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It’s been a while :) this will be a long post and I’m sorry.

Most of you know that I left Tumblr in early October due to being doxed and receiving an anonymous ask with my last name that is not accessible from this account.

I wanted to give some background about a situation that happened here in May 2024 that has led up to this. Although I created this account in 2021/22 I wasn’t active. I did not become active until I got into COD, and before that, I had only been on fandom Twitter.

After all that has happened below came a simple message on October 7th. “Hi Mrs._____.” With all that has happened I feel that you can put two and two together on who is threatening me in this illegal and terrifying way. My information is not public on this account. I do not and have not shared even my first name much less my last.

I was not familiar with Tumblr fandom “protocol” and used creators' gifs and edits to supplement my own ideas and comments. I was not claiming their work as my own but added additional comments or explanations to the posts I was making. As it has been for many users Tumblr became an outlet and my safe space for fandom-related things.

Several months into my newly active COD phase I was reached out to about the usage of creators' gifs. I was unaware and attempted to apologize and to ask for advice on how GIFs worked and how I should move forward in the future. At the time I was unaware that making gifs and posting them on Tumblr also made them searchable in the gif post search.

After realizing my mistakes with using creators content without credit I corrected myself, apologized, and blocked the creators to prevent myself from accidentally interacting with them and possibly causing problems in the future.

Because of this, their friend created the post below, and those involved have been sending anonymous asks to me and those who have interacted with me about once a month.

June 10th I made the post below because I started to get anon asks

June 11th I extended it

July 30th I extended it again

I have gotten several anonymous asks since than, the most recent being in August, saying that I hadn’t apologized and that I will be “outed” again as a GIF stealer. In the beginning you can see I responded but after the next couple, still repeatedly accusing me, I chose to delete them.

I have been quiet about this in the past months because I have moved on and have wished to put this behind me, but this has gone too far. With the support of some wonderful friends I have decided to speak up because this is not fucking okay to do to someone.

I am not blacking out the names of those who have threatened to harass me because I am refusing to shrink into fear. Six..SIX months ago when this happened I realized my mistakes and I have changed and apologized. I have moved on, I ask that those who are harassing me do the same.

courtana. collinnmckinley. deadbranch. and those who are anonymous

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The Love You Want

cw: none for now || mistrust, johnny being a flirt, ghost lowkey setting this up knowing the consequences, birthday trope

She hates when he leaves.

Ghost had been deployed for months before being allowed to return, and a mere two days later, he was called back to service. All Ghost had told her was “a while” when she'd asked how long he'd be gone this time; every time Ghost was deployed, they argued. She couldn't help herself- he was always gone for so long and it always hurt her, not because he was leaving due to his job, but because she'd be alone once more.

Previously, she'd told Ghost it was fine that he was deployed, that he'd be gone for extended periods of time, but over time it really started to bother her. Thus, leading to the current situation.

A knock sounded on the door of their apartment, and peeping through the hole, she saw a man standing there with flowers, chocolates, and a ridiculous mohawk. She debated on leaving him there and sneaking away from the door quietly, but her phone vibrated in her pocket, and a quick check proved it was Ghost.

‘Happy birthday, love’

She reluctantly unlocked the deadbolts and the extra locks on the door before slowly opening it, peering at the other man, on guard. “Can I help you?” she asked softly, fingers curling around the pepper spray hanging behind the door for situations such as these.

“Aye, lass,” came his deep, gravelly voice, as if he growled the words. “Ghost sent me. Said ya get lonely, and wanted to give ya a present for yer birthday.”

She narrowed her eyes a little, obviously not trusting this man. “I don't know who Ghost is,” she replied with practiced precision, well-trained by Ghost within the first few months of their relationship to lie when someone mentioned him or asked for him.

The man just huffed a laugh, nervous, shifting on his feet. “O'course ya do. Big scary bastard in the special forces. Simon Riley. Spooky fucker that wears a mask.”

Just then, before she could proceed to lie further, her phone started vibrating like crazy. Keeping an eye on the man at the door, she checked her phone- Ghost, naturally.

‘Let him in, dove’

‘It's just Johnny’

‘I sent him’

‘Baby, let him in, it's alright’

She heaved a sigh before pocketing her phone and shutting the door to fully unlock it, the chain removed from its slot, and reopening the door to ‘Johnny’. “Come in,” she sighed, placing her full trust in Ghost and turning her back to the Scottish man to start making herself and him a cup of coffee.

She can hear Johnny moving behind her, hyper-vigilant to his every move, tracking the sounds of his footsteps and even the way he breathed. Ghost had instilled this kind of panic, this kind of mistrust in her early on into their relationship, reinforcing it over the past few years. Hell, he praised her for it.

She listened as Johnny set the flowers on the kitchen counter behind her, as he set the chocolates beside it… and another item that she had no idea he even had. She only turned when coffee was in both mugs, making hers the way she liked it, offering it to Johnny black.

“So, bonnie… Ghost has a gift for you.”

“My name isn't Bonnie,” she grumbled, misunderstanding Johnny as she was a silly little American girl. She'd never even met someone from Scotland before.

Johnny only snickered and grinned, stepping aside to reveal the beautiful lilies on the counter, the petals a mix of a soft yellow, and yellow mixed with pink. Her absolute, literal favorite flowers. Either Johnny was a serial killer who was super lucky, or Ghost really did send him. She naturally gravitated closer to the flowers, hesitant, cautious, eyeing Johnny from the corner of her eye as her fingers brushed the stems, the soft petals.

She murmured a soft thanks to him as she turned to fetch a vase from one of the cabinets, rinsing out the dust, adding lukewarm water to the vase and mixing in the plant food that came with the pretty- beautiful- flowers. She didn't get flowers often, as they died quickly and Ghost was more of a material man, but she still absolutely adored getting flowers.

Turning with the vase in hand, she gingerly settled the flowers into it and set it in the middle of the dining table, looking extremely pleased.

“You've got more, lass,” Johnny gently reminded her, and she turned to be met with an honest-to-God box of her favorite chocolates, and a wrapped mystery gift. She furrowed her eyebrows a little, assessing the wrapped gift, running through whatever it could be. It was as long as her arm, and about as thick as it, too. It was quite big… big enough to be a bomb. Well, maybe not that extreme; Ghost did say he sent Johnny, so surely he must trust this man enough to not destroy her and their apartment.

Cautiously, like a stray dog being met with fresh food from a stranger, she began to open the gift. She was careful with the wrapping, as if it'd blow up if she went any quicker or less careless, and after a moment, the gift was revealed.

A really, really nice monitor, that came in the box with a pretty pink keyboard and mouse, and a… oh my God, a mini PC! Her lips parted in sheer surprise, letting her guard down slightly in glee and shock. Johnny simply grinned, as Ghost had told him why he was getting this specific thing for her.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, excitement at the levels of a kid on Christmas, but it was June. “Thank you, Johnny, thank you, holy fuck!” She grinned right back at him, her carefully constructed walls starting to crumble. She fished out her phone to text Ghost, thanking him profusely, to which he responded with a heart.

‘i'm giving you the sloppiest toppy when you come home for this’

All Ghost responded to that with was a thumbs up, which made her huff a laugh at how ancient he must be.

Johnny helped her set up the mini PC as well as the monitor, even installing Steam for her before awkwardly standing there as she immediately busies herself with downloading and buying games to play.

“Well, lass, I’ll leave you to it,” Johnny says after a minute, offering her a smile. “But before I go… here. Happy birthday, bonnie.”

She turns, confused, as Johnny sets a tiny wrapped box in her palm, carefully unwrapping it to find a beautiful bracelet. It had butterfly charms on it in pastel, Easter colors, which so happened to be her favorite. “How did you…?” she asked softly, in awe of the beautiful jewelry.

“Have a little birdie in my corner,” he teased, but it was true; she figures Ghost told him everything she likes to properly get her gifts, or to help ease her anxiety and fear of a stranger.

