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bullet-prooflove · 5 months ago

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The General!Series - Part Four: Moving On: Beau 'Cyclone' Simpson x Reader

A little get well soon gift for my girl @dizzybee03

Tagging: @kmc1989 @justameresimp @agentorange9595 @lxaah11 @librarian1002

Broken Buttons (feat: Harmon Rabb)- Beau discovers the real reason you broke things off with him.

Messy - Companion piece to Broken Buttons - Beau discovers the truth about what happened that night.

Choices - Companion piece to Broken Buttons and Messy - Beau and you discuss your choices moving forward.

Sitting in court is excruciating but Beau endures it, he endures it because no matter how fucking horrified and nauseated he is, you must feel it tenfold. He can’t imagine what it must be like to sit in front of a room of your peers and describe what that man did to you, to have your story questioned and torn apart, to have someone tell you to your face that you were asking for it. They try to paint you as unstable, the kind of woman who intended to sleep her way up the ladder, whose now crying wolf because she was rebuked.

He almost punches the prosecution attorney in the mouth for the shit he says to you. It’s only Mic Brumby’s iron clad grip on his arm that stops him from launching himself across the table and strangling the man.

It’s the physical evidence that’s the worst.

You had the competency to go to the hospital afterwards, you’d been bleeding, scared when the doctor had seen you. You’ve worked with enough women through your time in Victim Support Services to know the procedures, you needed the morning after pill, medication to counteract anything that son of a bitch might have given you.

The hospital had logged you under an anonymous patient I.D. It’s something they do for victims of sexual assault when they collect evidence, when they’re not ready to file a police report.

It sickens Beau to hear the injuries you’d sustained, he hadn’t realised how violent it was, not until then.

You’re found not guilty of the offense. The jury of your peers accepts that you acted in self-defence when you broke the General’s nose, that you were too traumatised to attend work in the aftermath.

Your case, it opens doors for other women it’s happened to because you weren’t the first woman he did it to, you weren’t even the last. He’s arrested during a charity function for victims of sexual assault and the fucking irony of that astounds Beau.

You spend an hour in the shower after you give your testimony, before you fall asleep on the couch with your head in Beau’s lap. He spends the whole night, his fingers running soothingly through your hair as he begins to plan the next steps.

You’ve told him you can’t stay in Washington, that Admiral Chegwidden has granted you a transfer back to San Diego. There’s too much trauma attached to this place.

He spends the next couple of days helping you pack up your things. You throw away more away than you keep because you don’t want the bad memories following you. Harmon Rabb and Mic Brumby turn up on moving day to help carry the boxes down to the truck. Besides him, they’re the only two people who’s touch you don’t flinch away from these days.

“Thank you.” Beau tells Harm when the two of them are alone in the apartment, grabbing the final few boxes. “For bringing me here, for fighting for her.”

“Don’t thank me.” Harm says, his voice gruff as he crosses his arms over his chest and stares out of the window. “It happened on my watch. I was there that night, I should have stuck around but me and Mac were going through some shit…”

Harm shakes his head, his jaw clenching.

“It never should have happened.”

Beau sighs, shifting the box he’s carrying to his other hip.

“Ally doesn’t blame you and neither do I.” Beau tells the other man. “If it wasn’t that night, it would have been another. You heard the testimony, once he had her in his sights…”

It was the same with all the others, that son of bitch had enjoyed the chase, it made catching his prey all the more sweeter. He treated every single one of those women like a trophy, something to be hunted down, caught.

“I need you to promise that you’ll check in every once in a while, tell me how she’s doing.” Harmon says, his palm rubbing over the back of his neck.

“I will.” Beau tells Harm as he picks up the remaining box and heads towards the apartment door. “Ally may need a little time but I’ll make sure to keep in touch.”

“She’s going to get through this.” Harm reassures him as they step out into the hallway, he waits as Beau closes the door behind him, locking it up for the final time. “It’ll take some time but she has it in her.”

“I know.” Beau says as he slips the key into the mailbox for the landlord to pick up. “If anyone can make it through something like this, it's her.”

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mockerycrow · 1 year ago

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Undercover I (Soap x GN!Reader)

undercover series masterlist — next

Summary: You’re apart of an undercover joint task force between the CIA and MI6, meant to invade Makarov’s operations. Your entire mission goes up in flames once Task Force 141 takes you in for interrogation after finding you beaten and bloody in one of Makarov’s warehouses.

