved in sync, a perfected routine. He quieted your moans with his mouth, shushing you with the use of his tongue.

He moved away, leaving you to chase after his lips, open your eyes to see him.

"You're too good to me," You smiled, your lips parting when he applied a bit more pressure with his fingers.

"I know," He replied. "Y'deserve every bit."

He hummed with approval as he looked over your blissful expression, leaning down to leave a trail of kisses across your neck and chest. His teeth nipped at your flesh, tongue sliding out to soothe the inflicted area.

"Just needed to feel you again," He mumbled. "Gonna be gone for a while."

You tried not to frown, tried not to show your utter disappointment upon remembering these would be your last moments together for months.

Your back arched inadvertently when he sunk two fingers inside you, quickly coated with your liquid arousal. A guttural moan left your lips, his thumb still circling your clit.

Your hand reached to stop his movements, your brows cresting, a pleading expression in your eyes. "I want you inside me."

His lips separated, your words creating a searing heat in his groin. The desperation in your voice tugged at a primal instinct inside him, to make you feel good, and it surely would've brought him to his knees had he been standing.

He readjusted himself, his eyes on yours as he massaged his cock with his hand. He moved slowly, angling your thigh to allow him better access. You curved your back, opening your thighs a bit wider as he searched for your entrance.

You felt the slick head of his cock press against you, easing in gently, your hymen stretching to accommodate his size. Your eyes squeezed shut, lip quivering as you bit down.

He was finally buried inside you, giving a low groan in your ear when he felt just how wet you were.

Your back against his chest, his hand slid around your waist, fingers splayed out over the expanse of your curves.

His hips rocked into you, his hand holding you tightly against him, your head fell into his chest. His other hand found yours beneath the pillow, squeezing tightly, reassuringly.

Your eyes opened, finding his amidst the crescendo of pleasure, watching his nostrils flare as he sucked in deep breaths, utterly dumbfounded by the way your pussy felt like it was made just for him.

You leaned in closer, nuzzling your face against his, soft whimpers leaving your lips when his cock hit your G-spot.

"Baby," You whispered, your hand reaching back to glide into his hair. "God, Simon."

"That's it, love," He cooed, through broken breaths and strained vocal cords. "S'alright."

Your heart stammered in your chest, before pounding harshly against your ribs, threatening to climb out your throat. His grip on your body was unrelenting, a solid reminder that it was him who made you feel that way, that had your hips grinding back against him, silently begging for more.

"'M gonna miss you," You breathed, "So much."

His hand slid down your waist, circling your neglected clit, matching the pace of his wonderfully slow thrusts.

"Miss you too," He sighed. "Always miss you, love."

You were restless against him, finding no solace in the idea that you were close to orgasm, and so was he. It would be over, and you'd have to start your day; leave the shelter of your bed, the place where you could hide from everything and everyone, together.

Your fingers replaced his on your clit, and he took advantage of the freedom, cupping your breasts with his large hand. His fingers ghosted over your perked nipples, listening to your soft moans, savouring the fruit of his labour.

"Simon-" You whispered, broken and breathless, hardly there but loud enough for him to hear.

He could feel your pussy fluttering around him, making him shut his eyes as he resisted the urge to cum. "I'm close."

He continued at his successful pace, trying not to watch the way you unraveled, how your back arched even further into him, your spine curving, how your skin flushed with the rush of endorphins. Your voice breaking out in a long, desperate moan, the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

He was even closer now- your undoing had lead him right to his climax. His hips paused against your backside, a gust of his warm breath washed over your back as he exhaled harshly. He kept himself firmly planted inside you, still enjoying the addictive walls of your pussy.

He was apprehensive when he pulled away, shifting now to slide you even closer. He wrapped you in his arms again, his lips pressing against the salty skin of your temple.

"Gotta get goin'," He grumbled.

You nodded. "I know."

He'd been packed for a few days now, ready and waiting for the day he had to catch a flight out. You joined him at the front entrance of the apartment building, in your sweats, watching with red eyes and a forced smile as he shoved his bag into the seat of his SUV.

He moved back to you, enveloping you in a warm hug, his hands wrapping around your waist to hold you.

"I'll miss you," You whispered in his ear.

"Be back 'fore you know it, love," He said back, his lips kissing the sliver of skin showing on your shoulder.

"Better be- and in one piece," You tried to laugh, tried to make it easy.

"Behave yourself while I'm away," He warned, his hand sneaking down to take a handful of your backside.

You did laugh that time, genuine and unapologetic while passersby stared.

"Always," You pulled away. "I love you."

His eyes locked with yours, a soft smile forming over his lips- one of admiration and total devotion.

"Love you too."

Your insides warmed, cheeks glowing with pure adoration.

—

Simon's hearing had gone in his left ear- high-pitched ringing in the other. His eyes focused on the smoke, the still-spinning blades of the helo.

That was when he realized he could only see from one eye- blunt force trauma causing a blown pupil and detachment of his retina.

He tried to twist onto his front, at least have a chance at dragging himself to safety.

A searing pain ripped through his thigh as he lifted himself, and he peered down to find his femur poking through the skin, his torn fatigues covered with blood.

He inhaled, shaky and shallow, hardly enough to sustain his racing heart. Low groans of agony rumbled in his chest, his muscles twitching as he held the surrounding flesh of his broken bone. His head ached, throbbing and stinging, not yet realizing he'd cracked his skull, the flesh of his scalp held together by his helmet. Blood pooled on the ground beneath him.

His deafened ear leaked red, severe swelling of the brain pushing against the intact remainder of his skull.

He tried to sit up again, though couldn't find the strength. He was exhausted- dizzy with blood loss and no longer able to move his limbs quite right.

You, he thought, you'd be alone. You'd wonder where he was, what happened. Would they let you see his body? Or would they tell you he was M.I.A? He couldn't decide which would be worse; leaving you with unanswered questions or knowing he was never coming back. Would they tell you how hard he fought to stay alive for you, even if his entire body was begging to let go?

He was shivering, now. His body had started to focus all energy on his fatal injuries, desperately hanging on to any viable organs. It wouldn't work- it couldn't. Not even a goldstar field medic could piece him back together, not enough to call him human again. He wasn't sure if he'd want you to see him that way, either.

Fitting, he thought. Nothing good ever lasted for Simon Riley.

At least he'd told you he loved you. You'd know it was real, that he wasn't afraid anymore. You'd know he gave everything he had, including his trust, his feelings. The thought gave him a moment of comfort- or maybe it was the endorphins putting an end to his suffering. Either way, his chest warmed when he pictured that playful smile, your eyes. He yearned to have you there, holding his hand instead of digging his fingers into the wet earth. He'd made his grave inside you already, resigned to dying with you than without. You'd tell him it was alright, tell him to let go while he couldn't feel an ounce of pain. You were selfless like that.

All he could picture, as the last of his breath left his lungs, as his heart gave up on sustaining a worthless fight, was you. That morning in bed, before deployment, where you'd given another piece of yourself to him, selflessly. As always.

Thank God he'd told you he loved you.

[celestialseph]

Something going wrong and Joel using readers body to take out his frustration or blood lust 🤤

A/N: Joel Miller x F!Reader. floor smut. torture. dark vibes.

You feel it. 

It’s deep, scratching at your insides. The heat burrows so far it scorches the lining of your belly. 

Shameful.

But Joel knows. He lifts his head, molasses-black eyes sliding from your hitching chest to your burning hot face. He rips the knife from the man’s knee. The thing moans, twitches like a strummed guitar string, boots frantically scraping across blood-drenched cement. Then - it goes still. Dead.  It's done.

Joel says your name. It tumbles out, smacks the ground and hits you right between the legs. 

“Girl,” he warns. “You best leave if you don’t want it.”

You grin. It’s beyond your control. Your lips pull taut.

It. It. It. 

He shoots up before he’s storming toward you. He’s stained in red, hair wild and you stumble backward. Your ass hits hard and Joel is already on top of you, climbing up your body. The knife clatters somewhere by your head. 

“You liked that.”

It’s a statement rather than a question. Joel says it as he undoes the button on your jeans, shucks the fabric down your legs. It’s freezing cold and your breath is visible - coming up fast and desperate. He uses the flat of his hand to drive your thighs apart, his calloused fingers slide through the folds of your cunt. You’re soaking wet and he grunts like he’s both pleased and somewhat surprised. 

He drops his mouth to your ear, whispers. “You’re fucked up.”

It’s so blunt that it slaps your clit. It breaks your fragile pieces open. You scramble for his shoulders, dig your nails into the back of his neck. You need every naked part of him he’s willing to give. You want to get his clothes off, but there’s no time. You hear the clatter of his belt buckle, the shifting denim fabric. He lowers his hips before shoving forward and then he’s inside you. It’s too much, stretching your cunt into two pieces. He’s in your guts. Your lungs. His blood-slick palm slides over your belly as he thrusts up, the head of his cock punching against your womb because it’s meant to hurt. He wants it to sting-ache like a deep, unrelenting bruise. After one violent stroke that makes you whimper, your thighs close up, your knees locking against his hips. He hisses, large hands clamping onto your legs and pushing them back.

“Stay open for me, baby,” he growls. “Be good.”

He’s using you, grinding down in such a way that the ridge of his pelvic bone rubs against your clit. The room fills with his low rumbles, your sighs and the sound of him fucking into you over and over again. Wet. Squelching. Lewd. 

He covers you with his entire body, pins you to the floor as he splits you apart. “I’ll keep you safe,” he says softly before delivering a brutal snap of his hips that makes you choke. “Save you.”

It’s a strange confession when he’s slamming into you so hard that your head is knocking against cement. Every drag of his cock marks you in a new way. He’s too big. Too thick. When he kisses you, it’s like he’s trying to pierce your throat. His tongue slips over the roof your mouth, it tangles with yours until you submit. You’re dizzy with him, engulfed by the smoke-smell of his clothes and the metallic air of blood that surrounds them. 

It was a close call. Too close.

“I know, Joel,” you reply, gripping the back of his skull to keep him sealed to your front. “I know.”

[celestialseph]

OEDIPUS COMPLEX

John Price is your damnation given weight.

A man cut from god's bone marrow to be born a leader.

A gun pressed against your temple, a sword under your chin, a noose hanging overhead— death in every metaphor that's departed from man's lips, a crime scene you'd help set up even if it was your outline chalked on the pavement.

or: a double agent learns the value of self-sacrifice

WE'LL BE ALRIGHT MASTERLIST

You are nine years old when you are taught the value of your life.

"The Captain." Your father presses a finger against your forehead, calloused hands of a broken man. His face is lost in the push and pull of the halting tides of your memories, a broken tapestry made of splintered sunlight slanting across the bridge of his nose.

His mouth curls. "He is the most important man," he says. Your father has star-mapped skin; traces of supernovae explosions in bullet wounds and knife cuts. War torn man who still has his boots in the trenches.

"You'll die for your Captain." There is a physical solitude and an emotional absence in the marrow of his bones. His dedication to duty has a particular flavor that resembles grief, bitter linger of malt in the cradle of your larynx just as much as it does his.

You sculpt the scalding sand with your feet, bare soles painting over the steps of more than a thousand travelers that have all drifted along the river of endless time.

There is a sadness in his bones that seep back into you, an infectious wound that festers in the curl of your spine before the crevice of your backbone can stretch upright.

You are being taught the ways of a broken man. Shaped to fit a silhouette with too-wide shoulders and a sorrow not meant to be lifted by a spark of a child.

(Filth teaches filth.)

"What if I don't want to?" you ask, stubborn for the sake of being stubborn. Your mouth is bruised purple from being thrown to the ground, training to be your father's perfect little soldier.

A gun to be wielded rather than a child to be raised. Abuse hidden under the guise of tough love.

"You will," he says, words drenched in promise, spoken as if the laws of the universe will bend to fulfill the vow of a man whose decade-long mourning grows tangible in every step you take.

"You will."

(You do.)

—

John Price is your damnation given weight.

A man cut from god's bone marrow to be born a leader.

A gun pressed against your temple, a sword under your chin, a noose hanging overhead— death in every metaphor that's departed from man's lips, a crime scene you'd help set up even if it was your outline chalked on the pavement.

—

"You alright there, Savage?" A voice rumbles somewhere near your shoulder, a mere trailblaze of hot breath against the curve of your jaw.

Your chest pressed to the ground, arms locked tight against the middle of your back, a knee hovering above your spine; featherlight reminders of your Captain's capability for violence.

It'd been a quick spar, not more than three minutes you'd bargain, efficiency bleeding against Price's every limb as he parried each of your lunging strikes with his own.

He huffed a quick laugh when you stumbled on your feet, balance compromised; a small slip that cost you just enough for him to be able to cage you between a strong arm, back bent as if he was purposefully teasing you with the promise of his warmth.

Nothing but self-destructive tendencies implore you to look back at him, head turned so you can gaze up at him from beneath fluttering lashes.

Your mouth twists into a familiar smirk. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're all too pleased to have me beneath you, Captain."

There's a darkening in his eyes, as if you've dived into the trenches and gone beneath the waves, his calloused hands flexing just enough that his grasp starts to ache. His lips thin, displeased, and you're quick to remedy your words. "Can't take a joke anymore, old man?"

You know you intrigue him, allure him in ways that he shouldn't be as your Captain. A rotten part of you admits that it's more than playing your identity, that now there's a worrying urgency in your longing.

Just the same, he knows your gaze's heat like the back of his hand, like the slanting of the morning sun crucifying him. Raw desire in between his teeth.

"Quit being a brat," he exhales the words out with a ragged breath. "Need I remind you I'm your Captain, soldier?"

Air catches in your chest as he pushes you to the ground a little more. "No."

You can hear the smile on his face when he asks, "no, what?"

Forehead against the surface, you twist your body in a poor attempt for release against his iron-hold. Price doesn't let up and it crosses you that he seems almost amused at your struggle, nevermind how futile.

"Look at me, soldier," he says, soft, coaxing. You squeeze your eyes tight, stubborn for the sake of being stubborn.

"Look," he draws the word out in a long drawl. A warning when you refuse to oblige. You open your mouth to say something, a tease or a complaint you forget, but when you turn your head to meet his weighted gaze, shadows flashing in trenches of blue, the words die in your throat. Instead, it comes out as a weak, "what?"

His eyes shine with amusement when met with the begrudging twist of your face. "Do I actually need to remind you I'm your superior, Savage?"

A groan leaves your lips. It earns you the tiniest laugh from your Captain and the tremor that rolls across your body at the sound of his rumbling voice makes the muscles in your jaw tense.

"No, sir."

"Good."

(It shouldn't be like this, you whisper to the fragmented reflection in the shattered mirror. Fear converging under living flesh, the construction of your foundation crippled and torn down over meaningless things like ache and love.

Your loyalty shouldn't be wavering, you think, the tremble felt in a frequency that has questions of his cologne lingering heavy on your tongue like saltwater. Felt in such a way that it transcends the boundary of your duty to your country, transcends the pulsing bruises of childhood that paints your skin in stains of black and blue and purple.

It's not something words will ever compare to. Beautiful, the one thing this yearning is not, this terrible saw-hacking and chest-caving want is not one for the poets.