She doesn't think- which would get her killed if Johnny was a worse man than he is- before she gently wraps her arms around his waist in a brief, soft hug. Her perfume filled Johnny's nose, sticking to his shirt, and he'd immediately fall in love if this wasn't his best friend's girlfriend.

“Thank you, Johnny,” she murmured, immediately working on putting on the bracelet and failing. Johnny stepped in, deft fingers expertly clipping the bracelet onto her wrist, before pulling away.

“Aye, looks right bonnie on you,” he murmured, still in her space. Their faces were somewhat close, his eyes drifting from hers to her lips, then back to her eyes immediately as if he'd spook her. He did.

She took a little step back, flustered, frustrated with herself. So Ghost was gone for a month and she immediately gets hot and bothered around another man? She hates herself.

“I oughta be goin’, lass,” Johnny expertly suggested, picking up on her feelings and that he'd probably overstayed his purpose of being here. “It was nice to meet ya. I'm sure I'll be seein’ ya.” With a two-fingered salute, Johnny let himself out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

She scrambled to turn all of the deadbolts and locks on the door, safe once more… but not from her thoughts.

All she could think about was how guilty and angry she was, that she seriously considered kissing Johnny right then. How lonely was she that it was even an option in her head? Ghost would surely kill her. God, Ghost. Does this count as cheating, even if she didn't do anything? She was spiralling. God, she hates herself.

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Gaz and Ghost

are the worst combination to fuck. No, not because they don't fuck good. But because they are too good. They bounce off each other, encouraging each other to push your limits.

Content Warning- Breath play, blowjobs, anal fingering, dub-con, after care, PiV sex, creampie, face shots.

Ghost has you folded in half with Gaz's cock down your throat. Your head is dizzy and pleasure racks your body with every thrust of Ghosts huge cock. They've pulled multiple orgasms from your body leaving you a wet, pliant mess on the bed.

Everything is overstimulating. Gaz cards his fingers through your hair as he thrusts his cock into your mouth, watching drool drip down your chin. Ghosts happy trail brushes against your clit makes your thighs tense and hips jerk under his weight.

Gaz says something but you can't hear it over the white noise in your head and the sounds of skin on skin but you feel when Ghosts thumb teases the tight rim of muscle below his cock. Your eyes widen and dart between the two men whose brown eyes are focused completely on your reactions.

Ghost scoops up the slick leaking out from where he has you plugged and spreads it across your hole. Your breathing picks up and Gaz pushes his cock further down your throat causing you gag and sputter on it.

You look up at Gaz who looks at you with a mixture of cruelty and adoration as Ghost pushes his thumb inside. Just as Ghost does that Gaz pinches your nose closed and pushes his cock as far as it'll go down your throat.

You thrash and try to kick out of Ghost's grip as he pushes a second finger into your ass and begins to thrust again. Your vision begins to form black spots as you struggle to breathe around Gaz's cock and any sense of air gets punched out with Ghosts thrusts as his cock abuses your cervix.

"Come on doll," Gaz murmurs as he trails a hand down your abdomen and begins to rub at your clit. "Cum and I'll let you breathe."

You're still thrashing as the pleasure mounts up and everything gets darker and darker. Just as you think you'll pass out before you can cum Ghost curls his fingers in your ass and your back arches up off the bed as the dam breaks unexpectedly.

You feel yourself clamp down on his cock and Gaz finally lets you breathe. He fists his cock and his cum splashes warm across your face and Ghosts hips stutter to a stop as he fills you up. You gasp and feel tears rolling down your cheeks as the black fades from your vision.

"Good girl," Gaz praises as he wipes some cum from your cheek with his thumb and pushes it between Ghosts lips.

"You did so well fer us," Ghost whispers as he lets your legs go. "I'll get the towel okay?" You nod as you begin to hiccup. Gaz presses his lips to your forehead as he continues to whisper how good you did and how they'll pamper you for the next two days at least

A/N: @ghouljams the brainworms got me at last.

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Dry humping with sick!Soap? Poor guy is feeling under the weather and just wants to feel good dang it! And who are we to say no when he’s being so pitiful and giving the puppy dog eyes??

(jokes on us though when we end up sick anyway two days later 😑)

(Not quite what you asked, but maybe next part we'll get there)

Roommate Soap part 3 (18+)

He’s like that when you get off work.

It’s rare that he makes it home before you, so you’re a little surprised to find him stretched out on the couch, tucked in with a box of tissues and the TV remote.

You’ve actually never seen him sick before. With whatever-it-is he does as a job, they always make him work through illness, as if he’s some invaluable specimen to the company that no one can spare. But today apparently, the stars have aligned and his snotty ass gets to recover at home. On your only couch.

“How is it?” you ask, once you’ve hung up your coat and grabbed a snack from the kitchen. You’ll probably get it in a couple of days anyway, so it would be nice to know what’s coming for you.

“I’ll live.”

He does look miserable. That throw blanket is a little too short for him, so his socks are peeking out the bottom while he keeps it scrunched up under his chin.

“Can I sit?” You come to a stop in front of the couch and nudge at his knee with yours.

“Take the chair,” he grumbles, eyes never leaving the screen.

“But then I can’t see the TV.”

That royal pain in your ass doesn’t even answer, just lifts his eyes momentarily to your annoyed face, and then studiously ignores you.

Normally you’d find something to do in your room and leave him be, but… you’ve missed him. He’s been gone so much lately, and the apartment has felt dark and soulless for weeks.

As if compelled by a gravitational force, you make a quick decision and plant your ass down on the one empty space, the little bit of cushion in front of his hips.

“Christ,” he mutters, draping your arm over the top of his head so he can see past it.

You absently ruffle his hair, and then linger longer than you should, running your fingers through that stupid Mohawk. His skin does feel extra hot, poor guy. He’s like a heated blanket against your backside right now.

A bout of coughing from below has you running your hand across his shoulder instead, in what you hope translates into a sympathetic motion. Sympathy, that’s all this is. You weren’t trying to touch him, it just happened naturally, through no fault of your own.

“‘S more comfortable down here,” he mumbles, tugging your waist towards him.

“There’s no room.”

Lie. There’s definitely room, with these deep cushions. You’ve spooned on here with people plenty of times before.

“I’ll make room.”

So you end up snuggled into this wall of hot muscle, trying to ignore the heavy arm draped over your waist and the way your ass is shoved up against his crotch.

This is decidedly not roommate behavior, but it’s allowed because he’s sick, and you don’t feel like fetching the blanket off his bed to keep him warm. Who knows, maybe he’s delirious, and won’t even remember snuggling with you.

Cuddling? Snuggling? Is it the same thing? It does feel more like cuddling, with the way his fingers keep playing with the back of your hand, running softly up and down your forearm. It’s turned into active touching at some point, and you’re pretty sure it’s not your fault.

Okay, so maybe your socks end up entwining a little with his socks. Maybe you’re not really paying any attention to what’s on TV, because is… God, he’s holding you at this point, and it’s doing unforgivable things to your belly. There’s the most bizarre flutter that keeps going through it, all warm and interested.

Interested in him. Your very off-limits roommate who you may or may not think about a lot when he’s gone. That guy. That guy is giving you butterflies for no good reason.

“Missed you,” he mutters, so quiet you barely hear it.

“Yeah,” you breathe, while his fingertips trace the spaces between your knuckles, sending a flutter to a completely different part of your body.

Delirious. Feverish. Allowed.

“Do you want anything?” you ask, trying to be helpful.

Except he goes tense behind you, as if he didn’t understand the simple question.

“Tea?” you prompt. “Soup?”

“Mm. No thanks.”

Did he think you meant something else? Something… god, you can’t even bring yourself form the mental words.

Sexual attraction, that’s all this is. Your body likes his body, and that’s hardly a good enough reason to throw away a perfectly good roommate situation.

You need to move. Get up, put some distance between yourself and this insane urge to rub your whole body up against him. You just need to have a shred of self control for once, and say goodnight, for both of your sakes.

“I think I’m going—“

“Can I kiss—“

You both talked at exactly the same time, so you snap your jaw shut in horror, for a second convincing yourself that it was you who let that slip.