A/N: i hate the ending of this part but it issss what it isssss… This was originally a male reader so I might change it back to male!reader later on. the fake name is as gender neutral as possible. ALSO THANK YOU FOR 200 FOLLOWERS WTF??

[WARNINGS: Gore, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of torture, near death experience(s), mentions of drowning, near drowning/waterboarding, medical inaccuracies.]

The POV switches a couple of times!

The operation fell apart the second my boss did not bother to inform more than my task force of our mission. My death sentence was written into existence the moment I stepped into that conference room with several other high-end individuals—we all worked undercover operations before. We’ve all have had our deaths faked, our lives torn apart and restitched for the perfect narrative for any mission necessary. We have been called for a mission at the darkest of hours to do the dirtiest of work. If no one serves in the dark, then no one can live in the light, right?

We hold up this facade, this mask—for years. You go into an undercover operation with an estimate of a couple years as the duration, how quickly your team is capable, and by the time you’ve done a couple of these missions; you know you have to take the estimate and double it, at the very least. You learn to live with the mountain of bodies you collect over the years, a giant pool of thick blood slowly getting bigger at my feet. My shoes stain with the blood—we all bleed the same, no matter your creed, your race, your gender, your sexuality. If that’s the fact, then how do we tell guilty blood from innocent? Where do the lines blur together, everything looking the same?

It gets dangerous working undercover for so long, but we have to keep going.

Some people lose themselves to the faux identity they’re playing, the fake family, the head of the household—the fake childhood, fake friends.. Sometimes, the faked life is preferred to the real one.

Not me, though.

I remember exactly who I am.

With a combat knife in my hands, circling a table with a map on it, with several marked places—I am Zhenya Antonenko, surrounded by the very people I’m working against in secret.

When I’m alone, I’m myself. I’m me. One of the very few people burdened with the duty of collecting information and intelligence and surveying it back home—back to my Captain, Tyler Hudson. The one person I can trust through this entire operation.

I know I have to trust my other teammates to an extent, but when you’ve seen so many men and women fall to the other side? It gets rough.

Shooting someone who you previously trusted with your life is.. I cannot even begin to describe the feeling.

Melancholy, perhaps?

Even then, I have to be careful.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful who we pretend to be.”

“..status?” “alive…”

Throbbing pain. Searing. Rough hands on you—

“..one of his..” That accent—it’s not Russian. What?

Did the.. did the operation go tits up?-

No. This accent is Scottish. You didn’t work with any Scots.

…You’re in rough shape, to say the least.

Soap’s hands untie the harsh ropes digging to the skin of your wrists, ignoring how the rope is stained with your blood. You’re one of his—And you’re alive. You won’t be for long if he doesn’t act fast, though. Your skin is paler than usual, you’re soaked in freezing water and your own blood—Soap didn’t wince at your wounds, though. He had no empathy for anyone working with Makarov.

“Let’s get them on our truck, let’s move.” Price said, his tone rough and serious as always. He watches as the rope falls away from your hands and feet, and Price chooses to walk over to your unconscious from. His hand grabs your chin and lifts your head to take a look, and what he sees earns a hum from himself. You took quite a beating, which made Soap curious. “‘Wonder what th’bastard had to do to earn all o’that.” He comments, taking a good look at your face.

Your lips are slightly parted; cracked and stained with your own blood, probably from accidentally biting your tongue. Your lip is split open, definitely requiring a few stitches. Your nose absolutely has to be broken, dried blood all over your skin, your chin—mouth, lips, down the front of your shirt. No one would be surprised if your jaw wasn’t broken—or at least fractured in some way. Your eye is swollen shut and your eyebrow is split open—your hair is damp, both from blood and water.

Soap left you untied; even if you woke up, you wouldn’t be a threat. He puts the sling of his rifle over his shoulder and he hooks an arm under your knees, the other supporting the weight of your back. He grunts as he picks you up, leaning you into his chest. “Light,” Soap comments.

Ghost and Gaz come from a different part of a warehouse, documents and a laptop in hand. “He left in quite a hurry, sir.” Gaz murmurs, holding up a few pieces of paper. “These were scattered around, we nearly caught them by surprise.”

