#CoD MW II

[mentoskova]

"Have you seen that bigboy with a skullface??"

[sakkto]

I recently play COD MW ii

[loadedberetta]

you think you're seeing things

but that... that's a leather strap, there's no mistaking it poking out from below the hem of Soap's shirt. no. the kinky fuck.

"we're on a mission, you know." you bumped his shoulder with yours while ducking behind some cover, a fleeting moment of gunfire ceasing as you did. "Ghost, no, the Captain will murder you, I suggest you hide it better" you scooted behind another large crate and advanced without waiting for an answer.

you didn't see it but he smiled.-

"they helped put it on, sweet cheeks." he rolled his shoulders a few minutes later as you secured the building. "I suggest you ask 'em too, I think Gaz has a collar or two laying around I wouldn't mind seein' on ya pretty neck." he mused and flicked his radio off as a content chuckle filtered through it from a private channel.

[confused-wanderer]

Ghost is pissed at the situation at hand, and Price is immensely pleased.

Sometimes, when Ghost refuses to relax or fall asleep, he manages to keep himself busy by sorting through paperwork, or working out or literally doing anything else. He runs on fumes, even after they extinguish, and this is just routine for him. He refuses to rest, rejects sleep and forces his tired body to keep moving.

But he knows that he will eventually succumb to sleep, so he carries a metal bottle around. Whenever he sits down, or it’s quiet, no adrenaline or stress to push him on, he makes sure to always hold onto the handle of the bottle, so if he falls asleep, the bottle crashes to the ground and wakes him up. It’s an effective system.

His sergeants, however, foiled it. Without even realising it.

The first time it was MacTavish. Soap was chattering to Ghost while the latter was looking over reports on his desk. It takes a while to notice he’s not getting any grunts in response, so Johnny glances at the man, only to realise he’s fallen asleep. And when he sees this, a soft smile spreading across his face at the sight, he notices the glint of the bottle, and realises it’s about to slip through the limp fingers. So he catches it, gently placing it on the ground before covering Simon with a blanket and walking away.

Gaz and Roach also started recognising the signs of when Ghost was asleep, and made sure to either catch the bottle when it fell or softly pry it out of the other’s hands before setting it down. It’s almost a habit for all of them, to check if Ghost was asleep, and then remove the bottle.

They’re oblivious to why he always carried it, and Price loves every moment of it. Gaz has resorted to hiding the metal bottle in unfathomable places on base and gaslight Ghost, Roach has started subtly trying to manipulate Simon to buy a bottle that’s soft and doesn’t make a sound if it falls. Soap, however, is getting increasingly frustrated at the bottle for threatening to disturb the peace of Ghost’s sleep, and is itching to blow up the bottle whenever he gets the chance.

They all started carrying an extra bottle or two on them because the only logic explanation for Ghost carrying one was because he got thirsty often, I mean- have you seen the outfit he always wears?

Ghost is pissed at why his method is suddenly failing, and meanwhile Price listens to his complaints and threats while also encouraging the boys to keep doing it.

[anunhingedme]

I love how this scene captured perfectly his charisma and charm as a leader

and this..how he babygirl the most intimidating looking man ever

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part one —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: of course i am watching tlou right now so this is what came about in my brain! i can't stop thinking about this story.

The forest is covered in a blanket of white.

You’ve been monitoring the unfamiliar area by the pond for hours. Most of it is half-frozen slush, but there’s enough liquid water left for life to visit. At least, you hope. The brittle cold laced in your bones and the pained hunger in your gut clings to this hope as you wait in position against frayed tree bark.

Desperation has brought you this far into the forest— uncharted territory. The risk is buried beneath the long week you’ve had, days that have blurred together with only death and solitude as the glue between the cracks. You are still alive, somehow. Your blood is still red. It moves. The pulse in your neck— the loudest thing in this forest.

But still, it’s quieting. Slowing.

You drag numb fingers over the bits of snow sticking to your hair, the light flakes feathering down. Then, your hand settles back on the curve of your wooden bow, whittled from oak years ago. Chiseled by hands that belonged to a friend whose corpse you’d left behind. This bow is your only momentum of him, along with the memories. But those memories are turning shallow with each day, killed by starvation. Thirst. Fear.

The clouds above the trees are grey and swollen.

Grey— an in-between color.

Somewhere between white and black, life and death.

You can feel yourself slipping closer to the grey.

Maybe you will be one of them soon— the Greys.

They are the reason for the lack of fresh meat in this forest, man and animal alike, and the reason for the loss of your companions. The smell of their molten flesh, greyed and tattered against rotting bones, has faded from the air the further you have journeyed. Over the years, you’ve grown accustomed to flaring your nostrils in constant search for their scent. Right now, as you keep your eyes on the pond, you don’t bother sniffing for them. If they come, they’ll put an end to your hunger.

There is not even much of you left for a Grey to sink its teeth in. You’ve turned slack and gangly. Your fingers could easily slip between the spaces of your ribs. Clothes hang loosely over your frame— Paul’s frayed winter coat, your sister’s trousers. You’d quickly peeled them off their dead bodies in your fleeing because your own clothes had been torn and doused in blood, unsuitable for the winter.

But that was days ago— now, you barely remember what their dead faces looked like. Grey, maybe. Empty.

Not too different than your own face as you sigh through your nose and dig the tip of your bow into the frost. Only a few hours of daylight remain. You will have to find a tree to sling yourself upon once night falls. That has been your strategy since the loss of your old camp, but you’re not sure how much longer you can keep it up. Climbing the oaks requires fuel.

You swallow the dryness in your throat, thick and tasteless, and listen carefully to the sounds around you: branches in the wind, low whistles, your own heartbeat. And then—

A new sound.

The crackling of snow beneath light footsteps.

Lifting your bow back up, your pained breath quickens in a matter of instinct as you squint through blurred vision. A deer—? You have memorized the sound of their hooves after five years of hunting them. This isn’t it. Maybe it is a lone Grey crawling through the forest towards your scrawny, awaiting flesh.