Blasphemous, your father would say.)

—

"I'm so sore," you say, hunkering down beside Soap as silence moves to replace the once gunfire-infested market. Your staccato breath is loud against the muffle of your ear defenders. "Soap, please tell me you're willing to fuck me after this mission."

It's a joke, or it was supposed to be, but the Scot tilts his head to watch you with a weighted shadow in his eyes. "Don't even joke 'bout that, Savage."

You raise both eyebrows at him, curious. "Why? The offer that unappealing? Or are you still hung up on Yellow leaving?"

Soap stares at you, chest rising in a stuttered rhythm as he hunts for his breath. Only a small part of you is apologetic for bringing Yellow up.

You watch the corner of his lips pull into a tight frown. "Yae don't know?"

"Well," you scan his face for any lie or joke but miss any. "You can change that fact, MacTavish."

Soap runs a tongue across his teeth, contemplating the venture of whatever secret he seemed to take as truth till today. "Ain't pullin' mae leg?"

"I'm not fucken' juvenile, Soap." He rolls his eyes, unamused with your attempt to pry his words faster.

"Price." You blink fast, not quite sure how the Captain's name has suddenly inserted itself into the conversation.

A frown catches your lips, brows scrunched together. "What about him?"

Soap turns, just halfway so he still has an eye out for further hostiles but he's staring at you too great a deal for it to have any significance.

"... Christ steamin' you're actually serious," he says quietly. He clears his throat, shakes his head. "Well, he's had dibs on you for awhile."

You shoot him a sharp look. "What," you stop, terrifying disappointment rushing through you, heart dipping low in your chest. "Like a bet?"

"No, not a bet—" Soap flounders, eyes flooding with mild horror, disbelief giving way to frustration as he runs a hand from tussled mohawk to stubbled chin. "He looks at you different."

"Oh." You go rigid, holding in your breath, an impulsive smile curling the edges of your mouth. You think of ice and scotch, of blue that swam warmth, of the soft and perfect grin that crinkled his skin.

"Like he wants to fuck me?" You try to make an opening for your feelings to duck under, try to salvage whatever distance you can scavenge away from these horrible, burning, freeing emotions.

He exhales roughly through his nose and it takes you a moment to realize it's an attempt at a laugh. "Like he's an inch away from falling in love with you."

(The proportion of your sin laps at your feet in foams of white and blue. His eyes lined with loss, stolen glances you tuck in the measured space of the dip of your collarbone.

You are a pale comparison, a parody struggling to even survive.

He is a test of your true loyalty learned the hard way, a longing for his mouth on your throat even if it is to tear the flesh open with snarling teeth, an ugly want that echoes with haunting clarity.

Price makes you feel ichor in the paths of your blood, like life is not all endless pain after all. Makes you believe that there is a golden wheat field with marigolds dappled in sunlight waiting for you at the end of the tunnel you've been born into.)

—

"You've been avoiding me, soldier." His voice is laced with a hidden sort of contempt. Thick with malt and some raw wither of liquor that leaves a bubbling desire to taste him linger underneath your flesh.

The harsh wash of the fluorescent light against the dark curtain of the night paints your Captain in dark shadows. It shades the planes of his face, curls over the exposed muscles of his arm in a too-enticing way.

There's a coil of tension in the set of his shoulders and the middle of his brow is scrunched in frustration, as if the thought had been simmering in his mind for more than the time you've been avoiding him like a phantom.

"Have I?" Briefly, he looks amused by your dismissal of his presence, sparing his figure only a glance from the corner of your eye. You distantly acknowledge the fact that he'd crucify you with blue if you gave him more than the smallest semblance of attention.

"Mhmm-hmm." A lazy hint of humor danced around his hum. He crosses his arms together, rests them across the expanse of his chest, leaning ever so slightly against the doorframe. "You have. Mind telling me why you've been delegating your reports to Ghost?"

You laugh. "Why not, Captain? We're both your soldiers at the end of the day." A dark smirk tilts your lips. "Or am I just your favorite?"

He steps forward, the echo of his hard boots sounding like a promise. The sensation of his presence touching your back makes your bones tremble under layers of red, like a beckon to give in to his steady hold.

"Are you teasing me?" His voice is directly by your ear. Your body shudders and now you can feel his huff of laughter as he places his chin over your shoulder. "Or did I do something wrong?"

"Mm," is all you can manage for a moment, letting the warmth of his flesh by your spine drown your guilt. "Soap might've mentioned something to me."

His stature hardens, hand tensing where they've settled over your skin and you know he isn't happy with your response. "What'd the muppet say?"

You glance back at him with a lazy light in your eyes and you wonder if Price was hailed as one of the best with the way he could even soften double agents. Or maybe that was just you. "Willing to play a guessing game with me, Captain?"

He chuckles softly, a brilliant smirk on his lips. "Fuck no," he says. "What'd Soap tell you, Savage?"

Your eyes meet and you draw in a shallow breath. "Something about you liking me."

He curses under his breath, a silent "fucking hell" fanning your ears. You know he sees your grin when he releases his mild horror with a rough groan.

"You don't know what you're saying." His accent crept beneath your skin, laying dangerous roots of a strange mix between adoration and obsession.

"I know exactly what I'm saying," you return, feeling him nuzzle his face in the junction of your neck.

"I'm asking you to fuck me." Your pulse pounds at your throat at the admission.

Price stills at the blunt confession, muscles tightening in his jaw and posture suddenly drawn tight. Lust pushed at you, soaked you fully with a downpour of foggy desire that you were convinced was going to be your undoing.

The sound of the metal of his belt buckle being undone reaches you and it tightens the walls of your chest with excitement. "Give me the word and I'll stop—"

You turn to face him, removing the distance between the two of you, close enough that the tips of your nose brush against each other.

"Mm.." The soft hum of your voice brushes his lips. "Never want you to stop."

(You are bound by duty. Brandished by your country's claim, shackled by homeland with chains that stretch just far enough for desire to creep in.

You are bound by duty. A traitor amidst their ranks, false name and false heart, further from God than you have ever been.

You are bound by duty. The barrel of your gun in your mouth, the taste of metal, the gravity of the end stuffed in your throat.

The truth: You are bound by fear.)

—

"Ready for the mission, love?"

You don't look at him, eyes still closed and catching your breath, taking in the tender ache of your limbs and the sweat matting your skin, but a sly smile tugs at your lips. "John Price, are you really asking me that question after fucking me?"

He breaks out into a smile. "I'm not very good with pillow talk."

There's a touch of vulnerability interwoven in his words, tightly wrapped with a note that pleads your ignorance, no matter how small of a secret it is, no matter how resigned he is to the silly fact.

Whatever the two of you have, hidden behind creaking office doors and compartmentalized beyond four walls, is fresh. Barely a fledgling, just on its first days of spring.

You leave a faint kiss on his pulse point, reveling in his thumb running circles across every patch of skin he can reach, caressing you with a softness that feels impossible with such callused hands. "Finally something you're not good at, John. I was beginning to think you were perfect."

John has a light snort, still gentle when he slides a hand around the back of your neck, careful to not startle you and trigger instincts to flare up. "You know just what to say to make a man feel good about himself, love."

He tilts your head and takes your lips in his, the heat of his mouth scorching as it fills you. The warmth of him shakes your internal balance, messes up the state of equilibrium you thought you'd perfected.

Pulling away, you touch your forehead with his. His face is inches from yours, sapphire eyes framed by long lashes, breaths tangling.

"It's because it's you." He keeps quiet for a solid minute, like the ability to speak dangle tantalizingly on the tip of his tongue. The silence lasts long enough for time to start trickling down much more slowly.

Just as you second guess yourself, doubt creeping into your bone marrow like an intangible infection, he whispers, a strange emotion coloring his words. "Only me, then?"

The truth of it nearly cuts you. "Only ever you."

—

It happens fast. The blink-and-you'll-miss-it type of quick, disconnected white hot flashes of vision that has you scrambling for purchase in the Ukrainian mud.

Your ears ring with the dragging linger of a grenade blast, a pitch near enough to blindside you with the empty echo it sings in your eardrums.

"Soap, fucking hell, are you goddamn hard of hearing?!" The Scot winces, face washed with soot and mud. In between the carved-out bones between your third and fifth rib, guilt breathes its inferno breath.

"Goddamnit, where'd these motherfuckers come from—" it'd been less than thirty seconds, half a minute, for everything to go to bloody shite. The fact of it drove you mad, how easy death came to your front porch and rang the doorbell.

The familiar crackle of "ambush! get outta there!" from your radio still haunts you, Ghost's static-broken message.

"Soap, I told you to scram!" Your fingers curl over the back of his shirt, hauling his massive figure to the direction of where the heli was positioned.

"Savage, what about—"

You cut him off, all sharp snarl and molten hope for a moment you can breathe through the sick mess of sin. "Fuck, Ghost, get this stubborn bastard out of here!"

There is an aching in Soap's eye that burns like fire, desperation curling over his bones and veins. "We're not leaving you!"

"Don't get much of a choice, Soap." You meet his eyes and take in the humanity of living flesh, of the way Soap's blue seems to dim with the acrid smoke of the battlefield. The lines that the shadows draw on him transforms his face to look a little older, haunting currents like an odd mixture of nightmares and dreams.

"Savage! Soap! Where are you?!"

John's voice nearly topples your resolve, seeds in you a want to live beyond this battlefield. It's a dreadful want you know you cannot fulfill— for if anyone was to die as the sun set in the horizon and burned the sky in orange, it was to be you.

Traitorous, vile, liar, you.

"Captain, I'm sending Suds over!" Neither you or Soap listen to the emerging violence of your Captain's voice from the radio, do not listen to the prayers that you've hidden in your magazine, do not listen to anything except the way your lungs creak with a need for air as bullets chase each other's tails as they ricochet off the wall you've hidden yourselves behind.

"Price is gonna kill me when I get there, Savage..." he whispers and it sounds like a pleading. Sounds like "let me stay with you."

You frame an apology with your mouth but it comes out, "You'll make it out alive, Johnny."

—

"We'll come back for you, love." Your breath is knocked out of your lungs by an elbow to your gut, bone digging into your vest and punching a gasp out of your lips.

"I promise, I'll come back for you. Just hold on, alright?" His voice by your earpiece keeps you going, boots bracing for impact, digging into wet mud. You jam the chrome-black metal of your empty gun into the bastard's face. You keep going till you can barely say he's human, rid him of his chance to ever be identified and brought home to his family.

Your stomach burns and your senses numb the pain to ease the strain. You try not to think about the fact that some part of you must be broken now and still you can hear the yells of enemies.

"You just gotta hold on. I lo—"

"You gotta say that to me when you find me, darling," you breathe, wiping a flood of red from your nose.

"Alright, I'll— I'll find you, I promise. Wait for me, okay?" You try to conceive an image of him in your mind, drag out the picture of blue eyes with a casual thought. He's hunched over the radio, bucket hat still on his head, and hands gripping the sleeves of his vest till his knuckles are white.

You smile, pain and sweat bleeding into heartache. "I'll be waiting, John."

—

Three years later, the broken radio taped [Last message received: October 8, 2013] echoes an eternal message in Captain John Price's office:

"I'll be waiting, John."

"I'll be waiting, John."

"I'll be waiting, John."

—

In Ukrainian land, spiraled with darkness and gutters ran red, lies a lab.

In one of the rooms, they have you hooked up to an IV line drugged with a long list of experimental chemicals, wrists and ankles cuffed to a metal chair. The voices around you are muffled, although not incomprehensible, small whispers of a language that sounds discomforting.

There's the awful noise of tubes sucking in liquid and the clinking of cold metal against each other is no more pleasant.

It's familiar, the bite of hot and cold that wars over your body,

On the other side of the room, Makarov smiles as he looks over his experiment.

"What do you remember, prisoner #627?"

Your mind flashes the numbers 141 in bright red letters, pounding against your cerebellum, so headstrong and unwavering that it actually makes your heart rate jump for a quick second.

A ragged pant escapes you, dreading the thought of succumbing into forced sleep again even if you know it's for the better— it's so you can be fixed. But the memory of a thousand needles digging into your skull and bones feels wrong somehow.

It feels wrong despite it being all you know.

"... I.. I am.. currently out of order," you manage to get out between grit teeth, meeting the satisfied eyes of the man you've only come to know as "your creator."

"Good."

You do not expect the needle that plunges itself into the back of your neck.

The scientists place a muzzle around your head to silence your scream.

Prisoner #627, the only experiment that has survived the trials and maintained sanity, codenamed Dog.

[celestialseph]

The Captain - Simon Riley x Sniper!Reader, Wife!Reader

summary: Ghost’s sniper wife (reader) joins Task Force 141 on an op, against his wishes

call sign: Freyja

warning: mentions of violence and death (ofc), blood

Part 2

Keep reading

[celestialseph]

Demon! Bucky coaxing you to bind his immense power to your magic the "old-fashioned way"

Demon! Bucky x Witch! Reader

🔮

"It is how it was done in the days of old, witch," he says with a smirk, crawling his way up your legs as you lie back, your grimoire flipped open by your pillow. You’ve been perusing everything there is to know about having a demon as your familiar for days now and haven’t met much luck.

This is an unusual situation, possibly even unique. Demons are volatile, natural tricksters, famously untrustsworthy. Outstandingly poor choice for a familiar. Yet that is exactly whom you picked as one.

Not any of the safe, traditional choices like the other witches in your coven. Snakes. Cats. Birds. Hellhounds even.

No...you chose one of Satan’s sergeants himself.

You push him off you with a frown. He chuckles, leaning against the wall as he taps his knee in frustration.

It’s not the first time he’s tried and it’s not the first time you’ve turned him down. The demon has been trying to get inside your pants since the moment you’ve summoned him.

If it weren’t for the tether written into the spell, you bet he’d have taken what he wants regardless of how you feel. His irritated glares leave no doubt on that front.

You pick up the grimoire and inspect more of its yellowed pages. Once more, you find nothing contradicting the demon’s claims this is the best way to bind you to him.

"Aren’t there other ways? How about a blood ritual?" you offer, displaying the page explaining how the binding ceremony is performed.

The demon drops a heavy sigh, sending you an impassive glance.

"It can be done...but it wouldn’t be as strong," he murmurs. His electric blue eyes cling to yours as he inquires, brow arching. "Don’t you want to be powerful?"

As you don’t reply, he approaches you, a wicked grin adorning his handsome face. You shrink against the headboard, clutching the book of shadows against your chest.

"You didn’t summon any demon, beautiful witch...you summoned me." His knuckles sweep over your quivering cheek as his orbs flash dangerously. "I know what you want most, and I’ll give it all to you. The world at your feet. Your enemies shuddering at the mere mention of your name. It can all be yours..." A shudder bolts through you as Bucky cocks his head, licking his lips as his gaze travels from your face to your heaving chest. "If you just surrender that pretty body to me."

You mull it over, your mouth pursing reflectively.

Bucky watches you with that infuriating smirk on his face the whole time...as if he already knows he won.