Before Price can ask his question, Ghost answers it, like he can read his Captain’s mind. “Makarov was here.”

The silence is deafening as the four men make their way out of the warehouse, documents, technology and an asset in their hands—you.

Soap ignores the way your blood is soaking into his clothing as they get back their truck and hauling into in the backseats.

For a moment, I thought I died. I really did; I thought Makarov and his goons truly beat me to death, sending me straight to the fiery pits of Hell with every wound they inflicted on me.. And I kind of wish they did, honestly.

But that scares me—I’ve never craved death before. Have I lost it already?

Or is it the burning pain that’s bubbling under my skin?

Nothing in particular wakes me up, but when I do, my tongue is heavy and dry; cotton like. I can’t taste anything besides maybe some blood acts dried around my lips. It takes all of my strength to lick my lips and—nevermind, blood and a weird sour taste. Like the kind you get after sleeping for longer than you should.

My head feels.. fuzzy, like there’s electricity bouncing inside of my skull. Or is that the distant ringing I hear? Or is it the insistent pressure behind my eyeballs?

My body feels so heavy. I feel like an anchor from a ship, being dragged through the bottom of the ocean. Both the weight, and the relatable feeling of like it’s crashed into everything in my path because hOlyfuckpainpainpain-

“They’re awake.” A low and rough voice drawls out; British. Can’t place the region when my fucking body is screaming for relief—

My eyes.. scratch that, eye opens because the other is swollen shut and I nearly regret waking up at all because of the fucking luminescent bulb in front of me, burning my corneas. A gloved hand grabs my jaw which make some cry out because something is wrong, terribly fucking wrong with my jaw—oh, shit, this guy is scary.

I’m forced to peer at the tall man with stocky shoulders and a wide chest, wearing a black balaclava with a skull painted on it. His eyes—they’re brown, but, but they’re so fucking empty, like they’re peering into my damn soul and ripping apart every action I’ve ever committed.

These guys aren’t Makarov’s. What?

I take a sharp inhale as I try to look over any more part of this guy’s uniform, but his grip isn’t letting me. Skull-face holds up a black leather booklet—my fucking I.D. “Zhenya Antonenko,” He spits out, almost mockingly, looking between the small photo of me and me, myself. I can’t bring myself to do anything like I usually would to stay in character; spit, slur out a curse or anything. My body aches.

“Zhenya Antonenko,” Skull-face repeats once more, letting go of my jaw, allowing the burning pain deep in the bone to sizzle down to a dull throb. My head nearly falls forward but I keep it up with the little strength that remains in my neck muscles. “You’ve worked for Makarov for a number of years, hm? Makes me wonder what’a little birdie on his shoulder has ta’do to make the big man leave ‘em for dead.”

I keep my mouth shut. That’s something I had to learn early on when I joined my team—no matter what, do not. let. them. break. you.

Makarov didn’t break me, and I certainly won’t let these guys break me when the entire population of countries are riding on my shoulders. I furrow my eyebrows and maintain eye contact with the big man, mustering the worst glare I can at the moment which probably isn’t very noticeable.

Fuck, I want to puke. My head is swimming, my entire body is just—I only feel pain, and by this point I can only guess where the sources are. It’s all blending together into the worst concoction.

I gasp as a stinging sensation blooms over my cheek—he smacked me.

“Pay attention.” Skull-face hissed, walking over to a tray nearby. I let out a shaky breath as I follow him and then when I see the other men present in the room. Skull-face’s friends.

The first man I see has dark skin, fairly young to be in squad like this. Capturing folk, I mean. He has a noticeable scar under one of his eyes—or I think..? It’s a scar? I can’t see that far, especially with that blinding light in my eye. He’s kind of bulky, but his shoulders are nowhere near as large as Skull-face’s. One of the other men are across the room, leaning against the wall, watching me closely with a hateful glare—like he wants to gut me, watch my intestines spill out and watch me die. He has a bucket hat on, military fatigue colored. He has mutton chops and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but whoever he is, is the only person I’ve seen whose been able to pull them off.

The fourth guy, aside from Skull-face and his friends Mutton Chops and Basic Boy, is staring me down. He’s fairly average height, stockier than Basic Boy, you can tell he’s strong by the way his forearms look. His hair is shaved into a mohawk—the sides need to be a bit more shaved as it looks more grown out. He has a little more than a stubble type beard, but I can vaguely make out a scar on his chin.