Your eyes shift around. When you finally spot the owner of the footsteps, shock skips like a stone over the blood in your veins. More than ten meters away stands a child; not too young, not too skinny. Human eyes stare intently into yours, but you keep a strong grip on your bow and take aim.

A child—?

Would your hunger take you there?

Your stomach quivers and howls and chews at its own lining, but even in your desperation, you don’t consider the idea.

You can't.

The child continues to peer at you as you shakily lower the bow. You can’t make out much from this distance, not even gender— all you see is a thick coat on their small shoulders, a hood drawn over their head. When was the last time you had seen someone so young? Children, elderly: they’d been picked off the quickest.

A child could not survive on their own—

In your weakened state, you take a second too long to catch up to this realization.

A burly arm grabs you from behind.

A blade to your throat.

The bow slips from your grip and from your unused larynx, a hoarse scream ripples.

The end came on a day of homemade marmalade and Hemingway. The morning started quietly at your sister’s northern property. A quaint house in the suburbs where her son and husband played in the backyard while the two of you spread the jam on slabs of bread. Breakfast was shared between the four of you before their days began. You were visiting. You often did, taking the four-hour bus ride from London in search of a break from tantalizing coursework. Nursing school had been your dream, but it quickly took the form of a nightmare. Their home, their small family— you found sanity in it all.

You ate with them.

Your sister took the boy to school.

Michael promised to bring curry for dinner before he left for work.

In the quiet house, you cleaned for them. You didn’t know what would happen that day as you folded their laundry and stacked toys in the bins. At noon, the neighbor you knew to be Paul knocked at the door.

“You’re her sister, right?”

He was kind-eyed and of retirement age, yet thick-boned and strong. You’d heard a few stories about the gestures he sprinkled their household with in the loneliness since his wife’s passing. On that day, he offered you a stack of books as you propped the door open. All Hemingway.

“Dropping these off for Michael. He said he was a fan.”

“I’ll make sure they get to him, thanks.”

It was funny how the end of society could bring unlikely souls into collision. When everything cracked later that afternoon, Paul would become the reason for five years worth of your survival. It started with another knock on the door— but this time, Paul knocked with grave urgency. You had paused from cleaning after his first visit. You sat on the couch with A Farewell to Arms in your grip, but when you opened the door for him again, your finger parting your place among the pages, his words caused the book to slip from your hand to the floor.

“Call your sister— Michael, both of them.”

“I— I don’t understand. Who said all this?”

“The news. Fuck— have you not been listening for the past hour?”

You called your sister with fingers that trembled. She panicked on the other end: I'm driving home with Joseph right now and the streets are insane. I can’t even get a hold of Michael - oh god - try calling him for me?

You tried. He never answered. Your sister returned. The three of you followed Paul. You learned he was an ex forest-ranger. He calmed you through the screams you heard in the distance, through the strewn of bodies that began to litter the roads. Some sliced in half, crawling. Cars battered into each other.

“They’re coming from the city.”

He packed a bag. It was a flurry. Your sister carried the weeping boy. Your stomach felt full of acid. Panic. Paul kept a radio on him as you traversed towards the treeline, away from the entanglement of screams and blood and chaos. You overheard some pieces through the static: London was in shambles. The military was closing in on itself.

It is all in the brains. An infection.

Between living and dead.

Grey, grey, grey.

That first week felt like seconds.

Paul took you to a fenced-off parcel of land he owned in the forest; a private shooting range. He only had a few shotguns, outdated. Limited ammo. But he was quick to string tarps along the chain-link fence and add bolted locks to the gate. You helped him pin up two tents. Nailed wood boards to any gaps along the perimeter. You didn’t bring much with you; there hadn’t been time. All you managed was two changes of clothes, a thick coat, canned beans from the pantry, A Farewell to Arms.

You read it ten times over.

Paul did the hunting.

You begged to help, so he made you the bow. The arrows.

He took monthly trips to nearby, abandoned supermarkets.

“Never let anyone into our camp.”

You did well to listen, filling in as the second leader in his absence. Your older sister never did well under stress, never liked the outdoors. She’d lost her husband. A little boy clung to her. You tried to offer quiet comfort to the brokenness of their family, but it was all in vain.

A year.

Only a few hoards of Greys approached the fence. You helped Paul eradicate them. It’s all in their brains. Obliterate the brains.

Two years.

Joseph caught some sickness. Flu, you figured. You did your best with what Paul had picked up from the pharmacies, but you had little to work with. You listened to his wheezing, the dry and insistent cough. The winter didn’t help. Pneumonia.

He died just before his eighth birthday.

Your sister might as well have died that day, too.

She was a ghost for the three years following. You had to force food down her throat. You had to mother her, nurse her grief. Until the fifth winter, when the deer began to diminish. Their carcasses sprung up like daisies in the nearby wood. Eaten and gnawed by encroaching Greys, the smell of spilled blood and their own rotting stench attracted more and more of them from the distant city.

There were just too many for your handmade arrows and Paul’s shotgun. He ran out of ammo. The fence and tarp and wood did little against the coalesced wave of them that finally scraggled over it with moaned hisses and mindless teeth.

You watched them consume your sister.

Then, Paul.

You lived. You ran.

A week.

You slept up in the trees.

You had a knife. Your bow. You whittled more arrows.

Alive.

But barely.

The strong arm cages your body against something hard— a chest. The blade on your neck is icier than the air and it stings and burns with a threat that instantly has you squirming in the owner’s hold.

“Stop movin’ or I’ll fucking kill you.”

It is a gruff, quiet threat in your ear accompanied by a heated breath. Your eyes fill with moisture and you gasp for panicked gulps of air. You lift your hands up to the arm that holds you and attempt to claw at it feebly because your muscles, at this point, are nothing but hungered dust.

“I said stop movin’.”

A growl.

He presses the knife harder against your throat until you feel the skin prickle. The man behind you doesn’t need to step before your eyes in order to make his strength and size known. It is apparent in how easily he restrains you. You understand you have no chance— though, you’re certain even a child could pin you. Bony hands drop to your sides and you turn limp and helpless against him.

“This is my territory.”

“I didn't know anyone was here,” you hiss, voice scratchy. “I’m just passing through.”