After a long while, you nod. "Okay," you groan. Your fierce gaze slams into the demon’s. He seems undeterred by your annoyance, amused even. "But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way."

He opens his arms, fangs flashing as he smiles. Fear mingles with strange anticipation as the demon sheds his clothes before you.

Your heart hammers against your ribcage as he inches his way up your body, planting delicious kisses over your ankle as you struggle not to moan.

"Of course, little witch. I’m all yours," he mumbles against your skin, his devilish orbs never drifting away from you.

The grimoire slips from your grasp as you fall victim to the throes of pleasure.

🔮

This was a blurb so apologies for typos. No taglist. @straytales is my side blog if you want to know when I drop more chaotic, random writings.

[celestialseph]

pleaseeee write something for eddie x catholic!reader with these prompts “i wanna fuck you right against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it” & “you’re mine”

The party had been in full swing, with many famous metal bands in attendance. It was a house party at a band member’s mansion, and almost every single inch of the house was full of those bands, groupies, girlfriends of members, and others. Corroded Coffin had just played a sold-out show, and one of the bands had opened for them; they had been one of Eddie’s idols for as long as he could remember. The lead singer had invited him and y/n to his home for a party he was throwing, and of course Eddie had accepted. He had expected it to be wild and absolutely insane, but what he DIDN’T expect was all of the flirting that was going to take place.

Heads turned as soon as y/n walked into the house. People recognized her for her own line of work, some even walked up and wanted an autograph from her, others struck up friendly conversation, and Eddie thought that was fine. He was proud of her, he knew that her career path wasn’t one she had in mind but still one she enjoyed. What he had a problem with, however, were the men—and even some women—who were flirting with her and clearly trying to get into her pants. They would hit on her, some would say horribly filthy things, some would touch her, others would attempt to seduce her. Eddie would watch from afar to see how y/n handled it, and she would politely state that she had a fiancé. But then, when she noticed Eddie watching, she would play along with whoever was flirting. Eddie knew it was done on purpose to piss him off, and that he shouldn’t let it affect him, but he couldn’t help it. He growled loudly, downing a shot of whiskey as she leaned into a band member’s touch. The same member brought her in by the small of her back, holding her as he nuzzled against her neck. White hot rage surged through Eddie, and he threw the shot glass down before storming over to them.

“Eddie—“ she began when she saw him, but he didn’t say a word. He pried her from the rock star’s touch, not speaking to him, either, and began to drag y/n toward the house. “Hey! What are you doing?!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took her inside and upstairs, looking into each room until he found an empty one. He didn’t even bother locking it, throwing her against the closed door and kissing her hard. She moaned against him, her arms hooking around the back of his neck as she licked the roof of his mouth. He moaned as well, his hand tangling in her hair as she pressed her body tightly to his. He was still pissed at her, despite the calming effect the kiss had on him; he grabbed her, and began to guide her toward the large bedroom window as their lips were still connected.

“You filthy slut,” he growled, pushing her into the chair that sat in front of the window. “I think I need to show you and everyone else here just who you belong to.”

He turned the chair so that everyone outside could see them. He ripped her panties clean off, discarding the ruined material from under her short black skirt. He knelt in front of her and immediately began devouring her pussy, her moans echoing off the walls as her hands found his hair. He shook his head back and forth rapidly, growling as he did so, his mouth relentlessly working on her as his fingers dug into her thighs. He instructed her to remove her leather jacket and torn tank top she had on underneath, then her bra, and then told her to play with her breasts. He watched her, moaning as she rolled the pierced buds between her fingers, admiring the tattoo of his name that she had gotten a few years ago for his birthday. He observed her through his hair that had fallen into his eyes, sucking & flicking her clit as her moans grew louder and more desperate.

“You wanna cum?” he taunted. “Huh? You wanna soak my fucking face, baby?”

“Mmm hmm,” she whined. “Please, Eddie.”

“I don’t think you deserve it,” he said, pulling away as she whined even louder in protest. “In fact, I think you need to be taught a fucking lesson.”

“No, I….I don’t,” she said, trying to push his head back down.

He slapped her thigh in response, which made her moan even louder. “No. I want you to stand up, and then I want you to face the window. Right now.”

She shot him a glare, and soon a smirk was forming on her lips. “What if I don’t want to? You know, there are people outside that could see us. Really famous people, in fact.”

“That’s the whole point,” Eddie said, grabbing her throat and squeezing slightly as the smirk remained on her face. “i wanna fuck you right against the glass so everyone can see how good you take it.”

“Oh yeah?” y/n asked, standing up while still under Eddie’s grip. “You want them to see me naked? Want them to see you pounding my pussy? Want them to see my tits bouncing as you do it? I know you do. I know that’s what you want; you’re so fucking gross, Eddie.”

“Yeah, well, I never hear you complaining or objecting,” Eddie said.

“I didn’t say I hated it, though,” she said. “Just that you’re disgusting.”

“Get over to the window,” he said. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

He let go of her, and she walked to the window at once. She looked down at the partygoers, all of them engaged in their own activities. Some were singing, some were dancing, some were swimming, some were making out, others were even having sex out in the open. She felt Eddie behind her and she grinned, hearing his zipper coming down and his belt being unbuckled. She felt his cock against her ass, rock hard and ready, and she braced herself as best as she could against the window. He brushed some hair from her neck, kissing it as he sought permission to enter her. Once she gave it, he pushed inside, both of them moaning at the sensation. Her lashes fluttered and his mouth clamped on her shoulder, trying to will himself not to cum so soon as he started thrusting hard & fast immediately.

“Fuck, if they could see you right now,” he said. “Prime time TV’s newest star, getting her brains fucked out against a window. The press would have a field day, wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t care,” she panted, moaning as he started thrusting sharply against her g-spot. She was groaning filthily, her eyes rolling back as he pounded into her. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“You don’t?” Eddie asked. “You wouldn’t care if they saw us?”

“I don’t care WHO sees us,” she said, watching everyone below. “I hope they all stop to watch.”

“You’re such a naughty whore,” he said, moaning as his cock twitched inside of her. “So fucking depraved.”

“Shut up,” she said. “So are you.”

“Not as much as you are,” he replied, reaching around to squeeze her breasts before wrapping her hair around his hand. He yanked her head up, pressing her body against the sturdy glass before fucking her as deeply as he could. “I fucking love your pussy. You always get so wet for me, and the way you clench? As if you’re always on the verge of cumming? You’re so goddamn addictive.”

“Maybe one of those other rock stars down there would agree with you,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder. “I overheard one of them saying he wanted to fuck me.”

“No, you didn’t,” Eddie said. “You’re just saying that to piss me off more.”

“No, I’m serious,” she said, feigning an innocent look. “Would I ever lie to you?”

“Yes,” Eddie replied. “All the time, when you want me to be rough like this.”

“He told me he jerks off every week when he watches my show,” she told him. “He said that he wanted to make it a reality, but I said that I’m happily engaged.”

“You did, huh?” Eddie asked, smacking her ass as hard as he could. “Or did you flirt back with him, just to spite me?”

“I’d never do that,” she said, batting her lashes at him. “Not me.”

“Let’s get one thing perfectly. Fucking. Clear,” he said, thrusting even more sharply and speaking over her loud moans with every word. “You’re mine. You always have been, and you always will be. If they want a fight, I’ll give them a fight; I don’t give a fuck. Where you’re concerned, I’ll always be willing to do it. I won’t tolerate these little games, and I won’t tolerate them flirting with you in front of me. You didn’t like it when those groupies were hitting on me, you got pissed at me for two days when one of them flashed their tits at me during a gig, and you’re going to flirt with other men in front of me? That’s hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “You like it when I get possessive over you. You told me I give better blowjobs and fuck better when I’m mad at you.”

“No, I said you’re insane in bed when you’re jealous,” he said, thrusting harder as he began marking up her neck and shoulders with hickeys. “Which is true. You’re always a good fuck, baby; you’re just wilder than usual when you’re pissed.”

“Eddie…” she moaned, smiling when she saw their little show was getting an audience. People were looking up, some of the men were cheering, and the girls were looking either jealous or were enjoying it themselves. “Look who’s watching us.”

“Fuck,” he hissed, grabbing her shoulders and plowing into her even harder. “You gonna cum for me, baby? You gonna let them see what a disgusting slut you are?”

“Yes,” she moaned, panting as he bent her over further. He waved at everyone below, grinning smugly as he did so. He was aware of the audience in the hallway as well, for he could hear voices just outside, talking about what was going on. “Eddie, please…Please…”

“That’s it,” he praised, seating himself deep and giving several shallow thrusts into her sweet spot. “Keep saying my name. Let all those fuckers know just who you belong to.”

——-

mini taglist: @littledemondani @andvys @wroteclassicaly @boldlyvoid @corrodedcorpses @munsonsbelova @persephonevlahos @sunkillerdreamer @hbaramas @courtingchaos @littleredpartydresson

————-

mini taglist: @littledemondani @andvys @wroteclassicaly @boldlyvoid @corrodedcorpses @munsonsbelova @persephonevlahos @sunkillerdreamer @hbaramas @courtingchaos @littleredpartydresson

———-

mini taglist: @littledemondani @andvys @wroteclassicaly @boldlyvoid @corrodedcorpses @munsonsbelova @persephonevlahos @sunkillerdreamer @hbaramas @courtingchaos @littleredpartydresson

[celestialseph]

Pilot!Reader x TF 141

Friendship Headcanons

Warnings: cursing

Words spread like fire about your amazing skills in the air. Every team that got assigned to you and your helicopter comes back home safe and sound.

Captain Price demands your transfer to his team after you had the honor to do a mission with the Task Force 141. He only chooses the best of the best to work with.

“John! You can’t demand every good soldier I have for your team.” – “Laswell, I can and I will~”

Needless to say, but Laswell is more than pissed since you are one of the best pilots if not the best pilot on the base, but Price always get what he wants.

With your quite sassy and funny demeanor you win the hearts of the tough men rather quickly.

“Dear Task Force 141, this is your pilot speaking. If you look to the right side of the helicopter you can see Eagle 3 challenging us to a race. So, please keep seated and hold on for dear life because shit is about to get real~”

The team making bets between you and the other pilot of Eagle 3. In the end, you always win.

At first the team makes fun of you naming your helicopter Valkyrie, but after a little nosedive after a hard mission they stop very quickly. They really made the mistake of underestimating you and your helicopter.

Valkyrie actually was ready to be dropped out from the military due to old age. It was love on first sight for you. It took weeks to convince Laswell but, in the end, you got the old birdy and brought her back to her glory. It came in handy that you are literally blessed with a mechanic soul.

In your free time you love to try out new things to improve Valkyrie for the next mission. Gaz really wants to help every time, but ends up standing in the way most of the time.

“Can you give me the screwdriver for the Fillister Head screws?” – “Uh…. this one?” – “Nope, there most be another one.” – “This one?” – “… You know, Gaz, the windows are in need for a good cleaning. Could you do that for me?”

You hit him with the puppy eyes and Gaz goes to clean the windows like you asked. In the end he is just happy to be there with you :)

Soap is really fascinated with the weapons Valkyrie carries for the missions. You always take your time to explain and show him everything. Here and there he is also allowed to help you out during missions to kill a few of the enemies. That makes him literally so happy like a little boy in the candy shop.

Nevertheless, you use every single chance to mess with Soap. Sometimes Price joins you just for the fun of it.

“Get away from my baby, Soap.” – “I’m not doing anything!” – “You are way too close and I don’t like how you look at her.” – “What the hell?” – “Do what (Y/N) says, Soap!” – “But, Captain!” – “No buts.”

Gaz and Ghost know exactly what is going on and try to hold in their snickering.

With you there is literally not a single dull moment before, during and after missions. The boys love and life for those moments.

Once you left behind one of the soldiers because he got on your nerves before take-off.

“Eagle 2, where are you going?” – “Uh, Urzikstan.” – “You forgot one of the soldiers. He’s banging on the window here.” – “Yeah, we kind of had a fight and he’s an asshole so I kind of had to kick him out. I’m sure Eagle 3 has enough space for him.” – “Eagle 2, you can’t do that. Cancel takeoff clearance!” – “Oops, I accidentally put the throttles to TO/GA. See you later alligator~”

Or the other time on the way back to the base.

„Watcher 1, we request medical at the gate. Uh, we beat up another stowaway…” – “Eagle 2… YOU DID WHAT?!” – “Uh… yeah, we found him halfway back to base and he refused to leave the helicopter so we beat him up and tied him like a present gift on Christmas morning…” – “I am not dealing with this! Land like always and contact ground for medical aid.”

To Laswell’s displeasure you take your sweet time after missions to come back to the base. Here and there you make a little stop at the next fast-food chain.

���I think the drive-through will not do it. Someone has to go out and order at the counter…”

Those encounters with Laswell over the comm create a quite close bond between the two of you over the time.

“Look, who’s back!” – “Don’t even say it, Watcher 1.” – “You were supposed to land five hours ago?!” – “You should be happy we came here at all~” – “How about you land on time for once. That’ll make me happy.” – “We got burgers. Do you want one?” – “YOU GOT WHAT, EAGLE 2?!” – “Burgers…” – “… You will be the death of me … Get them over here fast, Eagle 2.”

Of course, Kate would never admit it out loud that you are her favorite pilot.

“Oh, Eagle 2!” – “Shut up and let me concentrate!” – “Five hours late again. At least butter this landing.” – “We are not Eagle 3. At least we know how to land.” – “Let’s learn how to come in on time next… Did you secure the goods?” – “Sure, Watcher 1. Your usual order coming right to you~”

Captain Price lost count how often you saved their lives with Valkyrie. They trust you blind and know you would do anything to bring them back home. But during one special mission you show how the team really mean to you.

“(Y/N)! We need air support! We can’t get to the evac point!”, the team needs your help, but you ran out of ammo a few minutes ago. You know exactly that they won’t make it without your help. This is the hardest and easiest decision at the same time you have to make.

“It was a good time we had together, Valkyrie”, you say your goodbye to the helicopter before you let crash your baby into the pack of enemies.

“NO! (Y/N)!”, the men are devastated to see Valkyrie go down knowing exactly you must be in the helicopter. Their hearts shatter. They couldn’t save you.

“Boys, come on! We need to be at the evac point in five minutes. Eagle 3 will get us!”, you stumble around the house corner quite out of breath. “You are alive!”, they can’t believe their eyes.

“Not much longer!”, you grab the first one by the hand to drag them into the direction where Eagle 3 will collect you. Once in the helicopter you are all safe and sound for now and on the way back to the base.

“(Y/N) … you crashed Valkyrie … for us?”, Gaz looks at you with his big puppy eyes. You only shrug with your shoulder not trying to think about the helicopter trashed into thousand pieces, “I really don’t want to talk about her.”

It might sound strange, but you are mourning Valkyrie like the helicopter would have been a real soldier. You had spent so much time with her. She was part of your family.

Of course, the team would make it up to you as good as they can. So, one day Gaz comes up to you with a blindfold, “Put it on.” You shake your head immediately, “Not for anything in this world.”