No, no that was him. His rough voice was the one that crossed over that one, vital boundary, at the same time that you were attempting to run away from it.

Silently you peel yourself off of him until you’re sitting upright, and then rotate your head to get a look at his face.

Wide, feverish eyes blink up at you in horror, as if he’s just as shocked at what just happened. It was him, right? You didn’t say that, he did.

“Johnny…”

“For— forget it. Didn’t mean that.”

He screws his eyes shut and wraps his hand around his head as if it aches. “That was— uh— not how I meant…”

“Yeah, that would be…” you laugh nervously, trying to get a grip. “Anyway, I think I’m going to go to bed, or…” You glance at your phone, and find it woefully early for anything of the sort. “…maybe change, or something.”

“Alright.” His voice has a heavy layer of relief that you’ve decided to avoid the topic altogether.

It’s a stupid topic, and shouldn’t be talked about, ever. And definitely not thought about, or pictured in detail.

You somehow manage to drag yourself away from him, and then find yourself in your room, as if you flew there without realizing. Your mind seems to crawl to him, over and over, lingering on the details of his face.

That’s what you’re thinking about, as you get out of your work clothes and into some soft sleeping pants and a tank top. You’re thinking about kissing him.

It should repulse you, considering he’s sick and also your roommate. It shouldn’t be extra thrilling to imagine his hot lips against yours, finally discovering exactly how compatible your bodies are with each other. You shouldn’t want to take care of him sexually, but you do. That’s always been the problem.

Fuck him, by the way. Fuck Johnny MacTavish for being so un-roommate-able.

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holy fuck

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Send this to all your favourite moots and pass the pumpkin round! KEEP THE PUMPKIN TRAIN GOING 🎃🖤🎃🖤🎃 babes 🫶🏼

i'll kiss you

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i think a tear just rolled down my thigh-

Un-evil

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

This is filthy. Short and downright filthy.

Crossposted on AO3.

18+ (Can't stress this enough)

Word count: 2k

CW: smut. that's it. that's the plot. it's just PWP. it's got a little fluff at the end, but it's smut.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Pain should be something evil, shouldn’t it? Yet you’re mostly positive that Simon’s hands aren’t evil – at least, not when they land on you.

But it's hard to prove your words right when he has his fingers curled into a tight fist around a handful of your hair. It's difficult, if anyone were to see, to convince them that he isn't trying to split you in half, by the way he has you curve your back in an impossible angle.

However, you’d gladly give a Ted talk about how un-evil he is being.

Naturally, the image might not seem the most innocent, so you’d have to work tirelessly to sound convincing. On all fours on the mattress of his own bedroom, with your feet dangling off the edge of the bed. Curled toes and stiff calves. Head so thrown back that your eyes are locked to the ceiling – or, well, they would be.

If they hadn’t been rolling back for the past – what? Night? What time is it, exactly?

In truth, the only thing you’re seeing is the back of your eyelids. Luckily the ceiling ain’t all that to look at.

Your throat is so tight and coiled that your breaths come out ragged and – bloody fucking hell – almost pained. And again, there is a bit of pain. A pinch of it. 

It would be a lot, with your hair being pulled and your back forced into an arch, but the pleasure is just so overwhelming you feel nothing else. The sting of your scalp and the ache of your spine only enhance what’s happening at the other end of you. 

How good he’s fucking you.

It’s deranged, honestly. 

Someone must be thinking a bleeding homicide is occurring in the Ghost’s quarters. You'd love to have some containment, acting a little more prude even if he's pounding his cock right into you something fierce. Maybe mewl and moan and be all breathy and shy. 

But your neck is so thrown back that the groans coming out of you are mostly punched out by the man himself each time he thrusts in and simultaneously pulls back at your hair to slam you against himself.

On the other hand, his grunts are muffled by the fabric of his stupid balaclava. 

Before the whole ordeal started, you told him you wouldn’t fuck him if he wore that thing.

“Not even sure you wash it, L.T.” You’d said, smirking and sounding so proud of having something to mock him for – because he's always so bloody perfect on the field, isn't he.

But he’d shut your mouth spare minutes later, when he’d throw you on your back on his bed, making you feel like you weighed a pound and few spare coins. Lifted his mask up to his nose. Snatched your khakis and knickers off all at once.

And ate you out with such fervor and insistence you were almost positive you’d stopped breathing for a while during the whole meal.

Then, he’d taken off the mask, wiped his mouth with it after you’d soaked it with your orgasm, and put it back on.

“Washed it now.”

Smug cunt.

But now pride and ego and whatnot feel like fickle things, much like your aching back, burning throat, and the impending cramps in your calves.

Now, as your mind squabbles in a puddle of itself, almost disassociating, Simon must notice it. And oh, he doesn’t like that in the slightest. Where are you going, with your pretty little head, when all your blood should be pumping down to where he needs you warm and wet.

“Come back ‘ere,” he grunts, bending forward and pulling your head further back at the same time. He hooks one arm around your front so that he can keep you up when he notices you're all loose and flaccid.

Palm flat to your chest, he presses you flush against his own.

His eyes are hooded and heavy as they lock with yours. Your face is so flushed and sweaty you must look on the brink of collapse, and he can’t deny it has him a little worried.

“Good?” He asks gruffly, and although concerned, his onslaught on your pussy is relentless.

You smile, all teeth. Your lips have drool smeared all over. Your eyes are glossy and heavy. He's been pounding into you for the past hour, you came into his mouth once and on his cock at least twice. The sounds he's punching out of your lips are raunchy and downright pornographic.

It makes something weird and warm swim in his chest.

Fucking hell.

“Words, love.” It’s a demand, but it’s not said unkindly. He’s more than alright with the idea of fucking you stupid, but not so much with the thought of fucking you into a blackout.

And when you don’t respond and get lost in your body again, eyes rolling back once more, he harshly tugs at your hair. “Sergeant.”

Tears are prickling the corners of your eyes when you open them. However, the contrast is striking, with the wheezing moan that concomitantly leaves your lips. 

You fucking like it, don’t you? Dirty slag.

A discovery, you are. Truly.

He loves it. 

“Solid,” you stutter. Your voice is raspy and wet. "Sir."

He loves that too. 

And admittedly finds it almost humorous, how he can make you unravel like that. You came to his door that night, all commanding as if you had any right over him, saying the two of you should stop dancing around each other and get it over with. That you’re adults and that if he was going to use the regulations excuse you were going to blow a gasket because everything you lot do on the field is against the so-called rules, hence a shagwould be the least of you two’s problems.

He hadn’t even had time to rebut. You were so right it hurt his pride. So, he fucked all that arrogance out of you.

And God, did it feel good. You felt good.

You were right, after all. He won't tell you, though. Doesn't need to chub up your ego any further, it's already fighting for space with his own.

He hums at your response. Leaves the hold around your torso and you flop forward like a wet rag, face first in the sheets.

Simon grabs your hair to lift you up, delighted to hear your ecstatic laugh as your head is yanked back once again. 

He growls, “Good fuckin' girl."

And he rams into you again, using the grip on your hair as leverage. Your groans are guttural and fierce, so loud that even he is a little worried someone might eavesdrop on some of them. 

Of course, this is no time for worries and concerns, all sublimated by the scorching heat between your legs. Warmest fucking place he’s ever been in. 

‘S a lot to say, he thinks, since he’s been through hell and back already.

However, he does feel a little merciful. Sure, you’re heavenly in this position, completely at his service, but it’s been a while and you must be aching. You're going to wake up, later, with the worst back pain of your life and a few cracking joints. 

Right, not that he cares. But you’re already a pain to deal with when you’re all healthy and cracking jokes and smiling like you give two shits about him, he can’t imagine how whiny you must be when you’re knackered and it's because of him.

He bends forward, then, chest to your back, and curls his free arm around your belly. Fingers sneakily reach down and trace your pussy. Palm cupping your mons while his ring and middle finger outline your lips. For just a second, he settles at the base of his cock, feeling how the shaft plunges so easily right inside of you. The stretch of your hole sucking him in. How wet you are – Christ.