His hold has you lifted up to the balls of your feet. The soles of your worn boots hover over crackling snow. There is something hard pressing against the top of your cranium as he lowers his head to utter more words in your ear.

“Give me a reason not to slit your throat.”

Your heart pounds. Adrenaline. A human instinct to survive, even though death is already at your fingertips.

“I’m a nurse,” you half-lie. You never finished. Your credentials are shortened to textbooks and little experience.

“Don’t need a nurse,” he murmurs. “Anythin’ else?”

Words float through the soupy mess that is your brain. It is hard to think. There isn’t a good reason for him not to kill you— you and Paul had to do it a few times before. Other humans could pose even greater threats than the mindless Greys. Humans are smarter. They have something to strive for; something to kill for by all means necessary— survival.

Your failure to respond is cut off by sudden footsteps crunching the ice, as light as a curious rabbit. It's the kid. A young girl you now realize, even through your state of panic. Her cheeks are pale like porcelain under the hood of her coat and her azure eyes observe you from head to toe.

Her lips part, but nothing comes out.

Instead, another growl in your ear.

“I know you have a knife,” he says, tightening his hold until you whimper. “Empty your pockets.”

There is not much room in this situation for you to disobey.

Flushing out your pockets, your nimble hands reveal only a small blade.

“Drop it.”

The knife falls to the ground with a quiet thud, just beside the oak bow. The only two items that have kept you alive for the last week lay in the thin snow. Even if you had the strength or will to fight back, you no longer had the resources to.

“Pick it up, Blue.”

The man behind you nods his chin. The young girl leans down to grab the handle of your knife. She inspects the blade, runs her index gently along the dull edge with her brows furrowed together. She stuffs it somewhere in her coat. Then, she looks back up. She flickers her blue gaze between you and whoever it is that stands behind you.

“So,” he grumbles with a click of his tongue. “Thought of that reason yet?”

You swallow. Then, your throat spasms around a sneer as you say, “This is your kid, isn’t it? Are you really going to kill me in front of your kid? You want her to see that?”

“Nothin’ she hasn’t seen before,” he muses in a dark brass. “Good lesson for her.”

Oh—

Blood chills in your veins.

Freezes over like the nearby pond.

You can’t think of any more words, so it is now that your eyes flutter shut. You seek darkness in preparation for whatever may happen once his knife digs deeper. Death— maybe it’s not so bad. It must be better than whatever it is you have been doing for the past week. Struggling. Life has little meaning at this point, and getting bitten by a Grey seems too transient. Death, on the other hand, will be permanent. Your sister, her family, and many others are waiting for you in the crevices of its darkness.

“Ghost…”

It is a soft voice.

The girl speaks now, and you open your eyes to watch as she nibbles at her lip.

“Ghost, do you have to?” She looks over the length of your body, inspecting it with a softness that is so different from the harsh grip you are locked in. “She's not much of a threat, right? It looks like she hasn’t eaten in days.”

“Told you, Blue.” The gruff voice arrives from over your shoulder. “The hungrier they are, the less you can trust ‘em.”

If you cared enough, you might have pleaded your case some more. You can trust me, you might have said. But you know how this goes. For as long as you are alive within their space, you are a problem. A problem for their food sources, and a problem for wherever they have made camp. The child may not fully understand this, but he certainly does.

“Just do it,” comes your voice; exhausted. The adrenaline hides under defeat. “Just fucking do it, alright? Kill me.”

He snarls.

You expect darkness.

You expect to see your sister again. Her son. Paul.

“Dad… don’t.”

A gentle plea.

A low huff in response.

And then, instead of receiving a slash to your jugular, you are thrown to the icy ground as if you are nothing more than a sack of bones. Your palms barely have time to spread open and break the fall. A pain shoots up your knees the moment they dig into the frozen dirt, but you don’t have it in you to wince or cry.

He listened to her—?

Shifting onto your butt, you look up at your attacker.

A skull mask stares back at you.

Dark eyes, broad shoulders, a towering height.

If you weren’t so relieved - surprised - to still be breathing, you might have been frightened to the point of tears.

He moves and you flinch, but rather than touching you, his heavy boot stamps something beside you. Your bow. The oak splinters in half under his foot.

“Are you—“ You suck in a strangled breath, looking between him and your now-ruined weapon. “Are you fucking kidding me? Just… just kill me. I can’t - I have nothing now! You might as well fucking kill me!”

But he doesn’t.

He gives another nod to the girl. A silent language that you don’t understand, and in response, she carefully steps around you. She offers an apologetic look before she follows after her skull-faced companion, and then you are left with nothing. Not a knife, not a bow. Only your rapid heartbeat and a pink welt on your throat where his knife had been.

[jolalibrary]

don't (ii)

captain john price x f!reader wordcount: 2.1k. summary: “y’do look fuckin’ good in my hat, love.” “I do, don’t I?” he nods, taking a long drag, your hand itching to reach out and take it from his lips— “don’t. touch. it.”

read part one here.

You don’t hide.

Breathing heavily, his hat dipped low on your head as you lean against the wall of the rundown bar. It’s silent, dark—and it almost makes your heart thump a little heavier. 

And then you hear the door of the bar fly open, banging back into its frame. You know that gait, those boot soles on gravel, almost as if they were your own. 

“Y’had fun, love?”

John’s voice dispels the silence, your eyes looking for his—watching as the match strikes, forcing orange and yellow to dance across his face, the red tip of his cigar lighting the air. 

It’s the only light that accompanies the soft glow from the bar window above your head. 

“Maybe.”

“Wrong answer.”

You smirk, biting the inside of your cheek as he steps closer. He’s never known you to give the right one, unless it’s asking him for more. 

Not that you care. The smell of burning paper and smoke is meeting your nostrils, you staring up at him—challengingly—as his eyes flick to his hat.

“Y’want it tha fuckin’ bad, hmm?” 

You almost nod, until his hand grabs your chin—fingers spreading over your jaw as he tilts your face up. 

“Y’do look fuckin’ good in my hat, love.”

“I do, don’t I?”