He defeats you with your own weapons. The puppy eyes. You put the blindfold on and get dragged over the whole base until you lose track of where you are actually going. “Oh my god, Gaz! I’m getting really sick.”

“TADA!”, he pulls down the blindfold. For a second you were blinded from the sunshine, but then it hits you. “We can’t give you Valkyrie back, but how about Valkyrie II!”, Soap exclaims pointing at the new helicopter. The whole team looks so damn proud of themselves for gifting you an even better helicopter.

“Thank you, boys. You are too sweet”, you get wrapped up in a big bear hug. “So, you know, Laswell doesn’t want you to know she gave us the money to purchase the new helicopter”, Price tells you with a smile on his lips.

“I chose the interior of the helicopter and the color!”, Gaz exclaims and points at Valkyrie II.

“I was responsible for the weapons! I can show you everything!”, Soap adds.

“I coordinated everything”, Price shrugs his shoulders.

You look at Ghost. He holds up an air freshener, “I want it to smell good.”

[celestialseph]

press the gas and ride

gif by @riley-keoughs pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader (nicknamed Dolly) word count: 2.4k+ summary: comfort in a car warnings: hurt/comfort. smut. angst. A/N: this takes place a month after teacups, but no need to read. tlou ep 3 spoilers. this is really just trash smut. Joel Miller Masterlist

She watched Joel's expression buckle as he read the letter. His brow furrowed, the muscle in his jaw tensing. She looked away, suddenly feeling intrusive. She'd never come here with Joel. His trips to Bill were semi-frequent, but this was the first time he’d brought her. Of course, he hadn't expected this. He hadn't thought they'd be walking into a dead house. 

The fresh air through the open front door bullied the stench of rotten meat and vegetables. The dinner on the table buzzed with flies. There were starched, ironed napkins folded in triangles with lovely patterns of woodland creatures. She traced the tiny squirrel sewed into the fabric before studying the label on the wine bottle. She was intent on busying herself. She wanted to give Joel space, but he'd been more paranoid than usual since the attack a month ago. 

I don't want you out of my sight.

She hadn't stopped aching. Brutal. Horrible. She'd slaughtered two people, and her mind continued to spin with the memories of it. She was unable to remove the taste of blood from her tongue. She could not unhear the shuddering death rattle or unfeel the way the man beneath her had wriggled and then spasmed like an electrocuted rodent.  

Joel had also seemingly lost his cool that night. After he'd tucked her into bed, she'd heard him smashing up the first floor. In the morning, he'd refused to let her see what he had done and when she fell apart again (in the safety of their QZ apartment), Joel wouldn't have it.

He'd crouched so they could be eye-level, large hand cupping the back of her skull. "They got what they deserved. Nothin' more than that."

He was right, but teaching her head to stop was easier said than done. 

She scanned the dining room before settling on the mahogany cabinet full of delicate china. When she noticed the powder blue and white teacups, she winced. She couldn't escape it. Everything triggered her. She needed to learn to grow up and out of her pain because it wouldn't serve her and certainly not Joel. He bulldozed through everything, and she had to follow suit. 

Joel cleared his throat. He had stopped reading and was staring out the window, far away. She intended to bring him back to shore. 

"They have a car?" she asked, and Joel's eyes swept toward her. Inscrutable. 

"Yeah." He scraped a hand over his mouth. "Yeah."

***

Joel guided her to a guest room, instructing her to clean up and be ready in an hour.

He'd found her a box of women's clothes that she happily dug through. The very idea of new outfits felt celebratory- even if they smelled a bit stale.

The musty fabric reminded her of her grandmother's closets. She'd used to hide behind the wool coats and leather shoes, toes snug in the sea-green carpet. She'd get light-headed on mothballs. 

Her family was gone. A long time gone.

She supposed Joel was the only person who really gave a shit about her well-being. If she died, he’d have the memory of her, at least. She wouldn’t be dust.

After she showered, she yanked on a sundress and sneakers. Joel would undoubtedly say something, but she was past caring. She stared at herself in the mirror, petting the floral-print bodice. She twisted side to side, the breeze from the open window licking between her legs and under her arms. 

She thought of Bill and Frank in the next room and abruptly stopped. Morbid. Strange to be so fine rummaging through a house when two dead men were feet away. Their window was open, too, and she wondered if the sweet brush of cool air had cradled them into the next life. She stepped forward, pressing her ear against the wood. She listened, tapping her fingertips over the wallpaper. 

Silence. She tapped again. Waiting.

"What are you doing?"

She whirled around to find Joel standing in the doorway with a towel around his waist. He'd combed his wet hair back, but a single strand boyishly drifted over his forehead. The scars across his torso gleamed white under the naked afternoon sun.

"Nothing." She shifted her weight, the dress swishing with her. 

He frowned as he scrutinized her outfit. "You can't wear that."

"Because?"

"Because you can't do shit in a dress that short," he replied flatly. 

She put her hands on her hips. "Can I just wear this today? It's-fuck-it's the prettiest thing I've worn since-since I don't know." She averted her eyes, feeling childish at her reasoning.

Because I want to be beautiful for once. I want to look beautiful for you and not covered in grime, blood, and jeans, two sizes too big. 

The expression on Joel's face flickered between irritated and puzzled. She thought he might stride across the room and tear it off her. 

Once in a while, he'd give her shit about things like this-pecking at her for enjoying luxuries that didn't exist anymore. He'd call her a spoiled brat when he really wanted to tick her off. Instinctively, she knew he was doing it, so she'd snap at him, deal him back with a rough hand. 

He always won and she assumed he’d win here, as well.

She expected him to say no, but he took a breath instead. Running his hand across his chest, he massaged an old bullet wound hidden in the sparse hair before turning back into the hall. White flag. 

Then, his voice pitched so low it grazed the floor. "Fine."

***

The letter must have softened him. Repeatedly punched him until he was a tender, pliant piece of meat. He hadn't even twitched when she snatched two guns too massive for her off the basement wall or smuggled a box of wine into the car.

His hands scraped over the steering wheel when he slid into the front seat. He stared blankly at the dash and then the manicured driveway. The grass was just beginning to creep away from the lawn, encroaching onto the asphalt. 

She wasn't sure how to deal with this. He usually seemed to take death in stride. His grief was like a chalky, oversized pill, but he swallowed it nonetheless. He'd made it clear that he didn't even like Bill yet...

"I'm sorry," she offered.

"Take your feet off the dash," he ordered stiffly.

She scowled but did as she was told, figuring she didn't need to push Joel Miller’s buttons again today. She settled into her seat, hands prim in her lap as she waited for him to begin driving.

He didn't. 

He continued to sit silently, seemingly unable to turn the car on. The hand around the steering wheel tightened, his scabbed knuckles flexing and paling beneath the windshield. His nostrils flared, and she suddenly knew:

He was going to crack. He was going to burst down the middle, and he needed her. 

Abruptly, she crawled over the console, gripping him by the lapels of his button-up to balance her weight. The fresh clothes looked good on him-the plaid green shirt fit his broad frame like a glove. She nearly toppled into the door before he grasped her wrist roughly. “What are you-"

"Shh," she murmured, straddling his lap. He stared at her. 

Joel wore his grief in the creases of his face. His pain. His anger. He was beautiful to her. Sexy in a way that couldn't be understood. Older, too. Older than any man she'd ever had before, but it wasn't like she'd had that many men, to begin with. 

"I'm here," she whispered, her thighs squeezing around his own. His mouth parted, exhaling. 

She wondered what undercurrents ran beneath his skin-his armor. What did he think about? How did he see her? 

She lifted herself onto her knees, and Joel's hands automatically seized her hips. Unbuttoning his jeans, she tugged the zipper down, and his eyes found hers. Good. Coyly, she licked her palm before gripping his half-hard cock. She stroked him slow, glancing down to watch the blush-red head disappear in the circle of her fist. He shuddered, hips lifting a few inches off the leather seat. 

She intended to be fast about this. Pleasurable consolation was a language she knew Joel understood. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” she said and he shivered under her touch. He remained silent as the grave though his eyes never left hers. Perhaps, he was struck dumb by her forwardness.

She clutched his shoulder as she braced herself before sinking down and guiding him into the heat of her cunt. She'd worn the sun dress for a reason. 

Joel made a gritty, strangled noise as she took him to the hilt, lowering herself until his thighs were flush with her ass. The band of his jeans grazed her skin, the metal of the zipper catching flesh. His nostrils flared as she tightened, walls spasming because he was always a little too big. 

Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, forcing his face against her chest. He sighed deeply as she rocked forward, his fingers biting into her waist. It could hardly be called a fuck, just her grinding down and him pushing his cock upward until he couldn't claim another centimeter. 

She cradled the back of his skull, rooting her nose around his damp hair that smelled like clover and a scent she recalled from before - something generic and artificial like Irish Spring. 

Finding leverage was proving difficult, but she did her best. She rose up, keeping him halfway inside her before sliding down. Repeat. In her defense, she’d never fucked anyone in a car before.

One of her hands snuck out the open window to grasp the top of the car. It was dusty, and she had this ridiculous worry that maybe someone would crawl into the garage and bite her hand. She ripped it back to cup the side of Joel's face instead. His mouth twitched, his lids heavy like he was drunk and dazed. He didn't even care she had smeared old car dust into his beard. He'd have to shower again. She would, too, and she wanted to laugh at the strange coincidence of paving new roads in their relationship through hot showers. After all, he'd wrenched her away from a panic attack in that house outside Boston. He'd held her in the shower, mouth brushing her ear.

"You did a hell of a job."

"You did so fuckin' well, sweetheart."

She swelled from the memory of Joel's praise. She wanted to pay him back.

"I've got you," she murmured against his temple, nails tracing a line across his scalp through his thick damp grays. "I've got you, Joel."

He nodded-or she thought he did. His gestures were always so vague. Sometimes he'd hold her down and fuck her brains out while telling her how much he wanted to kill her for being stupid and acting recklessly. It would then always end with him possessively clutching her body to his.

You send mixed signals, Joel. 

What?

You said you wanted to kill me, and now you won't let me go.

I never said that. 

She felt him twitch inside her, his mouth dragging across her clavicle before he abruptly shoved the top of her dress down and latched to her nipple. He sucked it, tongue darting over the nub and causing her pussy to clench around his length.

"Sweetheart," he mumbled. 

"I know," she said. 

Their grief sat between them - a weight strung about their ankles, dragging them down to the deepest parts of whatever was left. She knew blips of his pain as he knew hers. He comforted her in the ways he understood, not necessarily with words but with actions. She could do that for him now, remind him that he had her.

She rolled her hips, and he groaned, his breath puffing against her sternum. She snagged him tighter and dug her grip into his skin like she was holding fast to a rock in a riptide. The car was so small, the steering wheel bumping against her lower back, and you could hear everything.

The rustle of fabric. The squelch of her sex and slap of skin. 

Finally, Joel planted his feet and began to drive up into her. Short, fast strokes that hit just right. It almost hurt. It gave her a belly ache, but everything else fell away. The car filled with his low, subdued grunts and her whimpers. 

He secured his arms around her waist, one hand sneaking to the base of her scalp to embed his thumb into the muscle beneath her ear. They were tangled in such a way that it would have looked like anything - they could be devouring each other, feasting on the other's throats as they fucked fast and sad.

Somewhere along the way, Joel tilted his head and demanded her mouth.

He kissed her fiercely, tongue hot and aggressive as it wrestled with hers. Exploring. "Baby," he sighed against her slippery teeth. "Fuck."

Joel, her man of few words, but just the right ones. She still didn't call him anything but his name. Nothing else fit him.

"Shit," she gasped as he delivered a harsh thrust. Stay with me. Stay focused.

Her climax paraded around her belly, kicking up dirt and shouting out toward a faceless crowd. It was turning in circles, unable to find the finish line. He was screwing her tectonic plate deep, but the friction wasn't enough for her to get off. It didn't matter. This was about him. Not her. 

He gripped her hip and shoved her down before spearing up, grinding in slow, determined circles. He left her mouth to find her throat, sucking methodically at her pulse. 

It didn't take too long after that. He grumbled something into her jaw (maybe, Dolly) before his hips stuttered beneath her. She felt him fill her, warmth blooming outward. She'd have to deal with that, but for now, she worshiped him. He lifted his face, flushed from exertion - golden, bright, and devastating as his dark eyes searched hers.

“You’re good,” she praised, pressing her lips to his chin.

When she crawled off his lap, she was sticky between her legs. He huffed, tugging at the edge of her dress as if trying to hide her modesty. 

No one's around here, Joel.

No one. It's you, and it's me. It's us. 

She was sore as fuck, like she'd been smacked in the crotch. Her orgasm was lost somewhere, hanging by a few threads, but she didn't want it. Instead, she craved the longing-the lingering frustration of her missed pleasure. She brushed her hair out of her face and smoothed her dress.

"That was-"

She was hauled back over to him. Their brows bumped, noses jamming together before Joel kissed her hard. When he finally pulled away, he asked, "You feel safe with me?"

"What kind of question-

"You feel safe with me?" he urged, hands seizing her cheeks. She wondered if it had something to do with what had happened at that house a month ago. The teacup house. Or was this because of what had been written in that letter beyond Bill and Frank's goodbyes?

She felt that if she probed, he would splinter. It wasn't her business. She told him the truth. 

Smiling, she placed her hand over his. "Yes," she assured him. "I always feel safe with you."

Joel took a breath, nodding once, before pulling away. He stabbed the keys into the ignition, twisting them north, and the car rumbled to life.

When they left the garage, she watched the walls creep over him again. 

[celestialseph]

big dick Harrington helping you take his full length for the first time 😈

sigh yeah )):

warnings: car sex, big dicks, dirty talk, filth

“c’mon, babe. you can do it, m’not gonna hurt you, promise,” he’s got you pressed up tight in the back seat of the beemer, laying on his back whilst you hover all prettily over the tip of his cock. he’s holding it there, steady, waiting for you to try and sink down — he senses your hesitation, your nerves. he gets it, too. he’s huge, bigger than most and definitely bigger than anyone you’d ever fucked before.

you can’t help but watch, where the mushroom head slips in between your folds and bumps your entrance. and there’s so much of him still to go, how’s he gonna fit? you know steve’s smug about it too, the way he’s grinning at you like the cat that got the cream, furrowing his brows when you finally sink down onto just the head, eliciting a sweet, breathy little moan from him.

“that’s it, baby,” he breathes, and you sink down an inch or two further, struggling to catch your breath — you feel full already. know you have more to go, and you whine, thighs shaking and tummy quivering. he lets go of the base of his cock, grabs you by the hips, “here, let me?”

you nod. let him pull you down on his cock until you’re impaled on it and wailing, the curve of the head pressed snug into your spongey spot. tears prick at your eyes as you struggle to adjust, whole body giving out and going lax under his touch, “please, steve, fuck me—!” you cry, sucking in a breath when he wraps his arms around your back, tugs you down until your chests are flush, fucks up into your wet cunt.

