#Cod x you

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost: Luv, hurry up, we're gonna be late Y/N, coming out of the dressing room: How do I look? Ghost: Ghost, unbuttoning his shirt: Oh we're definitely going to be late

[beloveds-embrace]

(a lil stress-written drabble of princess reader x guard 141)

The grand halls of your father’s castle are silent today. There should have been a glorious, blessed wedding- your wedding. Instead, there is only hushed gossip and veiled glances as servants scurry about, pretending not to discuss the tragic and untimely passing of Lord Davenshire. The fourth such incident this year alone.

You sip your tea, watching the garden from your balcony, a pleasant smile gracing your lips and a complete contrast to the angry, fearful cloud that has been haunting your father lately. It’s a beautiful morning. Birds sing, the sun bathes the palace in golden warmth, and best of all, there is no unwanted husband at your side.

No, your dear father will have to try again. And again. And again and again and again.

Soft footsteps approach, too quiet for the untrained ear. But you know them. You don’t flinch as strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, a familiar scent of leather and spice enveloping you.

“Another one bites the dust.” Gaz murmurs, his voice low and amused against your ear.

You hum in response, setting your teacup down. “Oh dear, how unfortunate.”

Strong fingers trace along your forearm, and you turn your head just slightly to meet Gaz’s gaze. His eyes gleam with something wicked and delighted.

“Unfortunate indeed,” Price says as he steps onto the balcony, hands clasped behind his back. He looks every bit the disciplined captain he is, but there’s a certain satisfaction in his gaze as he surveys the castle grounds below. “The poor man was simply riding his horse when it suddenly reared and threw him.” He shakes his head, feigning solemnity. “Neck snapped like a twig.”

“How dreadful.” You croon, feeling Gaz’s smirk against your neck.

“Dreadful,” Soap echoes as he lounges on the railing, twirling a dagger between his fingers. “Cannae imagine why these men keep droppin’ like flies.”

“They must be terribly unlucky,” Gaz adds, leaning against the stone wall beside you, his smile sharp. “Or perhaps they should have considered who exactly they were trying to take from us.”

Your heart flutters at his words, at their words. Loyal, deadly, devoted- the four of them have been your constant shadows, your protectors, your everything.

Your father calls it misfortune. He believes some curse has befallen your suitors, that fate itself refuses to see you wed. And in a way, he is right. Just not in the way he thinks.

Because fate has intervened, but in the form of the most dangerous men in the kingdom. Men who would see the world burn before they allowed another to place a ring on your finger.

You turn in Ghost’s direction, reaching a hand out until he obediently places his chin in your delicate palm. He doesn’t take his mask off, but you can nonetheless feel his mouth against your skin. His eyes darken as he looks down at you, and you feel the weight of all of them- the unyielding devotion, their willingness to kill for you, to ensure that no one ever takes you from them, not now and not ever.

And you? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You smile, letting your fingers brush over Ghost’s jaw before turning to the others. “It seems I am doomed to remain unwed.” You sigh dramatically, though your grin betrays your amusement.

Price chuckles, stepping closer, his calloused fingers lifting your chin. “A tragedy, truly.”

“Aye,” Soap agrees with a shark smirk. “Guess that just means you’ll have to settle for us, lassie.”

Your heart swells, warmth pooling in your chest. Settle? No, this is exactly what you want.

You lace your fingers with Ghost’s, leaning into Price’s touch as you glance at the others. “Whatever shall I do with four such devoted guards, hm?”

Gaz smirks, his voice a teasing whisper as he brushes his lips against your temple, hands dipping low to hold your waist. The warmth you feel now has nothing to do with the lovely weather, anymore. “Oh, Princess, I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

[lxvvie]

using their dogtags as a leash 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ >>>

For Price, you used his dog tags to pull him up from between your legs so you could kiss him and yes, thanks to you, his beard is blessed and highly moisturized.

You're the one with Soap's tags on and he's using them to keep you upright, lips brushing together but not quite kissing, as he fucks you nice and slow on the countertop.

Well, you... you don't know how you got Gaz's tags in your hand but you have them. The only thing you remembered was you two with your tongue down each other's throat and now you're face first in the pillow, doggy-style, one hand clutching the sheets for dear life and the other holding his tags to stay as sane as possible. Which can only work but for so long because the dick is good and you keep trying to move away, but Gaz has an iron grip on them hips. 💋

You might've been aiming for Simon's... shoulders? Neck? Fuck if you know. You were just aiming to hold on to something when he first thrust that cock home. It always happens whenever he enters you; it takes your breath away, you gasp, shudder, press against him even more, try to hold on to him but one hand's clutching his chain, and... bloody fuckin' hell, it feels so damn good.

[imtherain]

What a great way to wake up (reading this I mean)

I wish I had a hot neighbor like that 😜

neighbor!simon riley, who trudges back to his flat after a long mission away, with sleepy eyes, tense shoulders and bloody hands. his palm reaches for the doorknob and as he opens it, the door right across from him opens as well.

and there you are, a pretty little thing, had to be at least a foot shorter than he was, clad in some stretchy shorts and an oversized college t-shirt that was hanging off your shoulders. simon's eyes drifted down the length of you, trying to memorize the freckles, occasional stretch marks and fluffy cellulite down your thighs, your shiny legs reflecting the eery hallway light.