I grunt as Skull-faces hand connects with my cheek again and fuuuck, my jaw—

“I won’t fuckin’ say it again. Pay attention or I’ll do what Makarov did to you but tenfold.” Skull-face’s eyes are dark as I look back at his face, the throbbing pain in my face subsiding again after a few seconds. My shoulders slightly tense under his gaze; he’s not kidding. I can’t afford another beating, especially not after.. what he did.

Fuck.

Being stuck between a rock and a hard place, I force myself to nod, not once do my eyes leave his form. No matter what, I can’t break. “What was Makarov doin’ in that warehouse?” He gruffs out, grabbing a few documents off of a nearby metal table that I didn’t notice before. He sifts through the documents as I purse my lips together, muttering a weak, “я дал присягу.” I took an oath. Look, these guys clearly don’t work for Makarov, but I can’t fucking afford to give up any information.

“Stick to your story, no matter what. Unless I intervene, you have to keep going. Even if you’re on the verge of death.”

Hudson’s words flood my brain as Skull-face doesn’t respond to me. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my temple and face—sweating from the pain.

My body just.. fucking aches.

“An oath, huh?” Skull-face mutters, turning back to me with a document. “You took an oath for a terrorist?”

Oookay, this guy does not like Zhenya.

Me. He doesn’t like me.

My eyebrow twitches in response, but I keep my lips sealed shut. Skull-face holds up a document in front of me, and of course it’s all in Russian. “You know what this is?” He barks, his deep, Manchester accented voice bouncing off of the walls, echoing. “This is Makarov making arrangements to get his hands on biological weapon warfare.”

I keep silent—I know that it is, and my heart drops to my stomach from the thought of what could happen if Makarov manages to go through with it. Skull-face stares at me like he expects me to answer, and of course, I never give him one.

I gasp sharply as within seconds, my shirt is lifted and his knife rips through some stitches they’ve must’ve given meeeEE—holy fuck, shit shit oh fuck—

Blood gushes from my stomach, earning a choked noise from me. Pain blooms in my abdomen, and I can feel the warm liquid of my own blood dribbling down onto the spandex of my pants that hold them onto my hips. I immediately feel like my world is spinning again, Skull-face borderlines multiplies in front of me. He grabs my jaw which makes me cry out again—fucking let go—and he leans in real close to my face. “There’s obvious context missin’, yeah? Fill in the gaps and we’ll let the medics work on’ya.”

I force myself to breathe through my nose, with every heavy breath I force out, comes another wave of nausea.

“Мне нечего сказать.” I have nothing to say.

“I don’t think ya understand the’situation.” Mohawk seethes, approaching me from where he was standing. Scottish. He was there—he took me.

I blink sluggishly in an attempt to focus my eyes on the man who replaced Skull-face. I get a clearer view of his face. Tan skin for a Scot, probably spends a lot of his time in the sun—his eyes are so fucking bright blue—I can see every detail of his face from how close he is. Mohawk is angry and he’s one beautiful man. Maybe if I was tied up in this chair for a different reason, I’d be willing give up some of that information—

I keep quiet and stare him in the eyes. The burning flames of anger behind his eyes towards me; thank God I’m not Makarov. I hear a door open and I glance towards it for just a second—Mutton Chops is leaving. I quickly look back at Mohawk and shake my head, although speaking my refusal was probably a smarter idea because now my head is swimming again.

“Do’ye not understand that ya fell fer a trap?” He barks, grabbing the front of my shirt. I wince as I feel the fabric pulling away from my open wounds. “Makarov does not care aboot you!”

My breath hitches as the door slams open, my eyes tracking to who it is—Mutton Chops is back, wheeling in a… big bowl of water. Big enough to hold a head under.

Fuck.

Fuck, oh fuck!

They must’ve caught onto my reaction, which I didn’t really notice them doing as all I could focus on was my pounding heartbeat, but I heard a vague laugh. Mohawk grabs one of the legs of the cart, carelessly pulls it closer and his other hand grabs a chunk of hair on my head, pulling my head back. My lips part and a faint noise of pain leaving them. He says something, which I don’t register—and then he pushes my head under the water.