“feel so good, holy shit,” he grunts, hips pistoning into you from below, creating the sickest, dirtiest slapping sounds in the car. it creeks and shakes, what you’re doing would be clear as day to any passers by if they saw you, and the thought makes you clench around him, has him groaning and chuckling into your ear, “fuck yeah, that’s it baby, milk my big cock with your little pussy, c’mon,”

your fingers dig into his chest, unable to grasp properly for purchase anywhere else as your senses are invaded by him, his words, his moans, his cock, his tan skin. tears prick at your eyes and you come unexpectedly, gushing hot all over his length and making everything impossibly wetter.

“so wet, so — fuck, so good, so good,” steve babbles, eyes rolling into the back of his head, neck straining as he comes hot in your cunt, cock pulsing so hard you feel every bit of it as he stains your walls with his release.

[celestialseph]

Steve refuses to tell the kids his middle name. He’s fights them off after El figures out that middle names are a thing and demands everyone to tell her if they have one. And usually when it comes to El, Steve gives in immediately. But he just knows this information will come back to bite him in the ass. So he refuses.

But then they go to Nancy trying to pry the information out of her, but she reveals that she has no idea what it is - ouch but what a relief. Next up is Robin who also reveals she has no idea, and then she joins in on trying to get it out of him.

With the girls on their side, Steve is slightly terrified, but still unwilling to give up the information. He thinks they’ll let it go… but then they’re showing up at his house suspiciously only for Steve to find out that they’re trying to find his birth certificate. That’s when Eddie gets roped into things.

And the thing about Eddie is that he’s curious of course. What could Steve’s middle name possibly be which is so horrendous he won’t even tell Robin? But he respects the man’s privacy. If he wants to keep it to himself then so be it… But Eddie wants to know.

So he starts developing his own plans - without telling the kids or the girls. He thinks getting Steve drunk or high off his ass is probably a bit too manipulative. But maybe he can gain the guy’s trust.

So he starts coming along, pretending like he’s going to help as the kids dig and dig for the information. Steve is always somehow there, even when the kids start looking through the records at the library because some of them needed a ride. But Eddie sticks with Steve, talking to him about anything other than his name - the kids are convinced that Eddie is doing a great job distracting Steve.

And maybe he is, but he slowly forgets any type of ulterior motives when he’s talking to Steve. It’s a blessing and a curse being in the presence of the man.

But then it happens. Steve casually invites Eddie to hang out sometime, and that’s exactly when Eddie will bring up the middle name thing.

When the day comes, Eddie finds himself thoroughly distracted by Steve’s thigh which is pressing against his while they watch a movie. And there’s a large space next to Steve on the couch, but he chose to sit where his is now. It’s a big deal really.

“I’m gonna grab a Coke, do you want anything?”

Eddie asks for a Coke as well, hoping it serves as something to ground him as he hangs out alone with Steve Something Harrington. That’s the moment he remembers the plan. Shit, he’s supposed to be asking him stuff that casually leads to the reveal of his middle name. Easy.

No it isn’t. How the hell is he going to… Eddie glances at the coffee table in front of them to find… Steve’s wallet. Steve’s wallet containing his driver’s license. Steve’s wallet containing his driver’s license containing his full government name.

Oh this is good. This is really good. How have the kids not managed to think of this yet?

Eddie quickly snatches the wallet, opening it to find the driver’s license in a clear pocket. Okay, time to finally learn what’s been gnawing at his brain for days now, and then he’ll never have to tell Steve about it. Ever.

He squints his eyes and reads the name. Then he rereads it. Then he rereads it again.

Steven Edward Harrington

“Edward?!” Eddie yells, cringing at the fact he’s saying his government name.

Steve races into the room, two Cokes in hand and eyes wide as can be. Eddie doesn’t even have time to hide the wallet or any evidence of what he’s been doing. Well. Shit.

“Of course you were on their side,” Steve sighs, a look of betrayal crosses his face. Eddie’s gut twists.

“No, no. Okay, I’ll admit that I was curious, but I was going to find out and just put that secret away in my brain forever. But is my name really so bad?”

Steve turns a bit red as he admits, “I wasn’t hiding it for that reason.”

“Then what are you hiding it for?”

“Because… because…” He sets the two soda cans down with a thud before blurting out, “I thought you’d be making a bigger deal out of it! I thought the kids would make jokes about me having your name. Or you would tell me something along the lines of ‘You already have my middle name, why not take me last name?’ And I was not prepared to deal with that!” Steve rushes out, a hand runs through his hair before he settles his hands on his hips.

That… definitely wasn’t what Eddie was expecting but he can’t help but flirt, “You’re putting words in my mouth, sweetheart, but I can say them if you’d like.”

Steve sighs and points at him. “Exactly that! It just makes me get feel so…”

Eddie tenses up and quietly questions, “Disgusted?”

“Flustered!” Steve replies instantly.

It takes him a moment to process, but then Eddie is standing up and making his way over to Steve with a smile. “I make Steven Edward Harrington flustered?”

Steve rolls his eyes but the small smile and blush rising to his cheeks give him away. “I’m going to change my name,” Steve states.

“And take my last name?” Eddie teases, and Steve lightly shoves at him.

“Buy me dinner first, Edward.”

“How about a kiss first?” Eddie asks with an obnoxiously large grin. It’s immediately wiped when Steve leans in, and Eddie’s eyes flutter shut.

“I’m not that easy,” Steve whispers so close that his lips brush against Eddie’s before he pulls away. “Come on, let’s finish the movie.”

When Eddie’s feet are able to move again, he finds himself sitting even closer to Steve than before, but this time Steve’s hand curling around his is the most distracting thing besides the thought that Steven Edward Munson has a nice ring to it.

[celestialseph]

The Best Lies

Summary: After you join the 141, Ghost does everything he can to fight his growing feelings for you. But during a night out with you, he finds it harder and harder to ignore.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 5.9k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only, mdni!)

Warnings: a little angst, Ghost agonizes over having feelings, canon-level violence, blood, alcohol/drinking, kissing, semi-public dry humping, fingering, unprotected p-in-v sex (you know the drill, wrap it y'all), secret relationship

A/N: This truly is 50% Ghost trying to ignore the fact that he's down bad and 50% depraved smut. Writing Ghost losing his mind over having feelings is truly so fun. I hope you all enjoy!

Illicit Indulgences Series Masterlist

Ghost had convinced himself that he had done more than just nip his issue at the bud. He thought he had pulled it out by the roots and set it aflame, never to bother him again. 

And why would he think otherwise? He had done that same thing time and time again, and it had always worked. This time, he thought, would be no different. He had washed his hands of the issue and could continue on like before. 

The problem was that he was dead wrong. This time was different. 

You were different. 

You were the newest member of the 141, a sniper and one of the best hand-to-hand combat specialists he had ever seen. You were a strong woman who fought hard and fast, with an eye for precision. Price had been trying to get you onto the team for months, telling Ghost that he was convinced you were the perfect addition. Price had been right; you were perfect. You fit right in with the guys, kept up with their banter, and were as tough as nails. When you worked, you had a focus that was so zeroed-in that Soap and Gaz had started to liken you to Ghost. 

By all means, you were the best addition to the team that they could have asked for. You weren’t the problem. Ghost was the problem. 

What had started as a small acknowledgment of your attractiveness had slowly grown into something more. It was your quick sarcastic quips that battled with his own, your soothing demeanor and featherlight touch as you patched him up, your ability to make a terrible situation seem better than it was - the list went on. There was something there between the two of you, a connection that he had never experienced before. No, his attraction wasn’t just surface-level, it was something deeper. 

It was something that he wasn’t supposed to feel - on many levels. 

Ghost never got involved, period. He could acknowledge when a woman was attractive, have a night where he gave in to the physical aspect of it, but it never grew to anything. He didn’t let it. He would dispose of those feelings as soon as he registered them. In his line of work and in his experience, feelings were a liability - a luxury that he would always pay the price for. They complicated everything and unusually ended in pain. In short, they were a weakness that needed to be disposed of. 

What was more, you were his subordinate, his teammate. He was a professional, he never let himself feel anything like that for his subordinates. Hell, he barely even had what could be classified as friendships with his subordinates. Soap and Gaz had been the first he had ever shown his face to, and that was after fighting by their side for years. 

The bottom line was that Ghost didn’t let himself get distracted, much less get distracted by a subordinate who was just doing her bloody job. Yet, in a few short months, you had flipped everything Ghost thought about himself on its head. It was disorienting. 

Once he realized what was happening to him, he tried to put a stop to it. He worked with you when he had to, interacted with you when he had to, but besides that, he largely steered clear of you. Whether it was downtime at the base or a night out with the other 141 guys, if you were there, Ghost wasn’t. It was the only solution he had. 

If only it had worked. 

Even staying clear of you couldn’t stop the spread of whatever had taken hold of him. He slipped one day, imagining what your lips would feel like against his while you talked to Price, barely even realizing that he had been staring at your lips the entire time. Not too long after that, you had tried to get his attention while on an assignment, opting to whisper a low, breathless “Ghost!” into the comm. Going straight to the comm in his right ear, the low drawl of his name from your lips was almost like a siren’s call, sending a shiver racing down his spine as he responded back to you. Another day, he caught a glimpse of you training with Soap, watching as you passed his guard and kneeled between his legs as you continued to fight. The sight shouldn’t have sent his blood boiling or sent his thoughts straight into the gutter - you were just training. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw you look up at him as he swiftly left the training room, your piercing gaze following him as you helped Soap up from the floor. 

He didn’t feel anything for you. He didn’t feel anything for you. He repeated it like a mantra, like he could make it come true if only he said it enough, with enough conviction.

So why did he still have a knot in his chest every time he saw you? Every time you spoke through the comms directly into his ear, your voice strong and smooth as honey? Every time your eyes locked with his, an unreadable expression on your face?

He didn’t feel anything for you. He almost made himself believe it.

“Styx, get the fuck out of here!” He bellowed at you. “Leave me! That’s an order!”

It was a stealth job gone south nearly a year and a half after you joined the team, their intel leading them into a pretty nasty situation. Almost everyone had long retreated to safety. 

Ghost was hit, blood streaming from his right thigh. The bullet was still in the wound, making it bad enough to where he could barely put weight on it, considerably slowing down the two of you. He was a liability now, putting you both at risk of being killed or captured. You stayed with him nonetheless, shoulders set with determination. 

“Like hell,” you scoffed as you crouched down to where Ghost sat. Your face was dirty from the fight, your clothes scuffed and torn with a slice cutting through your sleeve from a bullet graze. He tried to push you away, continuing to order you to fall back with the others, but you refused, your burning gaze snapping up to meet his. “Either I get you out of here or we keep bickering right here until they find us and kill us! Your choice.”

Of course you wouldn’t leave him behind. It’s who you were. It’s what made you you, even if it was infuriating to Ghost. Even if he would have done the exact same thing you were if it was you with a bullet wound instead of him. 

His head starting to go fuzzy from the blood loss, his focus wavered.

“Hey,” you called, snapping your fingers in front of him before you started to check his wound. “Eyes on me, Ghost. Stay with me.”

After examining his thigh, you clicked your tongue before finally deciding that the makeshift bandage he had fashioned would be enough to suffice for now. 

Ghost let out a groan, finally letting you pull him up and wrap one of his arms around your shoulders. You took some of his weight, helping him limp a little faster now. He was putting you in more danger, that he knew. If you would’ve just listened to him, your chances of going undetected and making it out of there would’ve been drastically higher. But your grip on the strap of his belt to help ease the weight off of his leg was firm, refusing to let him go.

That same feeling nagged in the back of his mind as you dragged him with you, the blood loss making it harder to ignore the thoughts that he usually shoved down. 

You murmured words of encouragement to him as you walked for what felt like a lifetime.  “Come on, big guy, just a little more. Just a little faster.”

Ghost huffed a small laugh. He was in a haze now, letting words slip past his lips that he would normally have guarded against. “Can’t be sayin’ stuff like that, love. Might give a man the wrong idea.”

Your head snapped to look at him, surprise written in the pinch of your brows. Ghost found enough clarity then to shut up, the reality of what he had just said slowly setting in. Not only had he voiced a sentiment he had barely been willing to admit to himself, he had voiced it to you. 

You examined him for a moment with a confused, analyzing eye. Finally, you huffed out a laugh, your grip tightening on his belt as you readjusted his arm on your shoulder. Your eyes slid over his masked face, a flicker of amusement creeping into your gaze before you turned to look at your surroundings again.

After that, Ghost tried to hold on to every bit of self-control he had left to keep his mouth shut.

You both made it out that day, the two of you banged up and worse for wear, but alive. Ghost had been pretty out of it by the time you got him back to the exfil point. How you had managed to drag the both of you out of there while holding up a man as large as Ghost, he could barely remember, the whole event becoming fuzzier in his mind past the point when he had let those words slip to you.

The shot to his thigh had been a nasty one, leaving him bedridden in the medical area for the next few weeks, per the doctors’ orders. Price made sure Ghost didn’t try to disregard them. 

Ghost told Price what you had done, wanting you to get the credit you deserved for your bravery. Still, it didn’t stop him from thinking that you very well could’ve gotten yourself killed for him. The thought pulled at the familiar knot in his chest.

“What’re you in for?”

Ghost followed the voice to the doorway of his room only to find you leaned against the frame, a small, teasing smile on your lips. You were cleaned up now. Having donned a fresh set of clothes, you now wore a plain black T-shirt tucked into camouflage tac pants. Despite your teasing attitude, your eyelids were heavy, like you had barely slept in the two days you had been back on base. A thick bandage poked out from under your shirtsleeve, covering the area where you had been grazed. Other than that, you seemed like you were in one piece from the entire ordeal. 

Why did that revelation alone release some of the tension in his chest?

“Jus’ a scratch,” he rumbled. He couldn’t help but humor you a little. He gestured to the hospital bed and monitors surrounding him as he huffed, “Bit of an overkill if you ask me.”

You chuckled, pushing yourself off the door frame before coming closer. Voice laced with sarcasm, you said, “Yeah, okay, tough guy.”

It was quiet for a moment, the silence thick and heavy over the two of you. Your eyes slid over him, taking in his condition, your gaze almost too much to handle.

He didn’t feel anything for you. Under the weight of your scrutiny, the thought was more like a pleading prayer.

“You should’ve left me out there,” he asserted, trying to ignore his own thoughts. “You disobeyed a direct order.”

You rolled your eyes, your hands moving defensively to your hips. “I made a call and saved your life. You’d think that would count for something.”

“That wasn’t your call to make.”

“Listen, just because you can’t stand me doesn’t mean that I can’t make a call. You-”

“Is that what you bloody think?” Ghost spat, surprise creeping into his voice.

For the first time, he saw you hesitate. You blinked for a moment. 

“How could I not?” You finally retorted, stepping closer to him, your tired eyes alight with anger. “You avoid me like the damn plague, it seems like you can barely stand me, and you second-guess every call I make. Yet you treat all the guys like your brothers. You trust them when they make a gutsy call. And what? I’m supposed to think you respect me at all?”

Of course that’s what it looked like to you. You had taken his distance to mean that he didn’t want you here, that he didn’t think as highly of you as he did the others.