"hi," you whispered with a wave, as you bent down to retrieve a package left on your doormat. simon's breath hitched as you leaned over, showing your soft tits almost spilling out of the sports bra you wore underneath.

he cleared his throat, "evenin" and fumbled with the doorknob. when he finally made it inside, he struggled even locking the door behind him, what if she needs me? he thought to himself. even off the job, he was nothing if not a protector.

as he laid in bed that night, stroking his neglected cock to the thought of you all laid out underneath him, squirming and whining for more, more, more. your pretty cries and soft body bouncing as he thrusted into you was all it took for him to come hard. he couldn't hold back the groans tumbling out of his mouth as he finished.

fuck, he thought. he was doomed, truly, and he had to keep telling himself that no matter what, everything was temporary for him. there's no point in trying something with you when he was just going to end up leaving anyways.

but as the weeks went on, you were making it harder and harder for simon. every small interaction and passing glances in the elevator left him painfully hard underneath his cargo pants, and his delicate skin had been made raw from all the times he had to rub one out to the thought of you.

one early morning, as he left at the break of dawn for a conference meeting at a nearby base, he opened his front door only to be met with you, his lovely doe-eyed neighbor, holding out a container filled with cookies. he could tell you had just woken up, from the way your sweatpants lopsidedly hung off your hips, and the way your tank top was wrinkled. "I made these for you, to take to work. if you don't like them, that's okay. i just wanted to make sure you had something." your raspy voice called out to him as you handed him the container.

simon's heart dropped and broke in two as he took the container from you, oatmeal raisin? he thought, how did she know? a small smile broke free from his lips as you scanned the rest of him. there was no denying it, he was one of the most handsome men you'd ever seen, and especially today, the way the dark-washed jeans hugged his muscular thighs, and the black muscle tee leaving nothing to the imagination. you didn't know much about him, but you desperately wanted to change that.

simon took a step towards you and lifted his balaclava up just enough to bend down and kiss your cheek. you gasped at the action, tensing completely as he said, "thank you, sweetheart."

as he started to walk away, your brain finally caught to up reality. you shouted after him, "please be safe!" simon turned around at your words, "you too, dovey."

a few days had gone by since you'd seen simon, and as you were picking out pajamas for bed, you found an adorable lingerie set you'd forgotten you'd even had. it was a lace, blush pink babydoll nightgown, with a bow in the back. you slipped it over your head, and felt the prettiest you had in a while as you looked in the mirror. it hugged your hips just right, and sloped down in the front, showing your full tits, as well as the skin down your back.

as you made your way to the kitchen, you could hear simons loud footsteps coming down the apartment hallway. this was your chance, you thought. you were going to show yourself off to him, win him over. and as you looked in the peephole, not only did you see him, but you saw a package waiting for you as well. the perfect excuse!

you opened the door with a twinkle in your eye as simon turned around.

he swallowed hard, and did a double take as his eyes wandered over you. it was too much for him, the way he could see your perky nipples through the thin fabric. the thought of his teeth grazing them rushed into his mind, and it only got worse as you bent down to get your package. you tease him like this regularly, but this time, you turned around first.

simon growled under his breath as he got a view of your pretty ass cheeks just barely hanging out from your nightgown. he could faintly see a tight pink thong as well, a perfect match for your set.

you were really testing his patience, but to your surprise, he hadn't made any moves yet. so you told yourself you'd try one more time, before leaning up and swaying over to him. you placed a hand on his chest and signaled him to lean down to you like you were going to tell him a secret.

"I'm wearing this for you, y'know" you whispered, as you pushed your tits up against his chest.

that was all it took for simon to grab you by the hips and throw you over his shoulder, smacking your ass as he hauled you into his flat.

"teasy cunt, aren't you?" he said as he threw you onto his bed. you tried to crawl away, but he grabbed you by the ankles and pulled you back, "nuh uh, you've made it this far. you better sit tight and take the rest."

simon grabbed you by the hips and leaned down to kiss you, his teeth softly nipping at your bottom lip before breaking apart, "I don't even know your fucking name," he whispered as he kissed the length of your neck. you groaned at the feeling of him sucking a small hickey right under your ear.

"y/n. it's y/n." you breathed out as his lips latched on to one of your nipples, you swallowed hard at the pleasure, "fuck yes, feels -mmph- feels good." he smiled at your mindless babbling, and the vibration of his groaning sent shock waves of heat through your body.

"simon," you asked

"hmm?" he latched on to the other nipple, while your hand ran through his hair.

"why did you need to know my name now? couldn't -mmn- couldn't that have waited?" you whispered as he shifted up so that he was eye level with you, his lips hovering just over yours.

"hmm-mm, need'ta know who's name I should groan when I finish inside you."

[iixch]

☆ iixch production

Simon’s dog doesn’t know bros before hoes

synopsis: his dog simply knows your superior and it pisses him off

warning: cursing

<blurb>

He was about to throw the mutt on the grill.

He couldn’t believe his great dane was puppy dog eyeing you for scratches. The dog was half your damn size.

Simon was worried at first, despite your excitement, when he told you he owned a dog. His great dane, Titan, was intimidating to most and he had a bad temper. He had spent weeks trying to slowly get you and Titan acquainted, he worried that the giant dog would growl or bark at you and scare you off.

He worried for nothing.

The minute you visit his house for the first time with a pup cone, Titan loved you. Since that first meeting, Titan has yearned and earned your affection, and attention. Which you have never denied him.

It has gotten to the point that Simon feels he’s third wheeling in his own relationship- when it comes to you and his dog!

And god forbid he and you disagree.

Simon wasn’t even yelling, he was just passionately explaining his reasoning. You huffed and rolled your eyes- at what to you, sounded like excuses. Crossing your arms in annoyance. To which Simon’s takes a step forward and grabs your arm (to uncross them) before Titan comes and pushes Simon behind his knees and barks.

Flabbergasted and furious, Simon quickly turns glaring at his dog.

“The fuck you looking at, mate? Were just talking.”

To which in counter argument, Titan just continues his barking- and Simon has to retort to putting him in his cage in the laundry room, where the barks were (more or less) muffled.

“When did you become someone’s bitch?” Simon mumbles to Titan as he watches as you sit on the floor so the overly large dog can lay across your lap.