Like this, he has his mouth next to your ear, but he’s not pounding into you with the same fierceness he’s used until now. And your voice has dulled, probably because he’s relented the grip in your hair, letting your head loll forward.

He looks at you through the haze of sex, trying to push through the mist of bliss you’ve shrouded him in. And your face is different. Your eyes are wide, staring blankly ahead, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. 

He panics for a moment, but it quickly melts away when he pushes in a little deeper and you keel over with a groan. He must be hitting something new, something different. 

Something good.

Which is why he hits it again. And again. And you keen and moan, fisting the sheets and punching the mattress. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, look at ya.” He rumbles with a chuckle you can feel rippling in his chest against your back.

In the meantime, because he is so un-evil, the hand he had on your pussy finally finds purchase on your clit. He can feel how raw it must be. How stiff and puffy it is under the rough pads of his fingers.

Your breath hitches the moment he starts rubbing it. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it, because he’s found out you like it when he barks and bites. 

He’s proven right because the tears that were prickling your eyes before are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Your lips tug at the corners and you wheeze, one hand of yours grasping at the forearm of the same hand giving you bliss. Cheek to the mattress.

You dig your nails into his flesh – scar-thickened skin covered in black ink. 

You’re squirming under his weight, with your arse up and back in a pretty arch, as he works you inside and out with hands and cock all the same.

The groan you let out now truly sounds as if you're in pain. Your free hand lifts to grip the fabric of his balaclava on top of his head, as if you were trying to find purchase on his hair but found cotton instead.

“Oi,” he grunts, sounding uncharacteristically worried, but doesn’t stop until you say so.

And thank Christ he doesn’t, because mere seconds later your cunt clenches so tight around him it threatens to chop his dick off. You go ramrod stiff under him. Throat tight and allowing only the passage of mewls that pitch upward. 

Three fingers swipe side to side over your clit. He pounds into you once, twice – again, again, again, until he’s pushed out of you.

“Jesus –“ 

You’re splashing on his cock, a thick stream spraying directly on his sheets. Muffled sounds of water hitting fabric. You’re so fucking silent he bets you’ve stopped breathing as you came, because not even a second later you’re catching your breath with a guttural groan that goes straight to his dick.

He’s dumbfounded and burning, but thankfully has still enough brainpower to realize he has to fuck you through it – and so he does just that. Puts it back in and lays fully above you, flattening your front to the bed. Your thighs are quivering, and your pussy is still clenching rhythmically around him. He thrusts in more and feels tinier splashes gushing out of you each time he pulls out.

Fuck, you’re so wet he barely feels any friction. 

A whine escapes you at the intrusion, but you obediently lay your cheek on the mattress, exhausted, and catch your breath, looking over your shoulder up to him. 

You’re flushed and so pretty. Looking like an angel and not like the devil that you are, who’s just squirted over his bedsheets.

You deserve a little reward for the show you put on for him because he's surely not going to forget how your cunt fluttered around nothing when it gushed on his bed. It's going to stay imprinted in his forebrain and he's going to relive it whenever his hand won't feel like enough.

He snatches the balaclava off his head and tosses it on the floor. He sees your eyes soften at the sight of the disfigured man underneath, but he won’t have any of that – this is just sex. Just fucking sex.

Before he can have his head wander to unwanted (kinder) places, he roughly grabs your jaw and keeps fucking you raw. His lips slam onto yours in a kiss that sizzles with lust and resentment – because you can’t bring feelings into this, and he will forever hate you if you dare.

“Fuckin’ pretty,” he grunts in your face, as he ruts into you, now propped on his forearms. “Think you can do tha’ again?”

You huff. Probably not.

“Depends how – fuck – good y’ are.” As if he didn’t just wring you dry. 

He chuckles darkly, and bites down your shoulder, making you hiss. “Smartarse. Don’t you dare, now.”

“Dare what, L.T.” 

Oh, you little devil. 

“Stop with the lieutenant shite.” He chides.

You snake a hand in his palm and intertwine your fingers with his. He clenches his fist to tighten the hold because he's a weak, weak man.

“What should I call you, then?” You ask through heaving breaths, “Ain’t calling you Ghost, surely.”

He leans down and kisses your cheek.

You know my name, bird.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He grunts, and surrenders. “Simon will do.”

He feels your cheek lift under the pressure of your smile, right against his lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Simon will do.”

[phosphoracat]

Husband Ghost who is obsessed with his wife. He refuses to tell her no, whatever his wife wants, she gets. Anything she even mentions wanting ends up in their shared home. She mentions a beautiful cookware set, she finds it in the cabinets later that week. She complains that her nails are grown out, later her nail tech calls and says that Ghost has paid for a years worth of nail appointments (with tip). Anything to make his wife smile

When Ghost is home his wife doesn't have to lift a finger. He loves the idea of a "traditional marriage" but he's actually a traditional man. He comes home and and does any repairs you need on the house. He's going to buy groceries, doing car maintenance, landscaping the lawn, doing the laundry. Anything his little wifey needs.

Any hobbies she has are always encouraged and paid for by Ghost. Constantly sending packages full of cooking supplies, yarn, stationary, and paints to the house while he's gone. He always wears the things she makes for him. They are bundled in blankets she knitted while eating brownies she baked. All while you are going through the scrapbook you had made while he was on deployment.

He refuses to argue with his wife. A firm believer in "happy wife, happy life". Anything his wifey doesn't like or want to do doesn't happen. She doesn't like his tie, he's changing. She doesn't feel like going out, he's helping her out of her dress and making them hot cocoa. Nothing she can do can upset him. He's so in love with her that anything she does is perfect to him.

[phosphoracat]

She had no idea how this happened. One minute, she and the 141 were out celebrating the takedown of Hassan, discovering that Makarov has resurfaced, having a drink or two… and the next, she was beneath Johnny in his barracks.

Johnny was murmuring something in her ear, but she was so deep within her thoughts that his words didn't register until he'd pulled out and flipped her over. He said her name softly, reverently, reassuring and yet concerned. “Huh?” she'd asked softly, embarrassed that her mind was elsewhere, but Johnny simply grinned, leaning down to slot his lips against hers in a slow, gentle kiss- a complete one-eighty from the rough dicking she was getting.

“I said, yer cunt is so tight… she's suckin’ me in,” Johnny purred, hands smoothing their way up her thighs to grip her hips and *pull* her closer to him. In no time, Johnny pushed back inside, capturing her lips again in another steaming kiss, slowing his pace exponentially. His hands roamed her body slowly, paying attention to every detail, caressing her bare skin beneath the low light of the lamp on his desk, his palms finding her breasts and squeezing softly.

“Stay wit’ me, hen,” Johnny had murmured against her lips, to which she'd made some little soft noise of acknowledgement. She couldn't help the way Johnny stole her breath away, her thoughts following right behind, until all she could focus on was him. Satisfied that she was paying attention and focused on how he was making her feel, on the moment right now, Johnny climbed back to his previous pace, the bedframe knocking into the wall connecting his room with someone else's.

With her now focused and just *feeling*, she couldn't help the way her moans and whines climbed in volume, and Johnny sliding his palm over her lips did nothing to help quiet her. With his quick thinking, his fingers slid past her parted lips, and surprisingly… she was nearly silent, offering Johnny little soft noises of satisfaction and pleasure while he continued to rearrange her guts.

*Huh. If that's all it took to keep her quiet…*

Johnny couldn't hide his little smirk at his discovery, his free hand shifting in the sheets as he adjusted his weight, really putting his back into it now. After all, he was holding back before to keep her quiet, but if she was sated by a few of his fingers like this, little soft whimpers muffled around his skin… he could afford to let loose.

It took no time at all to get her off, with Johnny sitting up to use both hands while grinding his cock into her. Not long after, Johnny came with a low little growl beside her ear of how good she was for him, how hot she is, how wet she was.