“I’ll only say this once.” Ghost leaned forward, his eyes locking with yours through the holes in his mask. “You’re wrong. You’ve got my damn respect - have had it for a while, even before this mission. I think you’re one of the toughest people here. But I still gave you an order. You could’ve gotten yourself killed. And that would’ve been on me.”

Whatever you were expecting to hear from him, it wasn’t that. You appraised him, squinting a little as you did. When you finally spoke, your voice was quieter, but still even. Still strong. “I’d do it again.”

Now, it was Ghost who was at a loss for words. He tried to ignore the intensity in your voice, the certainty. As if that wasn’t exactly his issue - that you would be willing to put yourself on the line for him again.

“Y’know,” you mused as you turned and walked back to the door, “usually people just say ‘thank you’ when you save their life.”

With one last glance at him over your shoulder, you were gone. 

~~~

In the months following your confrontation, Ghost stopped avoiding you at all costs, letting himself be closer with you again. The fact that you had taken his distance to mean that he thought less of you gnawed at him in a way that was damn near painful. Ghost’s issues were his own - he wasn’t going to take them out on you anymore by avoiding you. He shoved those thoughts for you down into the recesses of his brain, thinking that this time, the tactic might actually work. 

You seemed happy about his change in demeanor. While you said nothing to point it out, he saw how you gradually relaxed around him over time. You were quick to joke with him now, your sarcastic quips as precise as your aim, as if you knew that your banter made it easier for him. You were lighter with him now, ignoring the weight of that mission. Most of the time, he could, too.

Most of the time.

I’d do it again. The words rang in his ears each time he saw you now. They dug at him, called to him. It was maddening. The weight of those words remained heavy on his chest, their meaning something he was wary to look too closely into.

Tonight, he found you at a small pub a few streets over from the hotel the 141 had been staying at in some small Irish town, your elbows resting on the sleek wooden bar as you swirled a whiskey in its glass. You seemed deep in thought, your eyes only half-watching the amber liquid spin under the pub’s dim, warm yellow lights.

“The guys all leave?” Ghost asked, pulling you from your thoughts. A small smile played at the edge of your lips as you turned towards him, gently placing the glass back on the table.

“Yeah, they all left me,” you sighed dramatically. “Price went to see an old friend here in town. Soap and Gaz wanted to go check out a pub a couple blocks over from here.”

Ghost paused for a minute to order a bourbon from the bartender. “And you didn’t wanna go?”

You shook your head. “The place sounded a little too loud for my liking.”

Ghost made a noise in solidarity, picking up the glass the bartender had placed down for him. Your taste in pubs, he had learned, was close to both his and Price’s: laidback and quiet. Sure enough, this pub was just that. It was an old vintage-style pub, one that didn’t attract a loud, rowdy crowd. The small number of patrons were mostly older people - locals, by the looks of them - laughing softly as most of them paid attention to the football game on the television. It was the kind of pub people went to when they were looking for a warm, peaceful night. It made it easier to relax a little in this strange pub in this strange city. In your line of work, that was a difficult feat to accomplish. 

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you for a while, both of you nursing your drinks.

But something was on Ghost’s mind, something that had been sitting with him for months. He broke the silence to say only, “Thank you.”

You turned to look at Ghost, an eyebrow raised. You hesitated for a moment, seemingly unsure that you had heard him correctly. “Huh? What for?”

“I never said it,” he explained simply, voice even and calm. “For savin’ my life ‘n all.”

You appraised him for a moment, taken aback by his admission. The two of you had barely talked about what happened that day. Finally, you nodded. “Still think I was wrong for disobeying your order?”

“No,” he admitted, quickly adding, “just don’t make a habit of it, yeah?”

You nodded, chuckling a little before you took the final sip of your drink. “Of course.”

It was quiet for another moment before you set your empty glass down with a clink. When the bartender came back around, you handed him enough money to pay for both your drinks and Ghost’s. Then, you turned back to Ghost and said, “You sure are… talkative when you get shot.”

Ghost averted his eyes from you at that, opting instead to watch the other patrons as they celebrated their team’s goal. His only response was, “It was blood loss.”

When he looked back to you, your piercing eyes were trained on his. You seemed like you were trying to piece him together, to figure out the puzzle of him. 

“Blood loss or not, I never took you as the kind of guy to have his head in the gutter like that,” you teased, your tone light. Underneath the teasing tone though, laid something more serious. Something Ghost hoped he was wrong about. 

“I’m not.” It was a lie. He knew it. The worst part was that you knew it, too. 

A smirk played at the edge of your lips at that.

“Sure you’re not, Ghost,” you teased. You stood from your seat then before you leaned in close to Ghost’s ear, your hand gliding along his shoulder. Voice near a whisper, sweet and honeyed, you added, “Can’t be saying things like that, then. Might give a girl the wrong idea.”

With that, you were gone. By the time Ghost turned around, you were halfway to the door, shooting him a sultry, burning look over your shoulder. It was a look he had never seen from you before, a look he was sure was aided by the whiskey you had been drinking. It was an invitation extended to him under the dim yellow lights of the pub.

It was the first blatant sign he had seen that you were interested in him like that - that it hadn’t just been him afflicted by whatever this was. 

In the split second your eyes locked with his, a million thoughts ran through his mind, all saying that he definitely shouldn’t take the invitation, shouldn’t follow you. For one, it would undo all the work he had done to ignore his own thoughts about you. Not to mention the fact that he was your superior and all the hardline rules that very clearly stated that he shouldn’t unless he wanted to risk his entire career. 

But what if he did? What if he gave in to you this one time? What if all he needed was a night with you to finally get you out of his damn head? He could have you once and finally be able to get over the hold you had on him. To let go, maybe all he had to do was give in.

Fuck.

Ghost abandoned his seat in a moment. Weaving his large frame through the tables and patrons, his eyes were trained on you as you slipped through the front door. He caught it right as it swung closed from you, hot on your tail. Pushing out into the cold, crisp night air, he found you barely two steps away from him. You turned when you saw him, a small smile blooming across your face.

Ghost was on you, his hands grabbing your hips as he pulled the both of you into the alley. Shrouded in darkness, he pressed your back to the brick wall of the pub before shoving the lower part of his mask just above his mouth. Before he could even move again, your hand came to wrap around the back of his head, pulling his lips to yours in a rough, messy kiss. 

It was better than he imagined. You were better than he imagined, the feeling of your plush lips on his almost making him forget why he had held himself back from you for so long. 

He caged you in against the wall, one hand grasping against the rough, scratchy surface as he leaned in while the other held your head in place. You pulled at him, fervent and insistent as you drew him ever closer to you. Shifting in your hold, he slotted his knee between your legs, maneuvering so that his large, muscular thigh rested against your clothed center. When you gasped against him, he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours, the thick, heady taste of your whiskey mixing with his bourbon. It was the taste of you, though, that was intoxicating. More so than any drink he could have ordered. 

As you ground down against his thigh, your tongue met his with equal fervor. And while you grasped the back of Ghost’s mask in your desperation, he knew you would make no effort to pull it from him. How he knew that was a mystery even to him. All he knew was that the way you tugged at his hair through the mask sent him careening over the edge of a chasm that he couldn’t see the bottom of.

His hand left the wall beside you to firmly grasp your waist, urging you to increase the speed of your hips against him. Flexing his thigh, another gasp fell from your mouth. It was maddening, a sound he knew he had to draw out of you again, only louder and unobstructed. The sound shot through him like adrenaline, fast and exhilarating. 

For the first time in a long time, Ghost felt truly awake. It was like a fire had been lit in his veins and you were the gasoline fueling the raging flames. 

Suddenly, a loud group of people passed by the alley on the adjoining street, voices ringing out in conversation. All at once, Ghost was reminded that you were both out in the open, albeit tucked into a dark alley. You broke from the kiss, your mind seemingly on the same track.

“My room,” you offered breathlessly. “At the hotel.”

“Lead the way, Styx.”

You made the quick walk back to the small hotel with Ghost in tow, winding through the dimly illuminated streets and alleys with an illicit sort of stealth and swiftness, the both of you keeping an eye out for any of the other guys along the way. While you both knew that you wouldn’t see any of them again tonight, neither of you could seem to help it. You both knew you weren’t supposed to be doing this. 

Yet, neither of you put a stop to whatever this was either.

Ghost had you pressed up against the door to your room the moment you locked it, your back to his chest and arms extended to brace yourself against the sleek black wood. His mask once again pushed to just under his nose, he lavished hungrily at your neck just below the ear, earning another sharp gasp from you. His hands dipped to the front of your jeans, racing to blindly undo them. Movements deft, efficient, and precise, his fingers were quickly past the undone line of your jeans and slipping under the band of your underwear.

“You want this?” he rasped, both because he needed the confirmation that you were completely in and because he wanted to hear the way you would sound.

“Yes,” you rushed almost immediately, a newfound desperation lining your voice. You moved your ass back against him, pressing yourself against his covered erection and he had to hold himself back from rutting into you. “Fuck, Ghost…”

Ghost nipped at your ear as he stilled your hips, his right hand drawing lower under your underwear. 

“Easy,” he warned. ”Gotta open you up first.”

With that, his fingers finally met your core, gliding through your soaked folds. He groaned at the feeling of you already dripping for him, your underwear even damp with your arousal. He dragged some of your slick up from your entrance until he found the small bundle of nerves that had you rolling your hips forward in his grasp. Completely encircling you from behind with his body, he held you flush to him while he rubbed hard and fast circles between your thighs. 

Melting into his touch, you started to move your left hand from the door to grasp for him. His free hand stopped you in only a moment, grabbing your wrist and replacing it back in its previous position.

“Hands stay there,” he ordered. For once, you actually listened, opting instead to claw your fingers against the wood as he slipped two fingers past your entrance and into your heat. He moved achingly slow at first, letting you feel the way his fingers dragged along your walls, filling and stretching your tight cunt already. You moaned, your head falling back to rest against his broad chest. 

“Ghost… Ghost, faster,” you pleaded, voice airy. The satisfaction he got from your desperate request was all too strong, more than he had ever experienced before. It shot through him like a drug, fast and disorienting. 

He picked up the pace, steadily building up to a pace that had your knees ready to give out. Wrapping his free arm around your middle, he held you steady while he wrecked you with his fingers. He tried not to think about the fact that it had only been a few months ago that it had been you holding him up, that now he got to return the favor to you in a much more pleasurable way. 

When you cried out for him, Ghost whispered into your ear, parroting your own words from that fateful mission, “Just a little more.” 

With that, he added a third finger, holding his blistering pace. The sounds you made were utterly debauched, utterly sinful. He should have been worried about how loud you were - surely others in the hotel could hear your moans. You would be lucky if there weren’t complaints to the management by morning. It was reckless… but Ghost couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too enraptured by the ringing of your voice as you fell apart beneath his touch. 

It only took another minute for you to come undone around him, your muscles tensing around his fingers, squeezing him as your mouth fell open in a silent scream while he worked you through it. 

After you had begun to relax, a sweet whine leaving your lips, he finally slowed his pace to a stop. He pulled out of you then, drawing his hand up to his mouth to suck them clean. Eyes blown wide with lust, you turned to watch him as he slowly pulled his fingers out of his mouth, the tang of your cum one that he was sure he wouldn’t be able to forget. You watched his display until the tip of his middle finger left his lips. Then, you turned so swiftly he could barely register it and pushed up to kiss him again, your tongue dipping into his mouth to taste yourself as you threw your arms over his shoulders. 

A groan left Ghost, one that surprised even him. It was so much. The taste of you on his tongue, the feel of your body under his hands, and the way you grasped at his back to pull him closer all had his head swimming, his usual cool-headed clarity quickly becoming muddled. His heart was hammering in his chest, his cock so hard it was aching in his jeans.

Alarm bells rang in his head, telling him that he was in too deep. Never had he ever been this… wrecked from sex before he had even gotten his cock out of his underwear. Something was different this time. That feeling was back in his chest - the one he wouldn’t put a name to. 

But he couldn’t turn back now. His sense was far too gone for that. 

Ghost effortlessly lifted you up from the floor before carrying you to the bed. When your back lightly hit the mattress, your mouth open in a surprised oh, he was already on top of you. He helped you peel the clothes from your body, his own clothes soon joining yours on the floor, save for the mask. 

You looked so beautiful like this, spread out under Ghost like a dream. It was like every one of his long-ignored thoughts about you had come to life. Your hungry eyes, the way he could see every dip and plane and curve of your body like this, the way you practically glowed in the moonlight that poured into the darkened room… the sight made him finally let go of all his inhibitions about having you. He would deal with the consequences later. 

Suddenly, he realized that he had just been staring at you. 

You quirked an eyebrow at him, an easy smile on your lips. “Enjoying the view?”

In lieu of a reply, he leaned down, grabbed your chin, and smashed his lips into yours as he ground his hips against you, his cock sliding along your slickened folds.

“Ghost,” you breathed against him. He wished you wouldn’t say his name like that - like he was something good for you. Yet, it still only made his cock ache more. “Just - fuck - just fuck me already.”

“This isn’t gonna be soft, Styx,” he warned, lining his cock up with your entrance. 

You gave him a small smirk, eyes full of mischief as you replied, “Good.”

Fucking hell, you were trying to kill him. 

Ghost pushed inside of you slowly at first, reveling in the way you felt around him as you squeezed him, all molten heat and velvet. He draped himself over you, one hand planted on either side of your head, and watched as your eyes rolled back, your breathing becoming ragged once again. Your nails bit into his shoulder blades as you tried to adjust to him, the sting ever so satisfying against his skin. 

“You’re s-so - ah - so big,” you mumbled, almost to yourself. 

Buried to the hilt in you, he waited until he felt you begin to relax.

Then, Ghost threw himself into the flames. 

He almost drew out of you completely before slamming back into you. And if he thought your sounds before were something to behold, the moans you let out now were nothing short of divine. Again. And again. And again.

He fucked you into the mattress so hard the bed shook and groaned with the force of each thrust, devolving into one never-ending cacophony as his speed increased. Your tits bounced with each impact and he dropped his head to take one nipple into his mouth, lavishing it with his tongue before moving to the other. Using one hand to hold onto his shoulders for dear life, you roughly fisted the sheets with the other, searching for any point of stability you could find as your world rocked. 

When he lifted from your chest, he found your head tilted back on the mattress, neck outstretched and straining. Your eyes were squeezed shut, your face contorted in pure pleasure. 

Yet, something gnawed at Ghost, an urge so deep and so powerful he was useless to hold out against.

“Eyes on me, Styx.”

Your eyes blinked open, fluttering for a moment as you tried to refocus your gaze. Finally, your eyes locked with his, as piercing as ever. That feeling flared in his chest again, his next few thrusts even harder than before. It was like he was drowning, only in the best possible way.