“Don’t be jealous, Si.” You tell him chuckling as you scratch Titan behind his ear, his tail wagging nonstop.

“I’m not jealous of a damn dog.” He huffs, arms crossed.

Titan looks up from your lap to meet Simon’s eyes, before- and he swears he does- grinning. Simon’s dog isn’t his anymore and is under your spell, and now he has a proper hellion on his hands, and you are none the wiser.

[simonghostlovely]

✗♡ Dry humping and titty sucking ✗♡

(18+)

You knew dry humping and titty sucking were lost arts 💔 but your husband were literally there to prove you wrong, right? He might be drifting off to sleep in front of the tv and snoring lightly right now but you knew a way to wake him up.

A mischievous grin on your face as your knees landed at Simon's sides. You lifted your tank top, freeing your boobs. You held your boob, squeezing a bit. You could barely stop yourself from laughing in his face when you line up your nipple inches from his mouth but when you finally touch his chin and feel his stubble on your soft titty, you gasped. Feeling it between your thighs as you got warmer when your nipple touches his dry, pink lips.

Feeling the goosebumps that euphoric feeling gave you. You bit your lower lip trying to suppress your moan escaping out of your throat. You were humming quietly now and realised how he looked so innocent like this, worry and lines faded from his face, relaxed. He was such a sweet boy. Your sweet boy.

You thought of forcing yourself a little bit further inside and get your nipple wet and risk waking him up. Hoping he wouldn’t be mad at you. -not possible- You pushed a little bit harder and he started grumbling as he opened his eyes. First he didn’t understand where he was, what was happening or what year he was in but then he vigorously held your hips with both hands, forcing you pressed to his chest. Your nipples squishing between you and you felt your cheeks getting red slowly.

“What d’ ya think you’re doin’ mama’s?’’ he was staring at you with those big brown eyes with an intrigued look on his face.

‘’Nothin’ baby….’’ but all the blood rushing to your cheeks and ears now, you really didn’t think this through...

“If my baby wants her titties sucked, she can just ask me, yea?”

“Mhmm mhmm…” you nodded sheepishly, looking at him with big doe eyes. Your lips were drawing a line now from how embarrassed you were. Simon gave a quick peck on your mouth. Hugging your middle section and getting up from the couch.

“Now we go to bed and grant my wife’s wishes”

You were giggling while simon sprinted in the hallway to your bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, putting you on his lap. Then he removed a strand of hair from your face and tugging it behind your ear.

“You’re so beautiful.” your smile widened, now you were grinning like stupid, looking at him with starry eyes.

“and your boobs are too. Sorry for neglectin’ them. I will make it up to you.” then he directly cupped both of your boobs, engulfed one of your nipples in his warm mouth, wetting it. With both hands you wrapped his forearms delicately when you felt the pleasure shooting to your crotch. You felt yourself getting warm and melting even further like hot chocolate.

You swung your head back, swimming in pleasure. Hurling all the air out of your lungs out as he was lapping at your nipple. Flattening his tongue on it and then sucking it deliciously. You were lost in all the sensations when you find yourself grinding on his thigh which you were sure you left a wet patch on by now. He maneuvered your moves, his strong hands on your hips again. Alternating between pressing you back and forth and kneading on them like a dough.

You were at a loss of words as your brain melted to it’s liquid form by now and Simon knew it. Suction of his mouth let go of your nipple with a pop. Leaving your boob all wet and glimmering in the soft light of your bedroom. He suddenly got up and shifted on his feet, throwing you on the bed like a bullet out of a gun.

“On your back, love.”

You laid down slowly on the soft sheets, never breaking eye contact, he neared until there were inches between your lips,

“Show it to me…”

“Show me what belongs to me, now.”

In a rush you lowered your panties, his lust filled eyes and commanding voice already parting your legs without even touching you yet. And you let him see how turned on you were, your knees to your chest. With both hands he caressed your knees while he fixed his gaze on your pussy, examining. He nodded turning to you, and then that shit eating grin.

“God... you're such a slut, look at tha' ”

You were mewling and squirming under his gaze, no words coming out, just a pout. He unzipped like he had zero patience left and lined up his dick to your entrance after giving it few pumps, wetting the tip. He exhaled a sigh of relief as it first slipped inside. Testing the waters. Then he sped up his pace, jolting your whole body until you take him to the hilt.

“You hear tha’?”

The sounds your wet pussy made were downright pornographic but your squishy insides and soft walls weren’t only driving him crazy. Hearing them made you somehow even wetter.

“This is the sound of a very good slut.”

You let out a high-pitched moan at that. Seeing your mouth ajar, he didn't wanna waste the opportunity and quickly put his thumb inside it. You started sucking on it without a thought. Dancing and floating in a haze.

“Tha’s ma baby. Such a good girl fo' me. Take it.”

Then his thrusts were really coming to life as you jolted on the bed. Moaning uncontrollably. When he came inside of you, he growled at the top of his lungs. Spurting his cum into the deepest part of you. But he didn't stop, kept up the pace until you sucked him inside, milking him. After making sure that you had nothing left to give him anymore, he pulled out, watching a mix of his hot cum and your slick leaking out of your pussy. He lowered himself, giving your pussy a soft, wet kiss to show his appreciation.

His voice breathless when his lips neared to your ear.

“Olways gon take tha’ cum inside that lil pussy where it belongs, baby.”

And you did.

[cupids-dove]

I keep saying I'm not into John Price, but shit like this keeps appearing....

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

warnings: breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

[leyavo]

| I am my father’s daughter |

💖 Dad!price x Daughter!reader

PART THREE: John Price hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in over year, but that changes when she calls him one night asking for help. 2983words

TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/complicated father-daughter relationship

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

Previous parts > [series masterlist]

The repetitive beep echoing in your ear grew louder and louder, but you couldn't focus on the chatter around you. Your body heavy, the weight of your limbs not moving the way you wanted them to. The dull ache across your shoulder blades tingled, prickling sensation shooting down your arm and settling at the lump on your wrist.