A few rounds later, laying beside each other on Johnny's tiny little cot, panting for air, he'd finally asked her. “What were ye thinkin’ aboot earlier?” She'd only blushed, embarrassed, thinking back to why her mind was so occupied earlier, how she had had a sinking feeling that dealing with Makarov would cause more trouble than anyone could possibly know of.

“Nothing, don't worry about it.”

[phosphoracat]

I love you too baby

(s)creaming rn,,

please go read void's works! she has a masterlist at the top of her blog

[phosphoracat]

Ax Grinder Part 2 (18+)

Gaz/Fem Reader Zombie Apocalypse AU (part 1 here)

CW: masturbation

You can’t sleep.

Even though the summer heat has gone — and most of the mosquitoes with it — there’s something charging the air tonight that puts you on edge. You can’t decide if it’s a good energy or a warning of death, but regardless, it’s interrupting your rest.

Nick is on watch for the first part of the night, maybe that’s why. You can see him as a little smudge in the dark tree line, illuminated more than normal with a clear sky and a large moon. As if uncomfortable in your invisible gaze, his black outline shifts and disappears behind a tree.

You try not to picture him peeing, but the image confronts you anyway — dick out, tired eyes blinking hazily down at the patch of poison ivy he’s using as a toilet.

It’ll switch to the next watch soon. You’re not sure who it’ll be, but your group is large enough that you don’t have watch duty until every third day. Soon Nick will be shaking someone else awake and settling down into his sleeping bag, wrapping it tight around himself to finally warm up.

Would he enjoy having company? If you brought your own blankets over, you could make a little nest with all your things and spend a cozy night together, just touching and sleeping.

Maybe you’d do some fucking too, if you’re honest. It’s been long enough of a dry spell that you’re pretty certain that once you get some steady fingers exploring your skin, you won’t be satisfied to just roll over and sleep. He probably won’t make you cum, but you can take care of that afterwards.

More than anything, you’re just tired of pretending to be happy. You’re not allowed to drop that mask, even with Nick, so the next best thing is obviously to be selfish for once. Do something that will make you actually happy, or at least make your body feel good. You won't have to fake anything, you can just relax into whatever Nick wants to do with your body, and finally be you.

So you make a little pact with yourself, to let fate decide. It’s nearly watch change, so you’ll get up and go pee in the woods, and if Nick is back in bed at that point, you’ll join him. See? Easy. You don’t even have to make the choice, the universe will do it for you.

So you get up and wrap your smallest blanket around you, choosing a section of the woods near Nick’s bed so you won’t have to do any suspicious lurking later.

Nick definitely takes notice of your movements, but you pretend you don’t see him straightening up. Peeing in the middle of the night is normal, and there’s absolutely no way for him to guess what your plans are, just from looking at you. Your path takes you in the opposite direction of him anyway, towards a part of the woods with bigger trees and less underbrush.

But something oppressive follows you.

You think at first it’s Gaz, like maybe he got a taste for death with that beaver, and now he’s found a convenient way to get rid of you for good. But he’s always so loud when he walks. It’s one of the first things that annoyed you about him, how he can’t seem to go anywhere without disturbing all the wildlife within a mile radius.

Instead, this presence is stealthy. It’s calculating and watchful, making the hairs on your arms stand up, even with how tightly you’ve wrapped the blanket around yourself. Suddenly the bright moon feels more like a hindrance than a help, casting confusing shadows in the dense forest and making it difficult to sense movement.

Stop it, stop it. You’re the one doing this, talking yourself into things that aren’t real. You’ll be here all night at this rate, so just find a good spot and pull your pants down, already.

You’re shaking a little as you face the phantom threat and squat down, trying to convince your pelvic floor to relax and get through this vulnerable position as fast as possible.

What if Gaz has been playing you this whole time? What if the incompetence in the woods is just another part of his act, and he’s coming for you right now, ax in hand? God, how humiliating would it be to die with your pants around your ankles? You can sense the danger coming closer every second, as if it’s closing in on you from all sides.

Somehow you convince yourself to pee. Somehow you stay alive for those thirty seconds that it takes to reset your system, and then you stay crouched for another few, making some spur of the moment decisions.

And then you straighten up, hike up your pants, and run.

Unlike Gaz, you are quiet. These months spent on the run have made you excellent at stepping through greenery with minimum disturbance, even when you’re basically sprinting, as you are now. Your legs are pumping too fast to allow any thoughts to develop past the narrow-minded determination to make it back to camp.

Chest heaving, you pop through the tree line with barely a swish of ferns, and quickly take in what you see. Whichever beds have lumps can’t be your pursuer, right? There’s Doran, there’s Tim, there’s—

A subtle movement from the bed nearest to you catches your eye. It’s not the kind of shifting you’d see if someone were collecting their blankets tighter or scratching an itch. It’s a steady, rhythmic roll of blanket that you can only make out because of the brightness of the night, and the exact spot that you’re standing.

Because Gaz is smart enough to face the woods while he jerks off in bed.

And you just happen to be coming straight out of the forest like some deranged nymph, locked in place with shock while you watch the blanket ripple as he touches himself.

Why is this some… thing? Of course he masturbates, it shouldn’t be blowing your mind right now, but it is.

Gaz — horrible, disturbed, beaver-killer Gaz — needs to jerk off. He’s somehow human enough to need his own hand on his cock sometimes, rubbing himself and closing his eyes so he can imagine—

You don’t get any farther than that. You’ve just begun to wonder what he’s picturing, when he must open his eyes or something because his hand comes to a jerking halt.

And every hair on your body skitters upright to high alert.

He can see you right now. Realistically, you’re just far enough out of the trees that he can make you out just fine, clutching your blanket around your shoulders and staring at him like a pervert. He wasn’t the one in the woods. He’s been here this whole time, and now it looks like you’re here just… what are you doing?

Embarrassed heat explodes in your face, and you stumble away, back to your bed where it’s safe.

Shit. Shit. Why did you stand there so long? Why the hell were you fascinated by the proof of his sexuality? You’ve jerked off a few times out here, everyone’s allowed to do it. It’s just… it’s just different, knowing he’s so… human.

By the time you’ve wrapped your blankets around you and snuggled into the ground again, Gaz’s lump has shifted. You swear he’s turned onto his other side to face you, as if he’s trying to make you out in moonlight, all the way across the camp.

Is he angry? Is this giving him horrible ideas of other things to do to you? You clench your thighs together and ward those thoughts away, because there’s no point in forcing yourself into a higher state of paranoia. Absently you watch Nick change watch with someone else, with the idea of visiting his bed now thoroughly unappealing.

They’ve all made it a point to avoid you sexually, and maybe they’re right. Times like this, it’s for the best if you keep your pussy to yourself. It makes bad decisions.

You doze off some time later, giving up trying to make out the shadow of Gaz’s blanket from this far away. Somehow, you don’t think he finished.

————————————————

“You’re going hunting with Gaz today.”

“What?” your mouth pops open in outrage, but Doran doesn’t budge.

“We need extra rations for the trip to town. I want you collecting tinder, and any calorie dense plants you see.”

“What’s Nick doing?” you probe.

“Nick is…” An uncharacteristic expression of doubt crosses Doran’s face, as his eyes shift to Nick across the camp. “Nick’s doing firewood today.”

“I can—“

“Don’t.”

The warning in his eyes is final enough. Go with Gaz, or find some other group to put up with you. All that scheming, all those sacrifices you’ve made for these guys, and none of it matters in the end. You can’t change what you are, unless you rip your uterus out with your own hands.

He doesn’t care if you die. You only have your little foraging pocket knife, and Gaz seems to be already waiting for you at the edge of the camp, armed with the group’s prized compound bow.

Fuck them all.

“Yes, sir,” you mumble.

“Ahh, before you go. Do you still have that little knife I gave you?”

Automatically you touch your pocket. “Yeah, don’t worry.”

“Good, Rich needs it for what he’s working on today.”

Your breath catches in utter disbelief, as Doran holds out his hand for your one scrap of self defense. Oh, okay. You were terribly wrong about which one of you is the mushroom bitch.