He nods, taking a long drag, your hand itching to reach out and take it from his lips. Almost raising to do so. You wouldn’t put it to your lips, you had tried and failed at that before. But, to hold it, to roll it between your fingers again—

“Don’t. Touch. It.”

You smirk, dropping your hand down, pretending to touch your collarbone—watching his eyes track down to where your fingers are ghosting your skin. 

You’re thankful for the low light from the bar. The way it illuminates and kisses half of his face—the upper half. Leaving the rest a mystery. 

“Y’gonna be the death of me.”

“Shouldn’t have edged me. You know I get bratty.”

He blew out the smoke as he laughed, mixing it with the air, eyes on how it floats up between the two of you. He steps closer, almost flush with your body until there’s little to no gap between your hips and his. 

And you think, you pray—touch me. Drag your fingers through me, coat them, fucking make me cum. 

He must be able to tell. Must read the desperation in your eyes. Must know you want even just a kiss—almost needy for his lips.

Instead, he slides his mouth past your cheek, your jaw, his fingers sliding to your neck, lightly applying pressure.

“I’ll make it worth it later.”

“I think you should now.”

“Now? Y’want me to fuck you out here, where any of them can see, hmm?” 

You arch your brow, because… you should care, but you don’t. Watching him take another drag, not taking your eyes off him as he drops the cigar, putting it out under his boot.

John would rather be shot than lose a cigar—than not smoke it until the end touched his fingers. Price has gutted a person for making him waste one—a sight that had both made a shiver run down your spine and clench your thighs together.

“Tell me to go back inside, love.”

Both his hands cupping your cheeks, his forehead almost meeting yours as his hat pushes up on your head. 

“Tell me or—“

“Or what, John?”

His lips twitch, and you feel it more than you see it. “I just might fuck y’, that’s what.”

“I dare you.”

He snorts, and it vibrates in the air. “A dare led us here, love.” 

Snaking your hands around his neck, you push your hips out, staring into his eyes as you do. 

He’s good at controlling himself, at swallowing the hitches and the flutter of his lashes. You’re sure John could even make himself look stoic if you were on your knees, his cock in your mouth. 

“Please,” you whimper. 

And his eyes soften. 

Just a fraction. His lips almost touching yours, his hips thrusting, making you gasp, and just as you’re about to close your eyes, he says,

“You’ll wait until later.” 

And then he's gone—vanished like his cigar smoke in the air. 

It takes a second, a long-horrid minute to get your breath back, to compose yourself to walk back in and not look as fucking frustrated as you feel. Your hand raising, ready to adjust yourself when—

There’s nothing there. 

No hat to adjust. 

“Shit.”

You’re going to have to go back in. 

Head raised, chin tilted. Spine strong, confidence imperishable. Even if it had been. It had been rocked and shaken—the foundation of it spread with cracks. 

Because you’d let your guard down, surrendered the fucking power.

You don’t even know how you put one foot in front of the other, unsure how you end up beside him at the bar—his hat firmly on his head, the music now some quick-tempoed thing which must be new. Because you don’t know the words, don’t know the beat, but it’s mixing with the alcohol, addling your brain. Your eyes briefing meet his, seeing them shimmer, twinkle—challenging you. 

What you gonna do now, love? 

Don’t fucking tempt me, John. 

Your entire relationship to this point is one pushing the other, seeing who snaps first. Often, it’s you. Desperate little you, craving him—wanting him. 

Then he fucking smiles. That soft one. The one which borders pacifying and kindness. The one you find the hardest to read. 

It makes you thankful it’s just the two of you here, him sitting, you leaning. The others huddled, having moved to the dart board, distracted by competition and winning. 

“Y’want a drink?” 

“No… I think I’m done.” 

Two meanings. One for him, one for anyone who is listening. 

But you watch his features. How years of being a soldier has made him an effective mask wearer—able to show little to no emotion. But, you let your eyes brush over him in slow waves. Purposefully brushing it over him, finding his eyes trained on you, making you warm. His eyes telling you a similar story to the one your mind has running around it, a memory, a familiar dance—

A hand on your hip, the other on the back of your neck. 

His cock spearing into you as you bite down on the back of your hand. 

Except he loves to hear you whine. 

Likes the sounds you make for him, and only him. 

You swallow, mind poisoned with him and only him. Each scent, each look, each gruff sound he has made has been stapled into you. 

And you can’t think of anything but him. 

Not that you want to. 

Need to teach y’patience, love.  You teach me plenty in sand and mud, Captain. Can’t we just… fuck? This’ll be worth it. You promise? 

Every corner of your mind thinks about him, about the way he kisses you like you’re both cherished and divine. How he lifts you with ease, needing your arms and legs around him, his mouth on your neck as he presses you against walls—

You can’t think straight. 

It’s why you can’t drink anymore. Each movement of yours he’d have already predicted—ever the strategist he is. You’re a fly in his web, him spinning and spinning until you’re in his clutches. And it’s the only place you want to be. 

Above him. Under him. To the fucking side of him—you didn’t care. Just him. 

Him. Him. Him. 

“Y’want to walk back?” 

If it’s too much, y’say the word. We’ll leave. Come back.  And you’ll fuck me? Oh, pretty girl—I’ll fuckin’ ruin you, hmm. Just like you like me to. But, I think you’ll like this, hmm. The waiting. The build up. 

Sometimes, it being a game is all you have, and you take it. Happily. Greedily. 

Often, it’s difficult not to want more. To desperately cling and search for it. It’s more than sex, but it’s not something more than any mission. It’s full of care and adoration, but not love and necessity. Something the two of you have, a piece that is just your own—one born from agonising over right choices and professional lines. 

It’s how he knew you, before he knew you. 

The two of you secretly took that first before bare skin even met. Both attempting to pacify the fire in your stomachs with something, anything. 

So, now he knows you. Knows the sides of you that are pointy and chipped; the parts of you untouched by war, bullets and enemies. 

Price knows the soldier, but John knows you. 

He knows each curve, each muscle, and bone. Price knows the sounds you can make, either when injured or when you’re coming apart, but John knows what pleasure looks like in your eyes as he tells you, keep those pretty eyes on me, love. 