A warmth spread over your hand, smooth and rough in places as the phantom touch traced your knuckles. Light and gentle, it'd been ages since someone had been so tender with you. You lifted your finger, a twitch against something soft beneath your palm.

Your lashes remained stuck, eyelids heavy, but you managed to force your eyes open. The piercing white light blurring everything in your vision, face burying into the pillow as you tried to get used to it.

Did you pass out on the sofa again? Why weren’t they turning their alarm off? You squeezed your eyes shut trying to make sense of where you were. Oddly, your mind was light, a little groggy from the sleep you’d just broke away from. 

No, it was too quiet to be on mum's sofa. The slow beep started to climb, doubling in speed until you realised it was your own heart beating. Where were you? No, you can’t be back there. 

A rough voice sounded beside you, the whooshing in your ear muffling their words. Throbbing pain pulsating in your head, you squeezed your eye's shut whining at the tight pull over the bridge of your nose. You must have gone down hard.

You just couldn't remember, head empty and you didn't care, all you wanted to do was close your eye's again. A hand pawed at your hair, you wanted to shrink away from their touch, but you were too tired to move.

You caught the edge of their words, your old man. 

“Captain.” Your words slurred, but you can hear your dad’s voice now that the beeping has disappeared. He's reassuring you about something, the weight of his hand on yours. You feel like you're being tucked into bed like a kid, something your dad only did for you when you stayed at his. That didn't happen often though.

You're in and out that haze for another few days, well thats what the kind nurse told you as she checked your vitals and sat with you whilst you ate breakfast. At first you thought she'd force the hospital food down your throat, but she observed you pushing the warm food around on the tray. She didn't push though, trading the plate for a pot of green jelly. The only thing you could stomach, you scraped the pot and she came back with two more, stayed by your side until you finished them.

Kyle and Johnny frequented the infirmary more than your own father. You hadn't seen him since your first dazed wake up and even then you weren't sure if you'd dreamt it or not.

The past two days Johnny accompanied you on a walk down the corridor, his hand hovering behind your elbow in case your legs gave out, like the first day you got out of bed. He'd caught you, your cheek smushed into his firm chest. You'd found out the reason for Johnny's light touch, the demolition specialist comparing the skill of disarming a bomb no different than dealing with you.

Johnny was quite the charmer too, every women that passed him seemed to fawn over him. You wasn't sure if it was the thick Scottish accent that made him stand out or the way he always seemed to have an answer for everything.

The days seemed to merge with each other, you couldn't keep track of the time either. Always waiting for something, someone.

After the Fifth day you refused to take your medication, Toff crumbling under the pressure and telling you that the Captain was at your beside during the evening whilst you slept. His work keeping him away during the day.

So you did everything you could to stay awake, the nerves twisting your stomach as you thought of what your dad would say to you. What questions he'd ask you.

The worse of them all, you hoped he hadn't called your mum. You found yourself staring at the door, waiting for her to walk in.

What you didn't expect though was Simon Riley walking in and taking your dad’s seat. You slid down the headboard, fingers twisting in the blanket at your waist.

What the fuck was he doing here?

You rubbed your eyes, regretting the action as Simon pulled your arm away from you face.

“Mind that gash,” Simon said, voice muffled under his mask. He pointed to the cut on the bridge of your nose, the area swollen and tender where something had fallen on top of you in the bathroom.  

Apparently you’d caused quite the stir on base, word getting round of how a specialist agent a.k.a Kyle scaled the two story house and removed the window. All that just to get to you.

If you weren’t staying willingly, you’re sure the base would kick you out as soon as they could. The captain would probably drive you home, some half assed excuse about needing to go dark.

Home, you don’t know where that is anymore.

You wished it were Johnny or Kyle in his seat, at least Kyle read the latest trashy magazine articles out loud to you to fill the silence. Johnny asking you twenty one questions, more to check brain activity and memory loss. Not that you answered all of them. 

No Simon Riley stared at you, his muscular arms crossed over his chest making them look ten times bigger. The black hoody pulled up over his head, white skull sticking out against the dark mask covering lower part of his face. You wondered if he wore it everywhere outside.

"Bones?"

He raised a brow, shifting in his chair and widening his legs as he leant back against the seat. Not much of talker, that or he didn't want to entertain your curiosity.

“Your call sign. The skeleton mask isn’t a clue then?” you said, head sinking back into the pillow as you laid back down. Might as well the fill silence if he was just going to sit there and stare.

"Tell me his name and I'll tell you mine," He tilted his head to the side, his fingers digging in his biceps.

Your eyes followed the lines in the tiled ceiling, the whirring of a fan pushing cold air in your face. "What does it matter? It's not like I'm going back," you said, wanting to believe your words, no matter how much they trembled from your lips.

What did he care anyways? You'd only showed up last week, a stranger to him and your own dad. You wondered if that was why he hadn't been to visit during the day, couldn't look at your face and recognise the girl who he used to know.

"Tell ya' dad at least, eh."

"Sure," you mumbled, turning your back to him as you pulled the blanket over your shoulders.

As much as you hated to admit it, you and your dad were more alike than you thought.

In the presence of his task force and the other military personnel on the base, he was the no nonsense Captain, telling them exactly what he thought.

With you though he seemed to be holding back, you just didn’t know how or what he was going to say. You had plenty to say, but even more to keep to yourself. Tension building between your unsaid words, manifesting as silent brooding. If he wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to lay it all out and piss him off.

Was the Captain angry at you? You had no clue, but the knot in your stomach twisted as his gaze swept to you.