I immediately struggle as I instinctively took a gasp for air under the water, the water filtering into my lungs, my body screaming that it isn’t supposed to be there, that it’s wrong, that you’re drowning, you’re drowningdrowningdrowningdrowningdROWNING-

The water rushing in my ears doesn’t make this any better, the pure fucking panic in my gut worsens by the second as I can’t fucking breathe, lET ME GO, I ALREADY WENT THROUGH THIS ONCE—

I kick my feet, trying to find the cart, Mohawk, someone, anyone, shit, hElp-

Suddenly my head is ripped out of the water and my eye is closed and I’m sputtering water, my body desperate to cough the remaining in my lungs up, the water from my hair soaking the top of my shirt again, dripping into my mouth—

I still can’t breathe. I think I’m fucking dying.

My lungs are begging for air as I weakly gasp for it, my hands that are tied behind the chair grasp at the air, for anything to ground myself. I weakly kick at the air like that’ll help me, I don’t even know what’s going on anymore—fuck, I’m dying, my chest aches, my abdomen fucking hurts, I can’t hear anything, are they going to just stand there and watch me die?

Like Makarov did?

Are they going to fucking resuscitate me like he did?

Makarov held me under the water until all of the air in my lungs was replaced with ice cold water. I only remember waking up and spitting water out all over myself, laying on my back on the concrete floor of the warehouse, with a dark chuckle from him, murmuring, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

He did it twice. Maybe a third time? If he did, I don’t remember.

My head is ripped out of the water and I gasp for air so harshly I choke, and then I’m suddenly out like a light.

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pinksomovember · 1 year ago

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Day 1 - In A Car [ao3]

Ivy rocked on her heel folded under her.

“I’m going to piss myself,” she said, a slight whine bleeding into her otherwise joking tone.

Nora didn’t respond. Ivy had been complaining on-and-off for the past hour, with increasing frequency, and had started shortly after a stop that had a bathroom.

“I seriously don’t think I’ve ever had to pee this bad in my life,” Ivy continued. “It’s starting to hurt.”

“You could’ve gone at the gas station,” Nora said.

Ivy didn’t appreciate the condescending scolding. She felt like a water balloon that was still attached to the hose, bulging more and more with every second, with only a matter of time before it went pop. Her only outlet was to fidget, simultaneously squeezing her thighs together and rocking back and forth onto her foot so it pressed up against her pussy. In combination with the seam of her jean shorts digging up against her—working its way into a wedgie—her urethra had plenty of pressure to help it stay closed. That was only going to work for so long, though.

“You didn’t see the bathrooms,” Ivy argued. They’d been disgusting—shit on the back of the seat, a truly foul smelling liquid seeping along the corners of the floor, and flies everywhere. Not to mention how every surface was covered in stains and dried flecks of who-knows-what. If it had been cleaned in the past month Ivy would eat one of her socks.

She’d had to pee, decently bad, when they had stopped there. But under no circumstances would Ivy use that bathroom. Except for maybe (just maybe) right now.

She thought she’d be able to hold it. They were only a few hours out from their destination and she could always get Nora to stop at a rest stop or a gas station if it really got bad. Ivy, however, hadn’t realized that they were about to exit fucking civilization. There had been nothing for the past fifty miles other than cattle and the occasional cornfield!

“If you weren’t chugging those iced teas-”

“I’ve stopped!”

Ivy might’ve also forgotten to factor in how much liquid had still been moving its way through her system, too. It was a habit for her to sip at sugary drinks when she was bored.

A wave of desperation so strong that Ivy dug her nails into her thighs swept through her.

“Ohhh my god,” she moaned. “I can’t do this. Jesus fucking Christ.”

There was so much pee inside her right now her bladder was visibly pushing up against her skin, firm and tight and aching between her hips. She had given up on the seatbelt, and the button of her shorts, well over fifteen minutes ago. Ivy kind of wanted to cry.

Nora softened. “You going to be alright, babe?”

“I don’t know. Yes, probably. Maybe.”

“I can always pull over,” she offered. “You’d have to piss on the side of the road, though.”

Ivy shook her head adamantly. “No, there’s way too much traffic.”

They fell into silence for a few minutes, aside from the staticy music of one of the few radio station’s Nora’s truck was picking up and the occasional curse from Ivy.