With a fake smile, you plop your knife into his waiting palm, and turn on your heel without another word, shoulders set in resignation as you head for your hunting partner.

Gaz’s eyes slide over your shoulder towards Doran, as if he’s analyzing the interaction he just witnessed. You don’t give a fuck. You stride right past him without a word, grabbing your Trader Joe’s bag off a tree branch.

Either you’ll die today, or live, but for the first time in months, you’re seriously considering your exit plan.

——————————————————

Gaz is far less antagonizing than usual.

Maybe he’s embarrassed about what you saw last night, or maybe he’s just trying to lull you into a false sense of security, but for the first hour you barely exchange a word. Every now and then you’ll stop to gather something into your bag, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He stays a respectful distance away with the bow held loosely in his hand, seeming in no hurry as you collect calories almost individually.

You get nothing good. It’s nearing the end of your time in this location, so most of the area has been picked over already. When you finally do find something worthwhile, it’s a small patch of dandelions near the creek.

Straightening up, you’ve got about five plants grasped in your hand when you pause. It may not be much calorie-wise, but there are easily digestible vitamins and minerals there that you sorely need. You haven’t let yourself eat enough for weeks, with the misguided notion that the others would appreciate you more if you took up less space.

And here you are on your death march, agonizing over whether you’re allowed to eat a weed without permission.

Gaz is giving you a strange look, as you glance over at him with the temptation still in your hand. You should have bagged them by now, and he knows it. He’s going to tell Doran if you take them for yourself. Maybe even if you do bag them, he’ll tell them you ate some when you didn’t.

“Here.” Gaz steps forward and snatches the plants from you, hooking the bow around his shoulder to tug a piece of cloth out of his pocket.

You watch warily as he knocks dirt off the roots and wipes them down, not risking a wash in the water from the creek.

“Eat them.”

Your mouth pops open for the second time that day, totally fucking stupefied at what’s happening right now as Gaz tries to hand you the food.

Rousing yourself, you take a step back.

Gaz practically growls, extending his hand farther towards you. “Cmon, man. It’s not a big thing.”

“You’re trying to… to set me up.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He takes a bite of one of the roots, glaring at you while he chews and offers the plants again.

It’s a trap, it has to be. There’s some unknown angle he’s working, and once you take the bait, you’re toast.

“You’re gonna let your precious Doran get in the way of your survival?” he demands, tossing them on the ground. “Is that what you’re doing? Too coward to live?”

“Fuck you!” you finally sputter, kicking the weeds back at him.

“Yeah, fuck me. Fuck me real good, right?”

Your heart goes into a wild frenzy when he grabs the bow off his back, but he just tosses it onto a soft bit of grass and yanks his shirt off.

“What are you doing?” you demand, backing up another few steps.

“Having a bath.”

You quickly avert your eyes when he gets to work on the button of his pants. “In the creek?”

“You see water somewhere else?”

“We’re supposed to be hunting.” In your peripheral vision, there’s a whole lot of skin suddenly on display.

“There’s fuck-all in these woods today, and I haven’t washed in ages. I’m going for a swim.”

“That— f-fine, whatever. But I’m sure as hell not getting naked with you.”

The impulse to look is getting uncomfortably strong, so you put your hand up beside your eyes as a shield.

To your dismay, he doesn’t move. You’re pretty sure he just stands there bare-ass naked, and puts his hands on his hips as he glares at you.

“You can’t get in the water when you’re bleeding,” he says finally, like a know-it-all idiot.

“So?”

“So… This is your chance, before we travel, and before you’re… smellable.”

Fuck him, fuck him.

“You’re just trying to get me naked.”

You’re turned completely around at this point, facing a tree and crossing your arms in frustration. He’s right, but there’s no way he can just expect you to go swimming with him, this far away from everyone. He could do really bad things to you, and the other guys probably wouldn’t even care.

You don’t hear him until he makes it to the water, and there’s a disturbance in the continuous babble of the creek. Now that you think about it, he’s actually been pretty stealthy this whole trip. You haven’t once had to wince with unnecessary noise.

Liar. Faker. Manipulator, same as you.

You reluctantly turn around and glance over to the creek, meeting the cold eyes of the — okay, admittedly gorgeous — naked man. And… where the hell did he get a bar of soap?

Wrenching your eyes away, you crouch down and gather up the dandelions, shoving them in your bag. He can stuff them up his ass for all you care.

Soap. Man, when’s the last time you washed with soap?

Stop. It’s not worth it. Who cares if you feel all slimy and crusty, this is obviously a trap. He’s luring you with soap and clean skin, over to the creek so he can… press his body… on…

Fuck.

Irritated with yourself, you grab a dandelion out of the bag and furiously chew it, considering your options.

Here’s what you’ll do: You’ll go over there and get naked, and get thoroughly clean for the first time in months, and then when you get back to camp tonight, you’ll fuck Nick.

It’s the perfect plan.

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

[phosphoracat]

Ax Grinder (18+)

Gaz/Fem Reader Zombie apocalypse AU

You wish Gaz would trip on a root and die.

More specifically, you wish you could watch it happen, justifying all of your irritation from the last two weeks in one satisfying smack of skull on rock.

Instead, you watch him from across the camp, healthy as a horse and putting on his usual bullshit act, talking and laughing with Nick. Liar liar, pants on fire. 

It’s difficult enough that you’re female right now. It’s become common knowledge that the undead can smell menstruation, and most of these wilderness bands refuse to travel with women. You’ve got a three week window of settling down somewhere before you have to be on the move again, constantly on edge and looking over your shoulder for danger.

You found the one group that would let you tag along, and everything was going fine, and then Gaz showed up.

Pretty, perfect Gaz, who’s apparently made it his life’s mission to get you killed. 

Because that’s exactly what he’s doing, every time he makes you look stupid in front of the others, or refuses to sit with you. He’s painting a giant target on your back, and you do not need that right now. 

As if he can sense your glare, your enemy’s eyes slide over to you across the patch of trampled grass, and the fucker has the nerve to raise an eyebrow. That’s what makes you hate him more than anything — the fact that he knows how much he gets under your skin. He goads you with it.

“I need you to do some foraging today. You’re not cycling for another few days, right?”

“Four days,” you reply, nodding to the group’s leader who’s just stepped up beside you, silent as a cat. 

“Good. Go with Gaz.”

Your spine stiffens, and images of getting stabbed and left for dead in the woods are suddenly assaulting you. 

As if he can sense your heart beating faster, Gaz looks your way again, and practically smiles.  

“I… don’t think that’s a good idea,” you stammer, grasping for excuses. “Last time we went foraging, I had to pick out all the poisoned berries he grabbed.”

Definitely a lie, but you’re nothing if not determined to stay alive. 

“Then it’s good that you’ll be with him.”

“Sir.”

Doran stops, half turned to leave, and gives you an annoyed look. “What?”

“He’s… He doesn’t like me.”

There. It’s the first time you’ve told anyone of the unfair grudge Gaz seems to have for you, but desperate times call for a little bit of honestly, even if it means throwing yourself under the bus. 

Doran’s eyes narrow. “He’s one of our best fighters.”

The ‘…and you are not,’ lingers unsaid in the air. Useless, menstruating members of the group don’t get to have preferences. 

“Or,” you bargain, “I sneak a handful of really tasty mushrooms into my pocket, and they magically appear on your food tonight, sautéed up the way you like.”

The leader eyes you speculatively, weighing the pros and cons of giving in to your manipulations. Which is stupid, because you’re absolutely not a threat to his command. You’ve been perfectly content here, and will remain so, as long as Gaz keeps far away from you. 

“Alright. Go with Nick.”

Another day alive.

———————————————

“So what is it with you and Gaz?”

Gaz. Stupid fake name, as if it even matters what his real name is. Fake name, fake person.

“I don’t know, he seems nice,” you lie, watching the trees as your boots crunch through dead leaves. “I just like you better.”

Shameless flirting, but you really do like him. If you could pick anyone to spend the morning in the woods with, it would be Nick. 