And you do.

You always fucking do. 

Have t’be patient, love. So I can ruin you later, hmm. 

He taps the countertop, the space between you. Thick finger, one which had been in you hours ago—wreaking havoc on your building orgasm. 

“Love…?”

It’s low. 

So impossibly low, you’re sure you imagined it until he tapped again. Brow raised, even under his tilted hat. A sterner look, one washed with worry and concern—it blends like a horrid concoction in his eyes. One you want to rid with grazed knees and a welcoming tongue. 

You move closer, rounding the bar counter. It’s dangerous, oh so fucking dangerous—especially with eyes close by, some that aren’t as drunk, and some that are. 

You’re good though. Always able to slide a hand where it isn’t supposed to be, take something with ease. Holding his stare, staring into his impossibly beautiful eyes as you begin muttering about apologies and hats, lipstick on his cheek and toeing the line… 

Distracting him—or so you think—until his hand latches around your wrist tightly, your smaller fingers clutching your underwear in its grasp, stolen back from his pocket. 

“Stealin’ is wrong, love.” 

If anyone had been looking, they might have noticed their captain churning, jaw close to snapping and eyes full of fire. 

But you suspect they don’t. It’s a show all for you.

“Well, I’m already in enough trouble with my captain. Probably a bit more when I go into the bathroom and disobey him again.”

His eyes flash. 

Full of molten fury and lust. Likely imagining it, the sight of your knees spread, some dingy sink counter having your bare arse on it—needy little fingers desperate to do what he can do better. 

“I wouldn’t.” 

You know the exact moment he’s lost to passion-filled daydreams and when he’s returned to the present. A sight you loved having a front row seat at, feeling him m lessens his grip, allowing your hand to slide back. 

“Oh, but I will, John.” 

His name blesses the air, licking across him, letting him hear the way you elongated it—that sinful way he fucking loves. 

And then, you offer him a smirk with only your eyes, one he can read easily—knowing it’s been perfected all for him. 

“Gonna go put these back on in the ladies,” you say in a low voice, tinged with a sultry tone and a purposefully pinned expression. “Be back in… ten to fifteen, I think.”

You tap your fingers against the countertop, deliberately leaving the proverbial ball in his corner. Taking back the damn power. 

Knowing that in a minute, or two, he’d likely follow. That he wouldn’t care if one of them catches him—likely take off the fucking door if it meant he finished it, what he started. 

It’s why you don’t bother putting them on when you step into the ladies, why you focus more on paper towels and wiping down the counter. Positioning yourself, accessible, ready—waiting. 

A lump in your throat, suddenly worried you were wrong. 

Each second ticking into a minute making you doubt yourself, that you’d got it all wrong. Whatever this all is. 

You almost get down, let your heels touch the dirty tiles and dingy grout, when the door opens. Your lips curling, almost spitting out a grin as he throws his hat to you, locking the door. 

“Put it on.” 

Catching it, your earlier prize, you stare at him as he leans against the door, watching you, dragging his eyes up and down you. 

“Because I won?” you tease, knowing him being here means he has cracked first. Meaning you broke him and his resolve.

He shakes his head, staring up at you through his lashes. “Cause if I’m gonna lose and fuck y’here, I want the only thing you to be wearing t’be somethin’ of mine.” 

[l0velylecter]

cod : mw ii men and where they will leave lovebites

— cod : mw ii men + lovebites  pairings : simon ‘ghost’ riley / reader, john ‘soap’ mactavish, alejandro vargas / reader, captain john price / reader, phillip graves / reader, kyle ‘gaz’ garrick / reader  fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii rating :  e for explicit, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : the descriptions get more explicit down the road, mentions of sex tags : here is a drabble before i get back to writing longer prompts, technically body worship, kissing, smooches, hickeys, female body parts, afab!reader

01 | Soap loves to kiss you where you’re ticklish, anywhere that leaves you writhing and squealing under him. If it's not against the junction beneath your earlobe and jaw, it's directly above your hipbone: teeth grazing the sensitive skin and mouth tugging the fabric of your cotton panties off. He even leaves a few on your ass before playfully smacking it, because Johnny can’t seem to get enough of how your laughter melts into a string of whines. 

02 | It’s almost impossible for Alejandro to avoid leaving hickeys down your throat. He's always so passionate, always so eager. The first thing he does when coming home from the field is to cup your face with both hands to smother you, crowding you against the wall to decorate the length of your throat with red and purple knots — something for the man to admire later.  03 | Price is obsessed with trailing kisses down your back. His lips, sometimes feather-light, causing shivers, and other times hot and heavy, forcing you to press your face into the pillow to hide your moans. And he would occasionally fixate on your stomach too, murmuring sweet nothings and breathless praises as his fingers work you open. And the thought of having a big, strong captain like him beneath you leaving love marks everywhere was nothing short of worship.  04 | Summertime has to be Gaz's favorite season because the moment your shoulders are out, he can't seem to focus on anything else. His favorite pastime consists of lifting you onto the dining table during a heated make-out session to lick down your throat and across your shoulders, impatiently brushing your hair aside to suck on the skin. And when he finishes inside of you, he would stifle his groans into your collarbone: breath, hot and heavy, prickling your skin.  05 | Of course, Graves's favorite place to kiss you is your chest, head always buried between them to leave wet, sloppy kisses. You hate yourself for how much you enjoy feeling his laughter reverberate against the bone of your sternum, and he's always so cocky about it too — smirking whenever your nipples turn hard under his teeth. 06 | When it comes to love bites, Ghost indulges in them without guilt, especially when he has his head between your legs — addicted to how you yelp whenever he sinks his teeth into your inner thigh. When he has the patience for it, Simon would deliberately drag slow and heavy kisses up your legs: starting from your ankle and all the way up to the junction between your crotch and upper thigh, and by the time he sucks on your clit you'd already be a sobbing mess. At times you'd catch him in the morning staring at the hickeys in silence. And behind the black paint, his eyes were somewhat satisfied and even smug.