“Are you enjoying it, at least? At least a little?” Nora asked, breaking the quiet.

“What?” Ivy practically panted. Her breathing was rough as she tried to huff and puff her way through the worst of the desperation.

“Just.” Nora seemed a bit embarrassed, keeping her eyes completely glued to the road. “You’re…y’know. Piss thing.”

“It’s not a piss thing,” Ivy hissed, mortified. Even though it was, at least partially, a piss thing.

It wasn’t her fault that having a full bladder turned her on. From what Ivy understood, it was just simple biology! The fuller that most women’s bladder’s get, the more it puts pressure on all the internal pleasure hotspots. A little like cockwarming a moderately small toy, just without any form of firmness that a foreign object would feel like. It felt good in a slow building, passive sort of way.

Getting off with all that weight in her lower belly also felt good. A little bit of extra flare to a still otherwise damn good orgasm.

But she wouldn’t say she was into piss. The idea of the smell and the mess alone was enough to turn her off to it. Holding it on occasion until it was just starting to edge into too much was plenty enough for her.

Although, she had to admit, she wasn’t exactly turned off to it right now.

Each tight squeeze of her thighs stimulated her a little bit. Every rock back pressed the bone of her heel into the squelching slickness of her pussy, which was absolutely soaking her panties despite knowing damn well that she hadn’t leaked a single drop of pee yet. And with all that movement, the seam of her shorts was pulled tight against her unmistakably hard clit.

“Well, are you?” Nora asked.

“I-” Ivy stopped herself. Her face was burning. “Yeah, maybe. So what, I still have to pee more than I have to—or whatever, want to—get off.”

Nora stole a side glance at Ivy. Something dark, heedy, interested came over her expression as she drank in how Ivy looked.

Ivy sacrificed one of her hands clawing into her thigh as a grounding method to cover her face. This was embarrassing enough as it was without having to talk about her kinks. Even if Nora seemed to be getting into it.

“Oh my god, ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” Ivy chanted, forgetting her embarrassment entirely. The wave of desperation felt incredibly, suddenly like a physical wave. She could feel it surging against the sphincter muscles of her urethra.

She wiggled her hips side to side to try and fight through it. The movement caused her shorts, already so tight against her cunt, to shift. Her clit was trapped between the seam and her pubic bone, but couldn’t stay in place with this new movement. The seam fucking stroked her aching clit, slipping to the side before grinding right back over it with the next sway of her hips.

“Hu-uhn,” Ivy couldn’t help but moan. “Uh, uh, uh!”

“Fuck,” Nora cursed, breathless.

Ivy couldn’t process the difference between her desperation for relief and her sudden, surging need to cum. Everything was much too much and not enough at the same time.

“Fuckfuckfuck. Jesus Christ. Uhaha.” Ivy sobbed a couple times. It was part laugh and part horniness and part overwhelmed. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It felt like an out-of-body event while also being the most physically animal experience she had ever had.

“God. You feeling good, baby?” Nora asked.

“Y-y-yes!” Ivy wailed. “It’s- fuck, it’s so good. I’m so wet. Shit, I’m so- I’ve gotta piss so bad.”

Nora took her right hand off the wheel to grab Ivy’s leg. Her other hand held onto the wheel so tight her knuckles were turning white. There was something wild about her. Something that, if she didn’t have to focus so much of her attention on the road, might’ve swept her up in the same way Ivy’s desperation was.

“You gonna play with yourself, baby?” Nora asked. “Gonna play with your clit while you piss yourself?”

“Don’t- don’t wanna piss myself,” Ivy whined. Nevertheless, she did as Nora suggested and grabbed tight between her legs. Her shorts were too tight and were getting in the way of actually being able to touch herself effectively, but the pressure helped reel in her bladder’s demands a little bit.

“Ives, baby, there’s no bathrooms for miles yet.”

A reedy noise broke in Ivy’s throat.

“I know, I know,” Nora said, hand squeezing at Ivy’s thigh. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“This is so fucking embarassing,” Ivy managed, laughing incredulously. “I’m seriously gonna wet myself. Fuck.”

“I don’t care. Fuck, baby, looking like that…I’d let you ruin anything.”