He shrugged off his jacket and helped guide your arms through the sleeves. “Here, couldn’t find a coat in your bag,” he said, tugging the collar forwards. You stumbled into him muttering an apology as he let go.

The brown cord jacket probably older than you were. Cream fleeced lining still holding his warmth, the sleeves rolled up at the cuffs so it’s not too long on you. It hung off your shoulders, swamping you. The Smokey scent clinging to the fabric, a mixture of tobacco and spice merging with it. Something you didn’t want to wash away as a kid after hugging him goodbye.

In your rush to get out of that place, you’d forgotten your coat. Even with months of planning you’d slipped up, calling your dad being one of them.

“Come on kiddo,” he said, nudging his head towards the old brown truck.

The same truck you used watch disappear down the street after every visit as a kid. Your mum threatening to shut you out if you let the cold into the house.

“You looked through my stuff,” you said, trailing after him as he opened the passenger door for you. You climbed into the seat, staring at the faded heart sticker still on the dashboard. A sparkly one you put there so he’d always think of you whilst he was saving the world.

He scratched his moustache, leaning one arm against the door. “Well, yeah. You needed clothes, doubt you’d wear your old man’s clobber,” he said, leaning across you and yanking the belt strap, he still hadn’t fixed the bloody thing.

His hands fumbled over the clasp, cursing under his breath as it caught halfway. You pressed your back into the seat, not quite sure why he was trying to clip you in like a child. The scar on his jawline sticking out against the stubble, you wondered how he'd got it.

“I got it, Captain,” you said, flinching as the belt sprung back over your shoulder and down the side of the seat. “Think it might be time to retire the old dear.” You tapped the glovebox, snatching your hand back as the compartment opened. Your dad slammed it shut, the only way to keep it there with force. The car shook with his movement.

The Captain hated buying new stuff. Preferred the old, originals that stood the test of time. “I’m the only thing that’ll be retiring.” He chuckled, shaking his head and closing your door.

Shifting in your seat, you winced. Eyes squeezing shut and nose scrunching as you tried not to groan in pain. The tight pull of your nose and the cut there drawing a trembling breath from your lips. The back of your shoulder felt like it was burning, you tried not to put all your weight on it and angled your body to the right, gaze on the now moving car.

“You okay kiddo?” He glanced at you, palm patting your knee. The low hum of the radio of some obscure band filtering through the speakers. You nodded, wondering why he was driving around the carpark.

Recruits marching in the distance, the check out booth coming into view. Why was he handing over your passes? Where were you going? You checked the back seats, expecting your bag to be there, but it was clear. Maybe it was in the boot.

His phone rang, your mother’s name on the screen. No, you asked him not to. You glanced to the door, locked. Not that you’d be tumbling out anyways.

The car was rolling out of the base, chain linked fence fading behind you. Your dad silenced his phone, letting the call go to his voicemail.

“I’m not going back.”

He glanced at you, fingers tapping the worn steering wheel. He turned his body to yours, red light giving him an opportunity to really look at you.

“You don’t wanna go back to base?” His gaze flitting between your face and the rearview mirror. “Where you going to go kid?” He’s back at the steering wheel, light green. Stepping on the pedal a little too hard that you jutted forward, seatbelt digging into your collarbone.

“You fucking called her, I’m not going back there. You can’t make me,” you spat, throat scratchy and dry. You folded your arms over your chest, twisting his jacket in your clenched fists.

If he’d called your mum, that meant she knew where you were. And you knew if she turned up, you’d go with her just to make things easier. Easier on the Captain, not you. You found it difficult to tell her no, she made it that way. Good at getting in your head, saying things you wanted to hear, then proving you that she’s exactly the same person she was before.

You’re still trying to figure out what kind of person your dad is.

“Hey, woah. We ain’t going anywhere. I just need to pick something up.” He won’t look at you though, his phone dropping into the cup holder. “Your mum deserves to know what’s happening with her kid. She’d be worried.” His face getting redder and redder, brows furrowed as he makes a sloppy right turn. Tyre hitting the kerb, old car groaning at the assault.

Yeah, worried about money. Worried that you'll tell the Captain what she's really like. Not worried about you.

“Well she didn’t think you deserved to know about a lot of things.” You say it before even thinking and wished you didn’t. The captain’s probably storing that piece of information away for his interrogation later.

“Don’t do that. Don’t pit me against your mother.” His words were firm and clear, a glimpse of the father you should have grown up with. The same words he used when you told him your mum had been seeing another man. If he’d have stayed it wouldn’t have been so bad, but then again it was your fault for him leaving. Maybe you shouldn’t have said a thing.

You can’t help, but laugh. “The woman cheats on you, multiple times and you still can’t say a bad word about her. Well I’ve got plenty.” You know you shouldn't be picking apart old wounds, but you want to see how far you can push. What he'll do when he's annoyed or angry.

He doesn't bite though, exhaling a controlled breath and taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “She’s your mother, I ain’t going to talk about her like that.” Ever the respectful man, your mother not so much when it came to him.

You wondered if what your mother said to you about your dad was true. Not that you wanted to find out.

The rest of the drive silent, the static radio buzzing every now and then when the signal dropped out. Your dad pulled up in a parking space, a small row of shops lining the high street. He didn’t even glance your way as he exited the car, a pack of cigarettes in his hand.

The click of the locks echoed through the car, door handle not budging as you pushed your shoulder against it. His phone rang again and you stared at your mother’s name, as if she could sense you there. You cancelled the call and silenced the ringtone, dropping it back into the cup holder.

What you didn’t expect to see was a small photo of you taped to the back of his phone case, little you sitting on your dads lap, clutching a teddy bear and one of his ridiculous army hats on your head. You must have been four, didn’t go anywhere without it. The teddy lost in one of the many moves growing up.