[bellamer]

Tbh I would love to see Rudy beating the fuck out of Graves for even daring to touch Alejandro. Like he knows Alejandro can take care of himself but imagine 141 and Los Vaqueros capture Graves and Rudy is just like “Give me three minutes alone with him and a steel chair” and you do the math because you do not touch Rodolfo Parra’s husband and get away with it unscathed.

I just want to see Rudy lose his shit.

[iblameashley]

The Gift of Giving

Civilian | Male | Gay

1,448 words Content: Face-reveal (text only). No major cw warnings. Ghost is bad at accepting things.

Follow up to Shattered.

Simon ’Ghost’ Riley | Male/GN Reader

!!!SFW!!!

Simon gaslights you, its a good thing he's just an idiot. You meet up at his flat again, this time with food and gifts. (wrote this on the plane to and from vacation, so a little shorter than 'Shattered.')

(Thanks to @loneghostwolf for permission to use this image)

You were content to be the 'active' one in your relationship with Si. You would text him often with memes or stupid jokes, and he would reply now and then with a 'Haha' or 'Fucking hell'. You had been doing this for weeks now, stopping by when he booked an appointment with you. And then your phone vibrated in your pocket on your way home one day. 

Friental: Si has terminated your Friental Contract.

“What the fuck?!” you shouted, nearly dropping your coffee. “What the fuck!?”

Your mind swirled with confusion and your heart sank deep into your stomach. There was a twisting, nauseating in your chest. What had you done? Things seemed to have been going so well. Maybe you over stepped when you showed up at his door with new plates and glasses? Or maybe one of the jokes you sent was too crass – admittedly, you had been more bold with what you sent him – but he didn't seem the type to pussyfoot around telling you what he thought. Well... if you pissed him off.

Your phone vibrated again. Then again.

Si: I cancelled our friental contract

Si: You said you'd be my friend for free.

You: You absolute fucking git. You send the text FIRST, THEN cancel.

You gripped your phone so tightly you thought you were about to crush it. You then wanted to throw it across the street, or dunk it in water. 

“You stupid fuck...” You seethed.

Buzz buzz, another message.

Si: Will I see you at 7 like planned?

You: I will see you in hell, Si.

You: But also at 7, yes.

You were pretty sure in a fight he'd pummel you into the ground, considering your part time martial arts training couldn't possibly compare to his military training, but right now you wanted to give it a try. The rage was still washing over you in hot waves. The man was bad at communication, but this was pure stupidity. 

You took a long swig of your coffee and tossed the empty cup in a nearby rubbish bin. You ran a hand through your hair and took some deep breaths. Assuming the rules were still in place, you thought there was room for expansion. 

Si: You can call me Simon, BTW. That's my name.

You cocked an eyebrow in amusement. “No shit.” You huffed and rolled your eyes. You had figured that out pretty much day one. But in its own way, you knew it was a big deal to him, and incredibly sweet. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as he seemed only moments ago. “Fucker is playing games with me.” you said with a crooked smile.

No matter, you had things to do and places to be, so you let the irritation of this man wash away and went about your day.

*** + *** ++ *** + *** ++ *** + *** ++ *** + *** ++ *** + *** ++ *** + ***

You: I will need your help when I arrive.

Si: Something the matter, mate?

You: Hands will be full. I'll need you to open the doors.

Si: Full of what?

You: Things.

Si: Such as?

Si: What things?

Si: ...?

'Suffer' you think to yourself with a light chuckle.

When you arrive at his flat, you set down one arm-full of bags and ring his number.

“Be down in a moment, mate.” He says through the speaker before hanging up.

He arrives at the door rather quickly, mask on and wearing a simple tee and jeans. He forgot – or maybe didn't care to – put his shoes on.

He opens the door and lets you in, offering to carry some of the bags. You begin to shake your head 'no' but he's already grabbed a handful from you.

“Whats all this, then?” He says gruffly.

“Things,” you repeat. “Things you can look at when we get in your flat.” You pause. “And food.”

He lets out a guttural “Mmm.”

Simon opens the the door to his flat and sets the bags down on his table. You follow suit and gently kick the door closed behind you.

Simon is already rummaging through the bags.

“I had half a mind to tell you to fuck off.” You say as you place your bags on the table. Simon looks up at you and furrows his brow.

“Still mad about that?” He asks. His voice seems sincere.

“A bit.” You nod.

“Didn't mean to piss ya off, mate.” He replies flatly.

“A Simon apology.” You smile.

He grunts.

The bags are emptied onto the table and discarded to the floor. There is an assortment of boxes, plants and food.

Simon examines the plants and gives you a look.

“I cant keep these alive.” He grumbles.

“They're plastic, you git.” You laugh.

Simon's focus changes to the other boxes on the table. Some new plates and glasses. “They're nice.” He says as he begins to unbox them. He examines each piece one by one before stacking them and moving them to the cupboard.

While he does that, you begin to place the plants around his flat. A few in his living room window, a couple on his book shelf, and one on his coffee table. His place seems to feel more like a home, instead of just the place he lives.

You locate the bag you hid away from him and grab it from under the table. You pull a large black and white throw from it. “Made this for you.” You say, getting Simon's attention.

His eyes widen as you unfurl the oversized throw, exposing the skull pattern that runs its length. It matches the mask he always wears on his face, and though he wears it now, you can see a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes.

“You made it?” He asks, his voice softer than usual. “Like a gift?”

You stare at him queerly. “Yes... like a gift.” You confirm. “I got some fabric paint and an iron. After a good wash, it was ready. Do you like it?”

Ghost retreats back into himself and scoffs. “Its acceptable.”

“Thank you,” You say with a mocking tone, “I put in an adequate effort into it just for you.”

You toss the throw over his couch lazily and then make your way back into his kitchen and unpack the take away. You brought curries and beer, and lay the assortment out for him.

“I can eat later,” you say. “Or on the couch. If you don't want me to.”

Simon holds up a hand, silencing you.

“No need.” He sighs. “If you're going to by my friend, I suppose its only fair.”

He reaches up and pulls the mask away from his face. He stares down at the table as he does this. His lips betray his attempt at a stern look. You take in the scars that map his face, the slight crook in his nose and a small burn on his jaw. His brown eyes flicker up at you waiting for judgment.