He watched the force of each thrust as it rocked through you, every twitch of your face and desperate grasp of your hand in the sheets. He watched the way you drank him in, eyes hooded and hungry as they held his gaze. 

“Ghost.” 

It was a plea. A demand. One he was all too eager to give in to.

Connected your lips again as one of his hands wound up to the hand you had fisted in the sheets. His fingers wrapping around your wrist, he guided your hand above your head and pinned it to the mattress. He felt you groan into the kiss before you slipped your tongue into his mouth, heated and messy. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It was all too much. He was enjoying this all too much. You were too good, too addicting. 

You were taking him deeper than he had ever been. Your cunt threatened to pull him under, the pleasure of your tight walls too intense. He was only a step away from the edge, having to hold himself back from going over before you. 

Ghost used his free hand to grab one of your legs and hook it over his hip.

Like this, his movement told you. 

Taking the hint through your haze, you brought your other leg up around his hip and locked them together behind him. 

Instantly, you broke from the kiss, a broken moan ringing in his ears and vibrating against his lips. They flowed freely from you now, the beautiful sound filling the room. He couldn’t hold in his own grunts anymore, one for every snap of his hips against yours. 

Ghost felt you tense a moment before it happened, your body going rigid and your moan abruptly cut. Then, you were squeezing him so tight, it ripped a deep, guttural moan from his chest. The force of your orgasm rocked through you, seeming like you were trying to pull him over that same edge with you. Surely enough, with a few more rocks of his hips, he felt that heat as he released, coating your walls with his cum, your release taking every bit of him with you. 

Before he could pull out of you, spent and panting, your hand found his covered cheek, the cloth warm under your touch, and guided his lips back to yours again. Your kiss was slow. Deliberate. Heavy. A hint of something deeper on your lips. 

And as he ducked out of your room that night, the moonlight seeming dimmer in his room than it had been when it was illuminating your face, Ghost tried to push all his thoughts of you away for good. 

He had his fill and now he was done. 

He could move on. 

He didn’t feel anything for you. 

They were all good lies. For the best lies were the lies he told himself. 

[celestialseph]

Steddie soulmate AU concept where the first thing you ‘say’ to your soulmate is written on the inside of your wrist

Part II: Steve

Part III: Eddie and Steve

I don’t understand you.

Those words have haunted Eddie ever since he could remember. They’re also ones he’s heard too many times before. 

“I don’t understand you,” his father said when he dropped his only child at the Hawkins’s very own trailer park.

“I don’t understand you,” snorted Wayne, not unkindly, at a 13-year old Eddie trying to explain to his uncle the rules of this new exciting game he heard of - Dungeons and Dragons is how it’s called. 

“I don’t understand you,” he’s heard from his classmates and teachers all throughout the years. Sometimes with a nervous smile, sometimes with a frown pinching their faces, sometimes with an angry grimace twisting their lips. 

And he gets it. He’s an acquired taste, he knows that. He’s loud when he shouldn’t be, too coarse where he should be gentle, too soft when it’s strength they want. He’s been told time and time again he doesn’t fit in, that his interests and way of being is peculiar at best.

“I don’t understand you” is what the inside of his wrist sneers at him mockingly every morning. Because of course - of course - the one person who is supposed to understand him - doesn’t. Can’t. 

He’s long past little flutters in his stomach, sparks of hope, fastened heartbeats. Or that is, at least, what he tells himself - to stay realistic, he claims - but whenever he watches Steve Fucking Harrington, of all people, picking up the odd group of freshmen from Hellfire his mind and heart are always in disagreement. 

Tonight, though, the kids are all suddenly (suspiciously) in dire need of a toilet break before cleaning up after their session like they promised, leaving Eddie alone with the King of Hawkins High himself. Or, well, ex-King. He’s feeling uncharacteristically brave. Or maybe it’s the awkward silence hanging between them and Steve’s unnerving gaze that seems to be focused solely on Eddie. He clears his throat. 

“So, how do you even know the little shits?”

Steve Harrington frowns at him, eyebrows pinched.

“I don’t understand you,” he sounds uncertain, a bit too loud and Eddie’s stomach drops and twists. Steve lifts his hand and taps his left ear with his index finger. What follows is a flurry of hand movement, nervous and jarred, but Eddie’s mess of a mind focuses enough to recognize it as sign language. 

Oh. Shit. Oh.

Something pooling at the bottom of his stomach, Eddie snatches a loose character sheet and a pencil from the table. He scribbles down ‘Sorry. I asked how do you know the kids’ and slides the crumpled note the other boy’s way. He doesn’t expect Steve to smile at him giddily and he certainly doesn’t expect him to tug at Eddie’s right hand, twisting it to see the inside of his wrist where - hold on - where his soulmate tattoo is and-

He’s never talked with Steve before. He’s never talked with Steve-

A warm hand slips into his. The piece of paper Eddie offered is back with a new addition, too, and he can’t help the hope that blossoms in his chest.

‘Hi, soulmate.’

Next –>

[celestialseph]

Mutual masturbation with a slice of biting and a lot of teasing for Marc, pretty please <33 (kinktober request)

Summary: Marc entrusts you with a set of the spare keys so you can stay over when he's out of town. But he comes home early, catching you in a compromising situation.

Content: mutual masturbation. Explicit please avert your innocent eyes.

ASTROBOOT'S MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST | RED FLAGS  

Marc gave you a key to their flat. 

Or rather, Marc gave you three keys. 

Because there are three goddamned locks you have to get through in order to get in. Complete overkill, even for central London. 

Still, he gave you their key(s). 

You stare at the cluster of shiny silver keys resting in the palm of your hand as you stand outside the front door. 

Marc doesn't even let you stay at his without supervision before (not counting when you're dead asleep and he slips into the dark in the middle of the night doing dodgy vigilante things). So when he'd placed the keys into your hand this morning, your mouth had dropped agape in an unflattering imitation of Gus II, the Impersonator. (The name’s a bit of a mouthful of a name, but out of respect for the original Gus, it's the least you could do.) 

"You can stay here whenever we're gone. It's closer to your work. You can feed Steven’s fishes too. Make sure these ones don't die." 

His expression had been as stoic as ever when he said it, not betraying any emotions, but the gesture itself was the dead giveaway. 

Marc can downplay it as much as he wants, but giving you their keys is the equivalent of holding up a billboard-sized banner with neon lights doused in sparkling glitter and confetti saying: 

I trust you.

There's a giddy excitement buzzing through you, as you grip the first key steadily and slide it into the keyhole. But that excitement gives way to irritation when you struggle to unlock it. It's a stubborn old lock, you have to shimmy and wiggle the key into the slot before it gives. Then you have two more to fight with before you can finally open the door and step inside. 

The space is so different without them. Empty and much too silent, especially for London. For being so central, you're amazed by the lack of noise from the street given the large windows, and the old structure that shouldn't have much in terms of sound isolation. 

The only sound you hear is the whirring of the water pump from the fish tank. 

You walk up to the bed, practically collapsing into the mattress, and nearly fall asleep on the spot. Too tired from the long workday to haul your arse to the loo to wash your face and brush your teeth. Too tired to take off your constricted tights and unzip your even tighter work skirt and unbutton your fussy blouse. 

If Steven was here, he'd gently undress you, button by button. He'd even bring you a wet face cloth and toothbrush to the bed so you wouldn't have to get up if you didn't want to.

If it was Jake, he'd get through three buttons before he'd ask if he could just rip the damn thing off. Then he'd carry you to the bathroom and back.

Marc though? He'd scold you into doing it, nag about cavities and whatnot until you heaved a sigh and got up. But he's secretly a big softie. You know that if you fell asleep in your clothes, you'd only wake later to find him gently and carefully peeling them off before shushing you back into a much more comfortable sleep.

You miss them. It's barely been a full day and you miss them already. 

You dig your face into the pillow when you spot a faded, oversized t-shirt folded neatly on top of the other pillow for you to wear and you smile. 

Marc is such a softie. 

You wake up alone in bed, wearing nothing but your knickers and the oversized shirt Marc left you. It's been a long time since you've woken up to an empty side in this flat. It's no longer second nature to you to pat out your hand against the mattress to find an empty spot and your folded clothes where you'd expect Steven to be laid out next to you. 

Nowadays, if you're here, one of them will usually stay in bed until you've woken up. 

It feels wrong to be alone in this bed. 

The sheet still smells of them. Of Steven's soap and minty shampoo. Of faint cigarette smoke from Jake. Of the sharp sting from Marc's aftershave. 

If you close your eyes, it's easy to pretend that they're still in the flat. That Steven's just nipped to the loo and will come back any second to curl up around you. Or that Jake is on the rooftop having a fag because he doesn't want you inhaling the smoke. That Marc’s in the kitchen making you breakfast, bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon, cause it's Thursday today. 

The unease in your chest dissipates as you play pretend, and you clutch to the quilts tighter to you, legs curling along the sheets, until you've bunched up enough of it that you can almost pretend you're wrapping your legs around their waist. It'd be firmer of course, warmer, thicker too. If they were in bed with you, their hands would be roaming your back by now. 

If it was Steven, he'd already be hard and aching, grinding his overeager cock over the softness of your stomach for friction as he mouthed adoring kisses over your collarbone.

If it was Jake, he would not have the same soft patience. He'd be pinning you down, your stomach pressed flat against the bed, his rough mouth latched to your throat as he buried his cock inside you. 

Marc would be patient though. He would be exacting. Fingertips skirting down your spine, over your thighs, taking his time with you. Making you ache.

You mimic the course Marc’s fingers would take. Your own fingers, skirting over your hipbones as you brush up lightly against your pubic bone, savouring the tingling sensation that shoots up your spine at the barely there touch. It’s tempting to rush it. You want to drag down your knickers immediately and shove your fingers between your slick thighs, but you resist the temptation, reminding yourself that Marc wouldn't rush. 

He never does. 

Those broad hands of his would be caressing the hypersensitive skin of your inner thighs, palming your hips as he brings you closer to his mouth, breath fanning over the slope of your belly as he kisses you there. Refusing to be rushed even as you tangle your fingers into his hair, trying to redirect his attention to where you desperately need it. 

No, Marc would take his time, until you're so keyed up, you're swearing and slapping at his shoulder with impatience, trembling underneath him with need. Then and only then would he put his mouth on you, tongue a slow, gentle drag across your clit. 

Pleasure sparks hot and insistent in your belly, at the sensory memory of his patient tongue on you, and you follow suit. Slipping a hand into your knickers, you find that you’re already wet, soaking your fingers at the first touch, but it's not nearly enough. When you try to imitate his tongue, your fingers don't quite do the trick. There's just no comparison to the memory of his skilful mouth. It's a hollow imitation of the real thing. 

You feel empty. Alone in this big wide bed, without the comforting sturdiness of his shoulders cradled between your thighs. Empty, without the stretch of his long, nimble fingers, that he’ll only reward you with when you've begged for him "all pretty" like he asked you to. 

Bringing your fingers to your mouth, you slip two of them past your lips, wetting them, then you draw them back down between your legs and press inside. 

You’re slick and wet, and the slight sweet stretch makes the expanse of your thigh tingle. But it doesn't make you feel full. Not the way he does. You curl your fingers, trying to do it just the way Marc does, but you still find it lacking.

Marc's fingers feel thicker than your own. You slide a third finger inside, trying to compensate for the girth, gasping at the thickness as you cant your hips to chase the fluttering sensation in your stomach. That’s better, but still not…  Fuck, almost. Almost, but not quite—

Blood is rushing through your head, static filling your ears. You grind yourself against the heel of your hand, and a breathless moan escapes before you bite your lip, teeth digging in hard until you feel the sting of pain. 

From the bottom of the bed, there's a creak in the flooring. A sound not coming from you. 

Your eyes fly open to meet those all too familiar gorgeous dark brown ones staring down at you. Rich raven curls that are falling across his forehead and into his eyes, over the thick brows knitted in a serious frown. 

Intense, focused, with all that concentrated attention pinned on you. It's enough to steal every breath of air from your lungs, vaporating into dust and smoke, as your chest squeezes and folds onto itself. 

“Marc,” you breathe out.

He's standing at the foot of the bed, observing you.

"Don't stop," Marc says, tongue darting out to wet the swell of his bottom lip. "Keep going." 

The words don’t register, your hands already outstretched, reaching for him.

Marc frowns at you for a moment before his eyes soften slightly and he dips his knee onto the edge of the mattress, bringing him close enough that you can curl your fingers into the worn fabric of his t-shirt. You tug, trying to pull him closer still, and he lets himself be reeled in by you. 

His other knee joins you, pressing against the outside of your thigh, as he climbs further into the bed. Those firm arms come to rest on either side of your shoulders, caging you in as his body hovers over you, his head tilting down until his lips capture yours. 

It’s a little bit heady, your breath suspended in mid-inhale, replaced by Marc’s tongue licking into your mouth. He kisses you until your head feels fuzzy, every other thought erased, replaced by the man overwhelming your senses. The softness of his lips; warmth of his torso against the back of your knuckles where your hand, still tangled in his shirt is trapped between you; the scent of him, overlaid with the stale-air aeroplane smell that so often clings to his skin when he comes back to you after his disappearances. 

You hate that smell on him. It’s undeniable proof of how far away he must’ve travelled from this little flat that you’ve come to think of as your second home, from you. 

Wrapping your arms around him, you rub yourself against him like a cat in heat trying to scent-mark him, wanting to scrub the stale scent from his skin. You want him closer, all over you, until there’s no distance between you.

You pull him even closer until he lies snugly on top of you, baring down the comforting weight of his thighs on top of yours.

As accommodating as he is to your coaxing, aligning his body with yours, you're under no illusions that there is any world where Marc (stubbornness aside) could ever be physically coerced by you in a battle of strength if he didn't want to.

You're quickly reminded of that very fact, when your fingers twist into his collar and you try to pull him closer, to get him closer, until you can have his firm chest weighing you down, and he doesn't. Instead, he stays rooted to the position he's chosen, resting on his elbows, hovering above you, even as you tug him again, with a breathy, "please" on your lips. 

There's no concession on his part. Marc doesn't come closer, doesn't let himself be moved by you. Instead, all he gives you is a shake of his head, before he pulls up and away from you. 

You expect it to be a short pause before his weight is back on yours, a temporary moment of physical separation so that he can remove his shirt or unbuckle his belt and kick off those ridiculously tight jeans of his. Instead, he stays kneeling on the mattress and gazes down at you.

"No. I told you to keep going. Show me how you touch yourself, baby."

For all his composure as he says the words, it is dissonant with his appearance in this moment. His locks are in disarray, furled with heat, t-shirt wrinkled where you’ve been tugging at it, the collar askew, his lips plump and swollen from your kiss.

He’s so fucking beautiful.

It’s an observation you’ve made a million times before that you will never tire of.

Your eyes drag from his face down to his chest where the dark fabric of his shirt is clinging onto the broad frame of him, down to his stomach where his shirt is riding up, revealing the tantalising tanned skin underneath, down to the rough denim of his jeans and the bulge that’s straining there like a siren’s call for you to touch. 

“Marc,” your hands reach out to touch him, and when he doesn’t stop you, your fingers settle on the cool metal of his buckle, thread behind the metal belt and pull, “please, Marc.” 