The picture creased and faded as if it’d been stuffed in a pocket. You don’t even remember the photo, never even seen it. Little things like this, make you second guess everything you thought you knew about your father. You don't even have many photo's, that wasn't an interest for your mother.

Another photo tucked away on the sun visor, one of his wife and your little brother, their smiles contagious that it makes your lips curve. So much love in one photo, the Captain's chin resting on the toddlers head and his gaze fixed on his wife. A unit, a family, something foreign to you.

Flicking up the visor, you fell back into your seat. Reminding yourself, that you're time there was temporary. You stared out at the lady pushing a pram along the high street, gaze lingering on the mother leaning over to smile at her baby.

The Captain climbed back into the drivers seat, passing you a paper bag and dumping it in your lap. He started the car, indicator ticking as he drove off.

"A phone, Kyle said that was a good one," he cleared his throat, scratching his moutache and pointing to the bag, encouraging you to peek inside. "The one in ya' bag's smashed to shit, need something you can use," he grumbled on like it was no big deal.

You slid the box out of the bag, a shiny new phone inside. Not just any phone, but the latest model in your favourite colour, lilac.

"I really don't need..." You turn the box over, scanning all the specs and the barcode. This was more than something you needed, any one would have done.

"Just take the damn phone, but do me favour..." The captain finally glanced in your direction, smokey scent mingling with the three dangling air fresheners dotted around. "Leave the location on, Kiddo."

Nodding, you put it back in the bag. You'd use the phone for now and leave it behind once you're gone, not wanting to be in his debt. "Uh, yeah thanks."

"When we get back, we'll have a little chat. Figure it all out."

And just like that, the knot in your stomach twists and twists. You wonder what kind of talk awaits you.

Taglist: @unclearblur @enfppuff @reiluvr @elita1 @tired-writer04 (Some of the tags wouldn't work so sorry if I didn't tag you. If you would like to be added just let me know)

✨ Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it :) there might be some errors/mistakes as I'm dyslexic, I do check my work a couple times, but I do miss bits and pieces - Leya

[bertieorangy]

Ghost : I love your insanity

Ghost : you’re absolutely crazy

Ghost : just straight up mental

Y/N : ꒰ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ꒱

Ghost : everything is wrong with you there is nothing okay with you

Ghost : I want to marry you

Y/N : ⌯•ω<⌯ಣ

Ghost, sniffled : god, you’re perfect

[sheepispink]

continued from my other fic, but tiny drabble of ghost looking after injured u...

You’re shaken from your drowsy state by the timer on Ghost’s phone beeping loudly, making you sit up straight with a groan. He sat on the small dining table, cleaning something by the sounds you could faintly make out of him scrubbing. Though, now with the alarm going off, the chair squeaked as he pushed it out and came to a stand, his slippers making soft patters now. “Time for your medicine.”

“..Don't wanna.” You murmur, knowing well you had practically no choice in this matter. Regardless, you argued anyway. 

“Wasn’t a question.”  He walks over to the cabinet above the side table, taking out the bottles and ointment. Initially, he had kept it on the coffee table since it was easier to grab though you were very prone to accidents with your visual impairment, and so he had to hide it away before you almost broke it. He walks over, settling on the couch next to you before patting his lap. “C’mon, lie down.”

You follow, lying face up across his muscled legs whilst he squeezes the pipette, getting the eyedrops ready. “You’re not wearing your mask..” It’s sort of a surprise, well not really after he did it the other day, but still, he respected his privacy a lot. “Mhm.” That’s all he murmurs, one hand cupping the curve of your cheek before he drops the liquid into your eye. Before he can instruct you as always, he watches as you blink to settle it in properly. The same follows for the other eye, and he gives you a quick pat on the cheek in praise. “No need to hide my face when you can't see it.”

“I can too.”

He rolls his eyes up at your persistence, knowing well that your current quality of eyesight is equivalent to the screen on a nokia. “What do you see?” He grabs the ointment pot, pulling his gloves off before scooping out a pea sized amount. 

“I see your skin.”

“Uh huh, and what does that tell you?” 

“You’re white.”

At that he drops the ointment blob off his fingers, stifling a laugh that desperately wants to be released. “I’m pretty sure, everyone knows that, love.” Carefully, his fingertips rub the ointment onto the burns across your cheeks and neck, making sure not to press too hard. Then he slowly lifts your hands, rubbing it down your forearms and the back of your hands where it hurts quite a bit. “I can do this myself y'know..” You sit up as you always do, stubborn and take the small ointment pot out his hands, rubbing it into all the parts of your skin that still ache. 

“I know, but you look a lot happier when I'm doing it.”

“That’s not true!”

He rolls his eyes at you, or at least you suppose he did because he did that little huff again. “Do you want me to snitch on you to Price?” At that you shut up and he wants to laugh out loud at how your lips part in surprise, shock filling your features almost instantly. “That’s what I thought. Now come on, I need you to talk me through making your omelette tonight.” 

He pulls you up and you begrudgingly follow, hand tucked in his.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N: Awww baby you look tired, why don't you head to bed, hmm? Ghost: No, I'm fine thanks Y/N: Oh um yeah ok Gaz, whispering to Y/N: You were talking to the dog, weren't you? Y/N, whispering back: Totally Riley: 😇😛

[beloveds-embrace]

will take quite anything you’ve got from the designationless au bc holy shit is it giving me brainworms in the best way possible

<333

The first few weeks with the 141 were… strange. Moreso for them, truthfully.

Not bad- just strange.

You could tell they weren’t sure what to make of you at first.

They were used to reading each other without words- the shift of a scent, the pull of an instinct, the push and pull of social cues as natural as breathing. But you were an anomaly. No scent to catch onto, no designation to categorize you, no instincts that guided your actions.