“Ready to eat, then?” I say.

“Ready to eat?! That's it?” Simon is shocked and offended.

“What do you want me to say?!” You fire back. “You have a scarred face, big deal. Doesn't make you any less handsome, or any less my friend!”

Ghost stands there seething, you stand there confused beyond belief. It dawns on you that he likely isn't used to people just accepting him as-is. He had built up this scenario of being rejected in his head and now he had no where to go except forward.

You smile. “Sit the fuck down and eat.” You say sternly.

He is taken aback by your words but slides down into his chair, never letting his gaze leave you. You sit down across from him and start dishing out portions. You crack open a couple of beers and slide one over to him.

“Cheers, mate.” You smile. You take a swig and then dig into your food.

Simon follows suit not too long after. The wheels in his mind turning as he processes what just happened. Eventually – albeit slowly – his look softens as he shovels bite after bite of food into his mouth. 'Handsome'? He thinks. His stomach twists and he feels dizzy as the word bounces around his brain.

“Good curry.” Simon huffs between bites. 'Good company too.' He thinks, though can't bring himself to say it.

You smile and accept his compliment. It seems rules one, two, and five were now out the window. Only three, four and six still remained in place. You dynamic was changing, and it piqued your curiosity.

“Really good.” You agree.

[mlmxreader]

Die Maus und Der Bär | König x gn!reader

anonymous asked: hallo!!! i am back once again!!

first of all, i just wanna say, the könig x reader you did for me (the one where they knew each other before) was fucking awesome dude, top notch shit right there. 10/10 amazing. thank you <3

second of all, i was hoping to request a part 2 for it! maybe one where reader decides to actually join KorTac so they don’t have to leave him again. the prompt that sparked this idea was "I don't wanna miss you again" and i just think it would be very nice very cute

as always, keep up the good work! you’re amazing!!! (ALSO HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!) -🏹

summary: a single chance encounter with somebody that you used to cherish just about changes everything.

tws: swearing, brief mentions of violence

part one: Maus

"Nein," he shook his head. "I'm going to take you home. You can't stay... I never stopped loving you, (y/n)."

"Fuck you."

"I will write," he promised. "I don't want to lose you again."

König was risking everything just to take you home; his job, his livelihood, his friends, even his life, just to make sure that you got back. He found your address through various, somewhat illegal, manners but didn't really care; his top priority was to make sure that you got home in a single piece.

The flight was dull, you kept spitting venomous words in his face and hissing curses against him, and although he had no idea why you suddenly hated him, König didn't say anything about it.

The car ride back to your home was worse, but it was slightly better when you, very reluctantly invited him inside; it was a nice house, König could never refuse sleeping in a proper bed, although he did go a little bit shy as he admitted that he didn't actually bring anything with him - expecting to leave you at the door and return when he was back from deployment.

KorTac would kick his ass if they found out he had escorted you right to your front door, let alone that he had accepted staying the night.

If there was anything that König didn't want, anything that made his stomach churn and bile rise up to his throat, it was the thought of losing you; the thought of ever being apart from you, separated, made him feel sick to his stomach and made his hands shake. He didn't want to be without you, not again. He would do anything to be there at your side, he would do anything if he could just remain with you.

Deep, deep down, he knew that you felt the same, but he also knew that, right now, you were in pain; you were lashing out, and he knew why. He was to blame, he was an idiot and a fool and had been for years, he was the one who had left.

But he wasn't stupid, he knew that something was going on when you came up to him in the middle of the night, weeping and sniffling before you got into the bed beside him; he went stiff when you held onto him tightly, and pressed your face against him.

Something was going on. König knew it, and you did, too.

He didn't wear his mask. He didn't need to when he was around you. He very rarely wore shirts, and tried not to notice the way that you looked at the scars that littered his body with little more than guilt; as if each knock and scrape, every gunshot wound and stab wound, that he had sustained since he enlisted was somehow your fault.

Like you failed to protect him. Like you might as well have done it all yourself; of course, König tried to reassure you how he could, but every time he tried to speak to you as a friend, you would push him away.

"Fuck you! Don't fucking act like nothing's changed, you fucking bastard cunt!"

König never flinched. You could be shouting and bawling the house down, but he never so much as twitched; to him, it was a normal Tuesday. He could remember when the subject of your anger was bullies on the school grounds; whenever they so much as mildly taunted him, you were there, running to his defence every single time.

He had no reason to think of your little outbursts as anything other than you needing to express yourself, and he could live with that. If you wanted to shout, he could listen to you shout for hours. He just wished that you would stop pushing him away.

But it wasn't that simple, those things never were, as although you would have given anything and everything to have him back in your life, although you would have begged and pleaded and even tried bribery and blackmail in order to get into KorTac's ranks to be at his side again, you were still hurt; you had let him down, you had been his enemy, he had reminded you of times that you no longer thought of.

Secondary school, the realisation that you had loved him. When he sang 'The Last Stand' by Sabaton the first time he kissed you and told you that he loved you romantically.

You knew that he would never be permanently back in your life, you needed to push him away before you could even think of hurting him the way that he had hurt you when he first left; you didn't want him to feel that ache, to feel the bile rise in his throat whenever your name came to mind, you didn't want him to miss you if you were gone.

You wanted to save him, save him the pain and the agony and the grief and everything else; you didn't want him to get hurt because of you, you didn't think you could live with yourself if he did. It was best to push him away. Things would be better off if you pushed him away, you knew that, and you had a sneaking suspicion that he did, too.

Except, you couldn't deny that you did like having him around; when one night suddenly became one week, and one week suddenly became one month... you couldn't deny that you liked having him around. König reminded you of a time long gone, a time when you could get away with pinning cunts to the ground and breaking their jaws without worrying about getting court martialled; a simpler time, a better time... and maybe... maybe you did still love him.

Maybe you did still love him romantically, and maybe you didn't want to push him away so much anymore, even though you knew it was for the best and you kept telling yourself that you didn't want him to get inside your head and that you weren't thinking straight, you weren't being logical or rational; you were being a fool for wanting something, someone, you could never have again. You missed your chance years ago, why get another one?