For a second, you think, despite a long track record of being proven otherwise, that Marc is going to give into you. That he’s going to let you have this, him, without stopping you. But then his hand comes to rest on yours, and gently peels it away. 

"Not me, baby. Touch yourself. Put those fingers back in that pretty little pussy."  

There is no talking him out of this when he's in this mood. You can whine and plead and cry about how much you want him, need him, but no amount of pretty words from you will make Marc change course once he has set his mind on something.

Obediently, your hands dip back between your thighs under his watchful gaze, keeping your eyes on his, and you slip two of your fingers inside, knuckle deep.

He groans, and you swear you can see the black of his pupils dilate, eating into the dark brown until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Can see, even through the thick fabric, the way his cock jerks and twitches within the strict confines of his jeans—evidence of how he's aching for you.

Because this is the frustrating thing about Marc Spector: for all that he's denying you, he's denying himself just as much. He's a master at denying himself of pleasure. Denying himself period. Nice things, be it a warm bed, a decent meal or a doting touch—anything that will make him happy—no matter how much you want to give them to him freely.

You slide your fingers even deeper, until they brush against something blissful within you that has your hips lifting from the mattress to prolong the sensation, all while Marc keeps praising you.

“That’s right, baby. So fucking pretty like this,” he rasps out.

His fingers grip around his hardness, roughly palming himself through the thick denim with one hand. Hips stuttering into the touch as his eyes flutter close, losing himself in it, and your cunt clutches hard around your own fingers at the sight of him taking his own pleasure. 

It only lasts for a moment, then those gorgeous eyes shoot open, guilt bleeding into them, and his hand falls away to settle on his thigh. Denying himself.

In the time you've been together, you've come to understand a few things about Marc—habits, and rules that he has set for himself. Even if he hasn't told you as much, it's easy to read him now that you know him so well. 

The way he's always cleaning up after himself down to breadcrumbs from the kitchen counter, as if to erase his own presence so as not to inconvenience those around him.

The way he’ll insist on you wearing his jacket when it’s freezing outside and he’s only got a t-shirt underneath. Because he’s always looking to protect and take care of the people he cares about, without even the slightest self-preservation reserved for himself.

The way he’ll make you come on his fingers and mouth, but hesitate and tries to pull you back up whenever you try to get on your knees for him. Because the only pleasure he’ll allow himself to feel is when it incidental to the act of bringing you to yours. 

But you caught him breaking that rule just now, even if it only lasted for a fraction of a second… Marc, indulging himself.  And christ, pleasure is such a good look on him

You want to see it again.

With a small shudder, you slip your fingers out of yourself, as you settle your hand on your thigh, and Marc is immediately frowning again. 

“Why’d you stop?”

"You stopped," you respond

He tips his head to the side, looking confused and unsure of himself, and you rest your hand over his, dragging it back between his firm thighs. 

“Show me how you touch yourself,” you ask, mirroring his own request back at him. 

One of those perfect eyebrows of his arches sharply in response, scepticism etched in the deep crease between. 

"I'll keep going if you do," you tempt him. 

If Marc was frowning before, the tilt of his lips deepen to an angle you weren't sure was physically possible before. He's clearly not amenable to the quid pro quo that you're trying to negotiate.

“I want to see you too, Marc. Please?” you request it with as much of a pleading tone as you can muster, practically fluttering your eyelashes like a fawn. 

In front of you, Marc's expression softens, the hitch in his brow lowering, despite the hesitation still showing in the unyielding strain in his jaw.

It's another unspoken rule of Marc's. 

Grumpy as he is, as much as he frowns and grouses, Marc is soft for you. He’ll do just about anything that’s within his power if you ask him (and even when it's not. He’ll still go above and beyond to make it happen). He’ll do anything for you. 

This time is no different.

With a deep, resigned sigh emanating from his chest, he thumbs open the button of his jeans, dragging the zipper down and shoving them down his ample hips. Pure excitement buzzes in your chest as the dark denim pool down and strain against his thighs. 

His hands come to the edge of his boxers, dragging it down unceremoniously until his cock springs forward, already hard and leaking. It slaps harshly against his firm stomach, making him hiss.

If you were ever going to use the descriptor 'pretty' for a cock, it'd be Marc's. Ruddy and flushed pink, glistening with precome that's smeared over the fat head, it is a sight to behold. Your tongue goes heavy in your mouth, and you're practically salivating like a cartoon wolf.

“Don't get distracted. That's not what you promised."

Your eyes snap up to Marc's at his words, and you catch yourself leaning up towards him, hand already reaching for his cock.

There's a slow furling half smile there, in the corner of his mouth, lips twitching with amusement.

Right. You're not going to touch him. There are better rewards ahead if you can restrain yourself.

You settle yourself back against the mattress, eyes still locked on his, putting on a show as you drag your fingers up against the length of your thigh. You are watching the minute changes in Marc's expression as you do. The way his pupils dilate, the hitch of his breath, the tension in his jaw. The hint of a flush climbing those ridiculously cut cheeks.

"Marc," you call out.

"What, baby?" He sounds breathless, and you can't help but smile. Concentrated as he is on you, he's obviously forgotten his end of the bargain as well.

"Don't get distracted."

Marc blinks at you in confusion, then he follows your gaze, directed pointedly at his hands which are still on the side of his thighs and it finally clicks for him.

"Right," he murmurs, before he wraps his fingers languidly around the thick girth of himself, hissing sharply at his own touch.

The sound sends an edged spike of lust through your belly, and your fingertips are already circling around your clit to soothe the ache.

Your mind whirls at the first touch. Gentle and slow, your fingertips drag down against the slick wetness, and further still until you press inside, filling yourself slowly under Marc's watchful gaze. Watching in return as his fingers lazily stroke himself.

It's a barely there touch, his thumb tracing the fat head of his cock, as it glistens in the dim morning light. Restrained, controlled. Entirely unwilling to lose himself in the sensation. So different compared to you.

Your fingertips are already pressing down, and your hips hitch upwards, chasing your own touch. It feels different from when you were by yourself just moments ago. With his eyes on you like this, it's heady and intoxicating, filling the emptiness in you that your own fingers couldn’t seem to reach only moments ago.

"Fuck," he rasps, and the curse sounds like sweet praise to your ears. It sends a shudder through your spine, you don't ever want it to stop, and he doesn't. 

"My pretty baby looks so good when she touches herself, doesn't she?"

His voice is smoother now, his grip is firmer. Fingers wrapped almost harshly around the slick length as he drags his fist over himself. But his praises drip like melted sugar through your veins. 

Sweet and cajoling, his words buzz pleasantly in your head until you feel lightheaded, drunk on his praise. You almost want to close your eyes at the sensation, to lose yourself and properly savour it. But you resist because you don't want to miss the sight in front of you for anything in this world.

Marc kneeling, one hand around his cock as he fucks himself in his fist, eyes half-lidded in pleasure, no matter how hard he's trying to resist. The light sheen of sweat forming in the hollow of his throat that you want to lap up with your tongue. He keeps calling you 'pretty' as if he's never stood in front of a mirror and seen himself.

Insistent heat settles against the end of your spine, climbing up and wrapping itself around every vertebra. You press the heel of your hand against your clit, lifting your hips to grind against it, greedy for more. Sharp pleasure surges through you and you gasp. It feels like a punch to your lungs, it steals the very oxygen from your insides. And oh—Fuck, fuck, that's--

"Marc. Marc, I'm--" Your words are clumsy on your tongue as you stutter his name. Jolts of electricity licking at every nerve, and you don't even know what you want to say to him.

"What is it, baby?" The words come out on a choked groan as he tries to reply, his hand still stroking over his cock. "What do you want, pretty girl?"

Your chest seizes at the sight of him. The hint of golden skin of his bare stomach where his shirt has ridden up, glistens under the amber morning sun. The pained expression on his face as he tries to keep himself under control, thick brows furrowed and knitted as if in distress.

Beautiful. He’s so fucking beautiful.

The love you have for him is filling every inch of you, dripping out of your veins, with no place left in your body to contain it. You love him so much, all of him—stubborn, repressed, and as caring and loyal as he is. 

There’s only one thing you want. 

"You.”

His hand falters, hips stuttering, eyes widen in confusion.

"Want you, Marc. Please I need– need you."

His jaw slackens, mouth dropping open as if you told him something outrageous. He blinks up at you, stunned into silence. Then he shakes his head at you. 

“Not yet baby, keep going. Come for me, and I’ll fuck you.”

Marc doesn't understand. He never seems to do. You're not sure if it's genuine confusion or wilful misinterpretation because he refuses to believe the truth.

When you say you want him, need him, you're not just asking for his cock. You want all of him.

You reach for the hand at his side, your fingers tangling with his, weaving together as you drag it towards you. Until it's close enough for you to tilt your head to the side and press your lips to his knuckles.

“Love you. I–” You don't get further than that.

Marc lunges forward, dropping down, pressing his upper body against your chest as he capture your mouth with his, swallowing up your words with his kiss.

It feels like an understanding. The tightening of his fingers over yours, a willingness to finally take what you're giving. His lips over yours, an unspoken acceptance. 

That's all it takes. 

Your orgasm overwhelms you, rolling relentlessly over your skin and burning through the marrow of your bones. It swallows you whole, wringing you out until there's nothing left but the sweet aching bliss singing in your every nerve.

You can't think, dropped into a white abyss of pure bliss. Can't even feel, muscles gone numb. Can't see, eyes squeezed shut from the torrent of sensation that sears through your torso.

You must lose all track of time. When you come to again, eyes slowly blinking open. You can no longer feel the grounding weight of Marc's body pressing against yours. Your vision is filled with the wooden ceiling.

Marc is kneeling over you, cock in hand as he jerks it with fast, short strokes, like he's forgotten himself, unable to control himself, unable to hold back. He’s pressing the swollen head of his cock against the slick and sensitive flesh between your legs, his hand bumping into yours with each stroke, jostling the fingers still buried inside you.

It feels good.

It feels like too much. 

You squirm under him, gasping out his name as the hard shape of his cock stutters against your overwrought clit, pressing down on you relentlessly, and Marc comes with a broken sob.

For a long breathless moment, he hangs there, shuddering above you, hand still working slowly on his cock as the thick warmth of his come spills onto your pussy in steady pulses. 

His shoulders slump. The strength drains out of his body, his elbow gives in and he falls into you, the heavy reassuring weight folding over your body.

You both lay there, sweaty, chests heaving against one another as you try to sync your erratic breathing. Despite the sticky mess between your legs, and his come dripping down your fingers that are still inside you, there's nothing but contentment buzzing in your chest.

You let yourself lie there for several long moments until you can feel his rabbiting heart, pumping through his chest settle down to a more sedate pace.

The ever-constant tension in his shoulders seems to have melted away in this moment. He feels softer somehow, despite the firmness of his arms that are wrapped around you. Warm, and soothed, and you wish you could make this moment last forever for him, just to give him the peace that he so desperately deserves. 

You want to tell him so many things. Thank him for trusting you and giving you this. Want to tell him you love him again and again. But you don’t want to push him more than you already have today, or you'll have him retreating like a tortoise into his hard shell and never come out again. So instead you settle on something far less emotional: 

"Thank you for giving me the keys," you murmur into the warm skin of his neck. 

The words barely have time to leave your mouth, before he’s already stiffening up again. Pulling away from you until your mouth can no longer reach his skin, and your chest aches at the loss.

"Yeah... I–" He stops mid-sentence, the struggle plain in his face as his mouth closes again, set in a firm line as he stares down at you. 

"I–" he tries again, and you can feel his fingers digging into the sheet against your side. Your eyes flicker down momentarily, seeing the colour drain from his knuckles as his grip hardens.

He leans back down, pressing a tender kiss to your sweat-slick forehead, nose against your damp hair. Then he seems to finally settle on his words. 

"Me too."

It's nowhere remotely close to a logical response to you thanking him for your keys, but you can't help but smile as you realise what he actually means.

Tilting your head slightly, at this angle you can just about catch a glimpse of his expression. It’s stoic as ever, not betraying any emotions. But the way his hand refuses to let you go, fingers tightening over yours, is a dead giveaway.

Marc can downplay it as much as he wants, but it's the equivalent of him holding a marquee banner in glowing red and pink neon that says:

I love you too. 

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

Dedication: To my clown sister, @thirstworldproblemss who beta-read this! You don't know what this poor woman has been through, sitting up all night reading my ever-changing horny drafts. She made it the work of horny art it is. I love you.

This is also dedicated to the talented @guruan and specifically this beautiful sketch featuring her beautiful Marc about to jerk off.

[celestialseph]

Okay hear me out Charnie.

Red and ghost spit roasting soap 👀

Red got to peg Simon so now it's soap's turn 😈

A/N: Ghost x F!Reader x Soap. I mean...what the ask says.

Soap isn’t sure how this occurred exactly. Sex with Ghost and Red is usually intense—a dash rough—a splash disgusting. 

Red presses her fingers inside him, curls them intimately. She kisses the cheek of his ass and he shivers because it’s so tender. He can feel her tongue, those soft and pliant lips. 

“Johnny,” she purrs. “You’re so fucking handsome.”

He’d reply if his mouth wasn’t full of Simon. He’s gotten good at deep-throating, really damn excellent. Simon’s enormous palm clamps down on the crown of Soap’s skull and he grunts and tenses and sometimes–rarely–he’ll praise Johnny, but usually he’s nothing, but noises. 

Ghost mostly dips Red in his worship and Soap gets it. It’s just their dynamic just like Red compliments both him and Simon like a broken record.

Good boys.

Gorgeous.

Oh—oh you feel so good

I can’t breathe

You’re too big

“You’ll tell me if it hurts,” she murmurs as she corkscrews three fingers. Soap lurches and Ghost slams his cock deeper, tip nudging the back of his throat. He chokes. Drool. Spit. There’s lube slicking the insides of his thighs. 

Johnny feels the rubbery head of the toy breach him. There’s a muted burn, but nothing painful. Red gingerly pushes into his ass inch by careful inch. Her nails skate down his spine, one of her hands finds his erection. She pumps him slow as honey as she begins to thrust. Short, shallow strikes of the fake cock knock against his insides. It feels good–better than good. He’ll probably die.

She fucks him in time with Ghost fucking his mouth. She punches deeper, hits his prostrate. 

She’s a little too talented at this and he wonders what she does with Simon when he isn’t around. 

“Duchess,” Simon groans as he leans over Soap’s back. He must grab Red’s chin because he yanks her forward, driving her cock far into Soap to the point that he cries out. Muffled. Full.

She’s in his guts, which is always where he wants Red to be. She’s in his blood–around his ribs. Simon pierces him from the front and Red stabs at him from the back and somewhere they’ll meet in the middle. They’ll impale him, crack him down the sternum. 

He can hear them kissing–wet and indecent.

“Johnny,” she croons when Simon allows her to breathe. “You’re doing so so well, baby.”

He blushes–turns all hot and feverish. He shoves back against her, silently demanding more.

He always wants more from them. Needs it. 

Let me in. Let me go. Let me join. 

He feels Simon spasm in the meat of his throat–pulse and throb when he finds his release. A beating heart in Soap’s mouth. He’d take him to the hilt if he wanted.

“Johnny,” Simon whimpers. “Fuck—that’s perfect. Good—-good work, soldier.”

It’s so fucking rare. A gem in all of Simon’s cool stoicism. 

Soap finishes at the offering.