You could feel it in the way they watched you. Not with suspicion, but with an unspoken wariness, as if they were trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. Honestly, it was still much better than the way a lot of other units treated you.

John was the first to adjust. He treated you no differently than any other soldier nor did he single you out, though there was a quiet sort of patience in the way he spoke to you, as if giving you space to find your place. You caught him watching you sometimes, thoughtful, assessing- but whatever thoughts he had, he never voiced them, and you didn’t feel like he was thinking badly of you.

Ghost… was harder to read. He was distant but you could feel the hesitance in the way he kept a careful distance at first, as if unsure how to act around you. He wasn’t standoffish, just… cautious. It took a while before his posture around you eased, before he stopped looking like he was waiting for something from you that would never come.

Soap tested it the first week by standing too close, brushing your arm as he leaned over to look at your tablet, waiting for any possible reaction.

Nothing.

No subconscious shift in posture, no inhaling of his scent, no reaction at all. You only glanced at him for a moment before turning back to your screen, as if you hadn’t even noticed he was trying to get a reaction out of you.

He blinked. “You always this quiet?”

You didn’t look up. “You always this chatty?”

Soap, again, was also the first to push past it. “Y’know, it’s a bit unfair,” he teased one evening, nudging you with his elbow as he sat down beside you. You knew the reet of the team could hear since they were also around. “Cannae scent when you’re in a mood. Gotta actually ask how you’re feelin’ like a proper conversation.”

You had huffed a laugh, tense shoulders relaxing. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Guess so,” he agreed so easily you were left blinking at him in open surprise. “Gotta say, makes you good at poker. Cannae bluff with your scent.”

Gaz had been the one to struggle the most. Not because he didn’t like you, but because, as an omega, scent and instincts were so deeply ingrained in how he interacted with the world. He was tactile, expressive, used to weaving himself into the unit with ease. But with you-

With you, there was nothing to weave into.

You weren’t rejecting him, but you weren’t responding the way he expected either. No subtle scent shifts, no automatic lean into comfort, no instinctual give and take. Just… you.

Gaz made the mistake of offering his jacket one evening when the air grew cold. You accepted it with a nod, but when he sat beside you, waiting for that quiet inhale- the subtle, unconscious gesture of taking in a packmate’s scent- he realized it wasn’t coming.

“You don’t… smell people, do you?” he asked, half-joking.

You glanced at him, brow slightly furrowed, and shook your head. “Not really.”

The weight of it settled between them.

Another time, he tried to offer comfort- a hand on your shoulder, a scent meant to soothe- and got nothing in return, he had hesitated, clearly unsure of what to do.

You had seen the flash of confusion on his face, the way he had almost pulled back.

So you had done the only thing you could. You reached up and patted his hand, offering a small smile. “I don’t really… get it. But I don’t mind.”

Gaz had studied you for a moment, then exhaled a quiet laugh. “Alright,” he had murmured, giving your shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “We’ll figure it out.”

And they did.

It took time, but eventually, they stopped hesitating.

John still gave orders with the same confidence, Ghost stopped treating you like an unknown variable, and Soap- well, he was always himself.

Gaz, despite everything, still fussed.

It wasn’t the same as what he did with the others- there was no instinctual scenting, no designation-motivated soothing. But he still checked in, still sat beside you during downtime, still pestered you when he thought you were overworking yourself.

You were different. They didn’t fully understand it, but it didn’t matter because by then?

You were one of them.

[codnasties]

boobjob w/price 🚬 (🌽 link)

price has shitty hips, they hurt like a bitch in the worst moment possible. that makes him mad, because there are times in which he can't fuck you properly. and not only is he angry about being unable to fulfill your needs and give you pleasure properly, he's also angry about not being able to feel your insides as much as he would like to.

thankfully, everything has a solution. he gets to finger and eat you out more and plays with your boobs his fair share. he started putting his mouth in places that he hadn't touched before his hips started playing one on him. and price is also getting more handjobs and blowjobs, so he ain't complainig.

but the best one, which he had not experienced before, was getting a boobjob. the felling of his dick pressed right in the valley of your tits. boobs pushed together by your hands, giving him not only extra pleasure but also an amazing visual. and don't get him started on the top of your aureolas poking out of your shit with all the movement.

he normally lover cumming anywere in your body, painting both inisde and outside with his seed. he's squirted his realease in your tits before, but this time... this time there seems to be more quantity and john looks like he's enjoying it more than normal.

he isn't complaining that much about not being able to fuck you because of his hips anymore.

[luvvictoria]

I'm writing this because I feel like I'm losing my mind ; after a recent traumatic experience I just started to feel weird and see things and this migh ease me up a bit

The first time it happens, it’s subtle. A shadow in the corner of your eye that vanishes when you turn your head. A whisper on the wind where there should be silence. Your hands twitch on your rifle, but you say nothing.

The second time, it’s worse. A figure standing right in front of you in the safehouse mirror— a dark shadow, riddled with bullet holes, blood pooling beneath its feet, a goresome image. You don’t react, doesn’t even blink. You just simply walk away.

It becomes a routine. See. Ignore. Move on.

You don’t tell anyone. Not Soap, who would joke until he realized it wasn’t funny. Not Price, who would bench you for being compromised. And definitely not Ghost.

Not until the mission over Las Almas.

You’re all on the plane back to base when you mutters it under your breath. A careless mistake, but you’re exhausted, frayed at the edges, unable to keep your thoughts inside.

"Shit… forgot my meds."

Silence.

"What meds?" Soap asks, frowning.

You freeze.

Gaz lifts his head from where he’s been dozing. Price watches you carefully. Ghost—he doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the weight of his gaze.

"You don’t take meds," Price states, not a question, just fact.

You shrug, trying to brush it off. "It’s nothing."