Not that you’re actually looking for romance. Realistically, it’s too risky. Nick is just… fun.

He stops in his tracks, facing you with a concerned expression. “If he starts giving you a hard time, you tell me, okay?”

Yeah, sure. In some alternate reality where your life doesn’t depend on being as useful and likable as possible, you’ll definitely tell him.

“I will.”

You swear Nick’s green eyes flick down to your mouth for a moment, and there’s a hunger behind them. 

“Not many birds out today,” you deflect, walking again. “Think we’re getting too close to a red zone?”

“Who knows. Everything feels like a red zone these days. Hey, mushrooms.”

Finally some good news. You carefully extract the fungus and drop it in your dirty Trader Joe’s bag, wishing you could have swiped them without him seeing. You’re still indebted to Doran. 

“Want to split up?” you offer. “Meet back at the creek for water?”

“Trying to get away from me?” Nick teases, again unconsciously dropping his eyes to your mouth.

Maybe you should stay with him. It’s been so long since you’ve felt someone’s mouth on any part of you…

No, stop it. It’s not worth it. 

“How will you miss me if we’re always together?” you tease with an angelic smile. You start to cutely prace away, but trip on a vine instead.

Nick scoffs, crossing his arms as you stagger back upright. “Miss you already, sweetheart.”

Fuck. Definitely not worth it. 

The good news is, you do find a convenient patch of mushrooms. Only four, but it’ll be enough if you cook them in that pigeon fat you’ve been hiding, and a little bit of salt. Doran will be your mushroom bitch after today. 

You’ve just tucked them into your pocket when a presence makes itself known. 

It’s the same feeling you’ve had ever since Gaz arrived, that horrible prickle of awareness, and the certainty that something is gravely wrong. 

You raise your eyes to find your worst fears confirmed. Not only is Gaz currently leaning against a tree with the camp’s ax in hand, but from the way his eyes drift from your pocket to your face, he definitely just saw you hiding food. 

“Hi Gaz,” you greet as bubbly and unthreatening as you can. “What are you up to today?”

There’s this unspoken line you’ve drawn for yourself, that as long as you never acknowledge his disdain, he won’t dare to hurt you. It’s nonsense of course, but it feels a little safer, pretending the burden is on you to keep everything civil. You just have to absorb his hatred, and wait for a chance to shove him off a cliff or something. 

“Should you be out here so close to your monthly?” he asks, readjusting his grip on the ax.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

You give him a twinkly laugh, as if it was a joke. “Few more days still, don’t worry!”

“Hmm.” His eyes land on your pocket again. “Hope you’re right.”

You hate him. You hate that you have to be all bubbly and cute, carrying the mood of the entire camp every day, and they all get to have their sour moods and frowns. You’re scared too. You’re stressed to the max most days, but you aren’t even allowed to express it because you’re a woman, and they’re the ones holding the ax. 

You should be grateful that they haven’t touched you, that they’ve even allowed you to travel with them without exploiting you somehow, but you can’t seem to muster any gratitude at the moment. 

“Stay safe,” is all Gaz says before he’s turning and striding off into the trees, smashing through the underbrush with his stupid, loud feet. 

Stay safe, what a joke. You’ll be safe the day you can find a city that’s uninfected, and get yourself far away from roaming gangs of men. 

————————————————

Sure. 

Sure, let’s all celebrate the dickhead who was tasked with firewood, and somehow came back with a beaver slung across his back. 

Gaz’s stupid accent grates on your ears, while he and the others circle jerk each other over the roasted meat. 

“Don’t know what we’d do without you, man.”

You’d have one less mouth to feed.

“Ahh, it was nothing. Handy with an ax, is all.”

Handier with an ax in his neck, as far as you’re concerned. 

Again, you decline a second serving with a little giggle and a pat on your still-hungry stomach. It’s just one of those things you have to do, so they don’t view you as a burden on the group. You have to sit there chewing on some roots and watch their stupid mouths chewing up all that mineral-rich red meat. You have to survive. 

“We’re packing up in three days,” Doran announces as soon as he’s finished off his mushrooms. “According to Gaz, there’s an abandoned town East of here, we’ll be checking it for supplies.”

Gaz’s eyes find yours across the fire, half-shielded by his dark lashes. He stares at you for a moment, as if he knows exactly which supplies will be pulling everyone away from the safety of the woods. You’re down to one tampon box, and everyone knows what happens when you have to free bleed. 

You look away, pretending not to see his silent accusation.

For now the mood is light, and the full bellies give you a night off from happy-duty. You’re half tempted to dig up that packet of jerky you hid in the roots of the oak tree, but you have to be smart. You’ll want that food when your period hits and your calorie needs go up. Better to save your good moods for when they count. 

A large hand lands on your thigh, and you fight the flinch your body wants to do, turning instead to smile at Nick.

“Good job foraging today,” he tells you, squeezing his fingertips into your leg in a comforting way. “You’re always a treat, aren’t you?”

There’s that look again in his eyes, now that the comfort of a hot meal has allowed him to think past survival. It’s like you can see the teenage boy poking through, as he smiles at you and slides his hand a fraction lower on your thigh. 

“Nick,” comes Doran’s voice, not quite a reprimand, but too urgent to be casual. 

Instantly the warm palm leaves your leg, and Nick whips his eyes away. 

One of the other men start a funny story from his past, one you’ve heard before, and you try to assess the strange feeling in your stomach. It’s a mix of fear and excitement, as the phantom touch of his fingers remains on your inner thigh. 

Do you want to have sex? You haven’t allowed yourself to pursue anything yet because of the risk of pregnancy, but surely you can just be careful. There’s lots of things you can do that aren’t penetrative. Hell, anal could be on the table, even. It’s just that it’s been so long since anyone’s held you, and you deserve a reward for surviving. 

If you got killed tomorrow, would you really be happy that you deprived yourself? Would it really be so bad to have a naked sleepover in someone else’s bed roll, just once?

Amid the laughter and jokes, you find your gaze wandering to your enemy across the fire, and his eyes just as easily slide back to you. 

In that moment, staring at each other across the flames, neither of you have to pretend.  

Everyone else is absorbed in their bonding ritual, but you and Gaz are being honest with each other. That easy going smirk is nowhere to be seen on his face, as he flips a small knife between his fingers and holds your eyes. Your cold, hate-filled eyes. He’s the only one you get to drop your mask with, because he already knows exactly who you are.

A liar.

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

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omg farmhand price knocked something loose in my brain……

thinkin about reader’s dad coming running bc he hears his daughter yelping for her daddy across the farm only to find her in the barn with price, puffy-eyed and swollen-lipped. it’s good thing he doesn’t catch on to reader’s inside-out shirt or the scratches peeking out of price’s collar.. 🤭

AHHHH YES omg omg omg

farmers daughter! reader x her fathers wrangler/farmer! price

he thinks his wrangler just insulted his sweet daughter by the looks of her teary eyes and the way she can’t stop sniffling.

.. what only you and price know is that you’re only crying from over sensitivity. because minutes prior, price was pulling orgasm after orgasm from you as he had you bent over a bale of hay.

the only daddy on your mind was price as his cock nudged your cervix over and over.