"Mein Bärchen," König cleared his throat as he ducked enough to get through the doorframe, a yawn coming from the back of his throat as he pinned you to the side with his tired gaze. "You should be asleep."

You shook your head, puffing on your cigarette as you grumbled softly and bit back the yawn he had infected you with. "There's just a lot in my head right now, Maus."

"Wie was?"

You didn't want to say it, but the way that he was looking at you and your own exhaustion was chipping you away and breaking you down, so you sighed, putting your cigarette in the ashtray as you dared to shrug, taking a deep breath. "What if I transferred to KorTac?"

König fell silent for a moment as he thought about it, but then he smiled, raising his brows as he looked so fucking hopeful, so fucking joyful at the mere suggestion of such a thing. "Really?"

You nodded slowly. "Yeah... at least then, we'd still be together, right? And maybe... maybe we could start off where we left off?"

He grinned, swallowing thickly as he tried to hide his excitement. "You'd do that?"

"Yeah," your voice got a little quieter. "Yeah, I... fuck, König, I don't wanna miss you again... I don't wanna hurt you by making you miss me, either."

"Du bist mein Lieblingsbär," he chuckled softly. "Ich... nein. (y/n), if you joined KorTac... we would never be apart."

"That's the point," you told him. "Ich lie- meine Maus, I'll give my guys my two weeks notice tomorrow, and put in a request for a transfer to KorTac... ja? Klang gut?"

"Ja," he beamed. "Aber... come back to bed, bitte? Come back to me?"

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM.

[8-rae-rae-8]

My Call Of Duty Masterlist:

Request in my inbox <3 Always open!!

making a different page for these bc it looks goofy in my pinned </3

CoD Fanfiction Masterlist

CoD Edits

CoD Headcanons

CoD Agere/Petre Fanfictions

CoD Agere/Petre Edits

CoD Agere/Petre HCs

CoD Drabbles

[loadedberetta]

when I tell you the thought is KILLING me; in the spirit of Halloween

Johnny reluctantly telling Simon he once hooked up with a Ghostface cosplayer in a bathroom at a Halloween party just because he found his mask hot

and Ghost just sitting there with a coffee in his hand at 1:45 pm in the base cafeteria trying to process the information and simultaneously holding himself back from dragging Johnny away and into a bathroom;;;

it's sending me

[confused-wanderer]

Price has had enough.

He could always tell when Simon was off. Be it a slight tick of his hands pulling down on his balaclava when he was nervous, the sudden stillness and slight head tilt he did when he was getting pissed or the silence he used when he was down.

Yeah. Price can always tell. It was like a rift in the usual waves around Ghost, and he can almost always tell 99.999% of the time what the other was feeling simply by noting the atmosphere change around the other man. He can tell everything from a mile away, even if Simon couldn’t himself.

So trust him when he says he knows Ghost wants to be closer to the taskforce. He sees it in how the three banter around, how Ghost allows Gaz to call him “the phantom of the opera” or how Soap is the only one who can whine to L.T about taking off his mask without having a gaping hole in his chest later. Or the unspoken rule of personal space suddenly being invaded as light pats, playful punches and mock hits are tolerated by Ghost without any alarm bells going off.

But Ghost, is shit at communication. At an unfathomable level. The lieutenant was sure the other two men must have recognised his reciprocation, his open fondness and soft spot for them. The fucking clueless bastard who didn’t know the first thing about normal behavior, Price thinks with love.

And he’d reached his limit with trying to let Simon do it his way.

So when they’re all down from a mission, Ghost making his way to exfil while the rest were already in the train, Price tells both his sergeants to just close their eyes. He’s met with a few dubious looks, but the tired expression on his face of trust me I know what I’m doing erases all doubts and they both do it.

The moment ghost’s voice clicks over comms, saying he’s made it out, Price sees both his sergeants relax, shoulders sagging as they let out a deep exhale, and smiles. All his boys cared about each other.

Gaz, who closes his eyes first, ends up falling asleep, lightly swaying with the motion to prevent himself from falling deeper. And Soap is well on his way under, his body stilling dangerously so for his normal state.

Price sits on the opposite seat, keeps his hat on his face to prevent Ghost from seeing his eyes, and lays back. To watch the chaos, of course. Ghost enters after a few minutes, his footsteps heavy before stopping, and then becoming impossibly soft, presumably because he sees them all asleep.

Price watches Ghost falter, THE Ghost look as uncertain and lost as a puppy, fidgeting as he tries to see where he can sit.

The bus starts, and the motion causes Gaz to almost slide off. But before Gaz can fully wake himself up to respond, Ghost catches him, takes the seat between the two sergeants, tightens his gentle grip around the other man, and allows him to rest his weight on Simon, to prevent him from moving any further.

Soap, half awake for all, this lifts his head a bit at the commotion, his battle with sleep was evident. He ends up trying to look at what is happening, before sleep wins and Johnny goes limp, head falling against Simon’s before he realises what happened and tries to lift himself, ending with his head falling back.

And Ghost once again, doesn’t let it. He lifts his shoulder to better support the other man’s neck, and tucks his chin over Soap’s head to keep him comfortable and safe. Soap is now practically leaning on Simon, the latter man for the first time in a long while not only allowing touch but initiating it.

The sergeants were safe and protected, both finally registering that Ghost indeed, had a soft spot for them, and made sure to keep including him in their warmth, making sure he knew he was a part of their family too.

[anunhingedme]

Shadow 0-1

booteh

boobeh

sexy basterd

[merowkittie]

Simon Riley as your older brother and guardian. He’s such a hard ass, stubborn, over protective, piece of shit who only cares about himself! You’re treated like a ghost.

Is what you think until you get older and finally see why your brothers acts the way he does. He protects you from the world because he’s witnessed all the horrors it has to offer. He’s stubborn because sometimes the things you try to talk to him about aren’t for your ears. He’s a hard ass because he wants you to know you need to work for everything. Life is not easy.

He treats you like a ghost because truly, it’s all he’s ever known to do.