Ghost speaks up then, voice low, unreadable. "Didn’t look like nothing when you damn near jumped out of your skin back in the field."

You clenched your jaw. You hadn’t realized anyone noticed.

Later, when they land, Ghost corners you. It’s not aggressive, but it’s firm. A quiet presence at your side as you walk toward the barracks.

"You’re seeing things," he says, like it’s a fact, like he already knows the answer.

You stop walking. The air feels thick, pressing against your skin.

"I don’t…" You exhale sharply. "It’s not just that."

"Then what?"

Your hands tremble. You shove them into your pockets. "I don’t feel like I’m real anymore."

Ghost doesn’t say anything, letting you talk.

"I eat, and the food tastes like nothing. I smoke, and it’s like sucking in air. I touch my face, my arms, but it feels—wrong. Like my body isn’t mine anymore."

You look at him then, searching for something, maybe disgust, maybe pity. But there’s nothing. Just understanding.

"Why didn’t you say anything?" His voice is quieter now, almost careful.

You scoff, shaking your head. "Because what the hell am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, guys, I think my brain’s broken. I see dead people, and my own skin doesn’t feel like mine. Can we still go on missions together?’"

Ghost is silent for a long moment before he speaks. "Yeah. That’s exactly what you should’ve said."

You blink.

He exhales, tilting his head slightly. "You think we’d let you go through this alone?"

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. "I don’t know. I— I didn’t want to be a burden."

Ghost’s eyes soften, just barely. "You’re not."

For the first time in weeks, you feel something. Not much, but it’s there. Something warm, something solid.

And for now, it’s enough.

[nthewriter]

Crazy fic idea I know

(Edit: had to change the date of reader mom death because I am a dumbass who cannot do math)

Being Simon's long lost biological child

He received a call from the now Captain Kyle Gaz Garrick and on the very next day, he drove with Johnny down to the base.

Coming back after ten years of "retirement" was not easy. They had saved the world from Makarov, Johnny had survived his wound, and the 141 disbanded. Now a new task force led by Gaz ensured to keep the world at peace and to hunt down the rest of the Konni's.

And what a find, deep inside an oil ring barely standing, Kyle Garrick had found the spitting image of his old Lieutenant. The hair and the eyes colour were different yes- but the features, the way they carried themselves... Everything screamed it was Simon's offspring.

And there he stood, behind a one way glass. Simon looked down at his child. His progeny. Johnny let out a gasp next to him, his hand reached for his hesitantly. They weren’t good with that.

Kyle stood there as well, hands behind his back.

"Figured out I might let you know."

"Where did you find them?" Simon's gruff voice spoke.

"Oil ring in the Pacific, packed with a lot of Konnis. Laswell was able to pull some strings so they fall into our hands. I might need- an explanation." Kyle said, and Simon couldn't believe how much the younger man became like Price.

"Slept with a woman when I was twenty or so, stucked around after she had the kid. Left when they were six. Never recognised legally the child as mine." Simon summarised. He never thought about them to be fair. He had almost forgotten about them.

"Could have told us, Si." Johnny chirped in. "We wouldn't have judge you or anything."

"Well... they are being held for terrorism. I looked at the intel on them, they're just- well, I am sorry to announce you Simon that your old girlfriend died around in 2014, meaning the kid had to go through social services, foster care. Looks like they had been indoctrinated in high school, and here they are." Kyle carefully stated, bringing some files to Simon. "It's your call, LT. We can go through the usual process. Or- I mean- if you want to- you can talk to them."

"Why would I do that?"

"Fuck's sake!" Johnny yelled, and rolled his eyes. "You have a second chance, mate. Time to step up." He fell silent. "I think you just should take the chance to speak to the kid." He muttered under his breath.

And what Johnny wanted, Johnny got.

[guppybibi]

This is How Love Goes 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

content: self indulgent, fluff, probably ooc, they're weird but i uhh yea, not proofread

notes: i uh yes,,,this is basically me taking a huge breath.

~~~~~~~~~

Soap MacTavish loves to pull lighthearted pranks on you.

Sure, it was annoying at first. Who knows? Maybe it is until now. But when Johnny fills your desk up with sticky notes full of loving and motivational words like "You got this, bonnie." and all that stuff, you really can't complain about it.

And he notes all of your reactions down, to see which of the pranks he can repeat and which one goes into no no territory. He's an annoying guy, but in the end, he's yours.

Simon Riley will let you do (almost) anything to his weapons collection.

Okay, it sounds just a little bit silly. And I also know this isn't an original idea BUT I LOVE IT SO MUCH. He lets you decorate them, putting stickers on it, tying it up with ribbons, painting it if you can. You name it. As long as the weapon is still functional, he'll let you do anything to it.

Also the same thing with his masks, you guys have matching ones. It won't happen unless you bring it up though. Mainly because he doesn't want to extend that part of him to you. Ghost is simply an extension of who Simon is, and he doesn't want to connect Ghost with you if you don't want to.

Kyle Garrick has a lot of weird ones, but thinking of you during the most random tasks has to be up there.

The way he phrases it really, because how are you supposed to react when you open your phone to Kyle messaging you: "Hey, I'm shampooing my hair right now and I'm thinking of you, because I think you'd make a great shampoo scent."

He also leaves you little gifts scattered around your shared home, except Kyle is a teaser. So you aren't surprised when you find a note saying "I found you!" with a Dum Dum or Nerds stuck onto it.

John Price loves tickling you.

Maybe it's an excuse to touch you, or be close to you. Maybe even to hear you laugh, all John knows is that he can't help it. Obviously he won't do it when you clearly don't want it, but the laugh you let out is so adorable that he's unable to contain himself.

Sometimes he uses his beard to tickle you too, first of all, ouch. But whatever he wants I guess.