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no but what if reader sacrifices themself for soap in the tunnel... (implied ghoap, ghoap x reader; mcd, reader has very low self esteem, reader probably has depression, mw3 spoilers)

you know how important he is to ghost. everybody does- it's hard to not notice that they are practically symbiotic- feeding off of each other's laughs, near inseparable. you never see one without the other.

and compared to him, you are nothing more than a burden to the team, you figure. you do not carry soap's explosive force, the intensity in his eyes, nor do you have half of ghost's expertise in sniping, do not carry any of his mystique. you dont- you dont deserve a second glance, much less any of their kindness. your fascination, you like to call it, towards johnny and ghost, it should be hidden under your tongue, clandestine and invisible.

nobody gets a say in how quickly you are to establish yourself as the wallflower of the 1-4-1. and by the time of mw3, nobody gets to intercept how you manage to run solo in a team, no matter how much they try to reach out. they have each other. why would they ever need you?

so in that clammy, chilling tunnel, your reactions to such an ambush are second nature- you shut down the moment johnny's shoulder is shot. tackling the enemy- the movement is so instantaneous and blurry that you do not realise that said enemy is makarov himself-onto the asphalt and plunging your knife in and out of him until the muzzle of a gun presses against your head and it's bullet lodges into the back of your brain. you die instantly, silently, not hearing how johnny screams your name instead of your callsign, how simon, for the first time, seems uncoordinated, desperate like a dog as he fumbles to revive you. you had never thought that they cared, never believed they would look at you with reprocipricated admiration. and moments before you die, you realise that you will never know how much of a presence you were in their lives, and you close your eyes knowing that they will be okay together. but you arent around long enough to see how they crumble, and you die with the belief that in this world, you are none other than a replacement. you never seem to stay around long enough to see how simon, johnny, love you.

and you never will.

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i feel like karlach and soap really would get along. she's so sweet, looks so scary and mean, but would die for her friends, loyal as ever. soap is very much the same, but instead of being sweet looking scary, he looks sweet and is scary. he wouldn't have it in him to be mean to karlach, though, so of course he'd be extra sweet to her.

i feel like gaz and wyll would get along simply because their interests align. wyll got himself mixed up with mizora and her pact, much like gaz seemed to sign up for more than he was ready for, like wyll. both of them don't regret their choices in the slightest, and are extremely morally good. i think gaz would be angry on wyll's behalf about what occurs when wyll doesn't kill karlach.

and then, ghost, i feel like, would absolutely despise everyone in camp. astarion has ulterior motives, gale is annoying as shit, laezel is too bloodthirsty, i feel like he'd only get along with shadowheart and barely. both are mysterious, reluctant to offer information about themselves, driven to their missions without much question. any orders price gives ghost, he follows, much like shadowheart and shar. she'd often leave ghost alone, not seek him out, give him space because she understands him to an extent, and ghost would appreciate it so much that he'd simply attach himself to her.

and finally, i believe that price would get along with halsin really well. halsin is calm and collected, can focus well enough on his tasks to restrict himself from other things, much like price does when he's really determined. nothing else matters but the mission. halsin is protective, is an arch druid, and loyal to a fault. price is the exact same way, being the captain of tf141, loyal to each of his boys, so protective that he often disobeys his own orders for the men.

i could go on but i don't wanna

i seen a tiktok earlier that was like "karlach from bg3 and soap from mw2/3 would get along" and it kinda tracks and now i'm spiralling mixing all 3 of my hyperfixations like the old nickelodeon mash ups where timmy turner and jimmy neutron hung out. i wanna write an xmen fic but its cod characters

I don’t know anything about bg3 but just from googling pics I’m picturing a Dragon/Donkey relationship.

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18+ John Price/Fem Reader — light bondage, oral (both receiving), PIV

John Price is the type to let you tie his hands to the headboard.

Actually, “let” might be the wrong word. You’ve barely voiced the idea before he’s shuffling through random shit in the garage, looking for a serviceable piece of paracord.

You don't exactly know how to tie knots, but there's no time to look up instructional videos now because he's already got his shirt off and he's arching himself back on the bed, testing the integrity of the cheap bedframe.

God. He’s got his chin tipped back to reveal that stubbly expanse of throat, muscles in his arms twisting and flexing while he gives each bar a proper tug. His jeans have slipped down a little, so his stupid happy trail is out for the world to see, and all you can think about is how you’re about to grind your pussy on it—

"It’ll do.” John glances back down the bed at you, raising a brow at the way you're frozen stiff with one knee up on the bed and the rope hanging uselessly in your hands.

“O-okay, great,” you stammer.

“Go on, then.”

You balk, for some reason unprepared for it happening so suddenly, with no foreplay or anything. For some reason he’s just expecting you to crawl up the bed and fasten him there, and then it’ll be your job to get you both turned on…

“Oy.” Your boyfriend’s voice breaks you out of your worries, and he jerks his chin up at you. “C’mere.”

Thoughtlessly you just obey, bringing the rope with you and eyeing him warily, even though his hands remain casually grasping his chosen bars.

“This one,” he instructs, inclining his head towards his left hand. “Give it a few wraps before you tie it.”

That’s not his “giving orders” voice. That’s his soft voice, which he usually reserves for when you’re feeling scared or overwhelmed. Lately you hear it most often when he’s got your shoulders caged in with his arms, hovering over you and watching your face screw up when you realize you’re going to cum.

Focus, for the love of god.

You set your jaw and do four wraps for good measure, threading it in a pretty figure eight between his wrist and the metal frame. You’re reduced to securing it with a couple of granny knots, but it should hold okay.

“Perfect,” he assures you. “May have to sit on me to reach the other.”

Okay, sure. You only have the one piece of cord, so you bring it with you as you sling your knee over your boyfriend’s chest, and then hunch down to loop—

You gasp when there’s suddenly a mouth on your bare inner thigh, that familiar feeling of his beard sensitizing your skin.

“So this was your plan all along,” you tease, trying to get the cord tied before your pussy steals too much blood from your brain.

“Plan? I’m tied to the fucking bed.” Yet he doesn’t seem to have any trouble running his lips in slow kisses up your thigh, to the front of your underwear.

“That doesn’t mean you’re—“ you stifle pathetic sound as he runs the flat of his tongue up and down the fabric— “…trustworthy.”

“Then you’d better hurry.”

You’re trying, it’s just that your hands have gone sweaty, and he’s leaning his head forward to get your clit in his mouth, giving it distracting nibbles.

Fine. You know what? That’s good enough. You straighten up and abandon your half-assed attempt at a knot, planting a hand on his forehead to smash his head back down to the mattress.

He flexes his arms, testing the rope. “Not even a pillow for your prisoner?”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “No.”

“Cruel.”

“I’ll give you a pillow, right over your dumb face.”

John just smiles, glancing lazily down to your damp underwear and back up to your face. “Promises.”

Smiling angelically, you blindly pat your hand behind you until you feel the hard front of his pants, and squeeze.

“Christ.” His hips jerk up into that touch, and it’s a bit of a thrill knowing that’s literally all he can do. He’s at your mercy for once, and you’d be a fool not to take advantage of him.

“Is this okay?” you ask innocently.

He just laughs, flexing his fingers open and closed while you rub your palm over him. He really is quite hard, and there’s a definite flush splotching across his chest and neck. You wonder at what point of this whole setup he realized how much he’d enjoy it.

On instinct you crawl down his body and start working his belt off, watching his face and the way he can’t seem to take his eyes off your hands.

You ride him, because you can. He’s letting you use his body, so you work yourself up with deep, slow grinds, and a finger on your clit. And when you cum, it’s just your finger working you through it, so that he gets to feel every pulse and flutter wrapping around him.

You mean to stay in control, you really do, but after your brain is all mushy with your orgasm, he makes his move. Suddenly he’s got his soft voice on again, cooing encouragements at you— “Give me a little bounce, ahh, that’s a good girl. I can’t fuck you baby, so you need to keep making yourself feel good.”

It’s impossible to resist following orders, not when he keeps telling you to use him and ruthlessly reminds you to keep touching your clit. Even after you gasp through another orgasm, he’s basically guilt trips you into touching yourself through the overstimulation— (Don’t you want to be good? You tied him up, it’s the least you can do—) until your legs are shaking and your pussy gives up and betrays you with a fresh flood of wet contractions.

He makes you show him after that, pressing your cheek to the blanket and reaching a hand between your knees to spread your pussy, so he can see how sticky and desperate you made yourself.

Better clean him up. Yes, with your tongue, sweetheart. He still hasn’t cum yet.

You don’t know that your rope job lasted all of five minutes before one of his hands got free, and he’s just holding himself in place at this point, watching your pretty head bob while you take him deep in your mouth. You’re so blissed out on endorphins that you don’t notice the hand suddenly resting on the top of your head when he cums.