“Hm?” Ivy hummed. Her whole cunt was pulsing, vagina and pussy lips and clit. She was so wet she wouldn’t even be surprised if a spot was showing up on her shorts, soaked straight through her panties. Her body was building up to something—so high up she was almost afraid of it—unsure if it would be the dams breaking involuntarily or an orgasm so intense it would be the best she’d ever had.

“You look so fucking good, Ives,” Nora rasped. “I could eat you alive.”

“I…” Ivy wavered. She didn’t know what she wanted to say.

“It’s okay,” Nora said. “It’s gonna happen either way, isn’t it? Unless you changed your mind about the side of the road?”

They were on a two-laned highway, a couple of cars in either direction always in sight. Stopping would mean even more cars, as the ones behind them passed them by.

“No, absolutely not. It’d end up on the- on the fucking Internet or something.”

Nora massaged her thumb against Ivy’s skin. “Then I’m sorry, baby, but you’re gonna have to piss yourself.”

“’S bullshit,” Ivy mumbled. Tears were pricking up in her eyes. The side-to-side wiggling was simultaneously not doing enough to help her hold it and doing a frustratingly inconsistent too-much-not-enough to get her off. She resorted back to rocking, with no sign of pausing the mounting something that was steadily creeping up on her.

“We’ve got a ton of clothes in the back,” Nora soothed. “And towels, and baby wipes, and our rental is pretty far from any neighbors so nobody’ll see you walking in your wet clothes. And it won’t take too much to clean the truck, and I don’t mind cleaning it up, okay?”

“But-”

“It’s not a big deal,” Nora insisted, a bit of firmness edging in. “Understand?”

Ivy nodded tightly. She did understand, even if she could barely think.

“Now, since it’s gonna happen anyways, you want to make yourself feel good?”

“Already am,” Ivy said. “Might, fuck, I don’t know. Might cum.”

“Just like that?”

“May- uhn- maybe.”

“Fuck.” She sounded reverent. “You wanna touch yourself, baby? Wanna stick your fingers down your shorts?”

Ivy nodded, frantic. She was so close, to coming, to pissing, to doing both. She just couldn’t quite get there.

Her fingers felt fucking heavenly. Her pussy was a mess of sticky slick, audibly squishing as she pushed her hand beneath the waistband of her panties and into the lips of her pussy. Just brushing against her clit was enough to cause her to shout out, trembling at the sudden stimulation of sensitive nerves.

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, look at you. It feels good?”

“Yes! Fuck, ohmygod. Hnnnuh.”

Ivy’s fingers were clumsy, sitting up and trapped in her shorts and obstructed by the clamping of her thighs. But God, it didn’t even matter. She grinded her cunt on her heel and the drag of the cotton and denim against her pussy made everything all the better and her fingers fumbling over her clit was dragging her up up up.

“Keep playing with your clit, baby. Just like that, yeah. Just how you like it.”

“Gonna- fuck!”

“You gonna cum, Ives?”

“Wanna,” Ivy cried. “So- fuck, please, please. Wanna…I’m so…”

“Or are you gonna piss?”

“Fuck!” Ivy wailed. Her pleasure crested, sharp and violent and hard enough that her whole body shook. She threw her head back into the seat, practically seizing. She barely recognized the sounds she was making as something coming from her mouth, unfamiliar from any other she’d made before.

“Oh my god,” Nora was saying, somewhere in the distance. “Fuck, baby. Fuck.”

Ivy was still shaking, still somewhere high up.

“Need’ta piss,” she slurred. “Need’ta…uhn, I need’ta…”

Nora said something. Ivy registered only that it was meant to be encouraging.

“Uh, uhn, ohhhhhh fuck. Oh-”

Ivy’s fingers were still against her cunt, and she felt the first hot trickle of piss against them. It wasn’t enough, though, not even registering as relief. The sensation of liquid leaving her bladder, however, passing through her weakening sphincter and soaking into her shorts, bordered into the same amount of pleasure as playing with her clit usually was.

So soon after her orgasm, she felt overstimulated. There was still way too much pressure and it was taking a strenuous amount of concentration to keep even the tiny stream going and everything still felt so fucking good.

“Nnn…Nora,” Ivy sobbed. “I can’t-”

“Relax, Ives, relax. It’s okay, you can do it.”

“Can’t-”

Nora let go of Ivy’s thigh and instead tucked her hand beneath Ivy’s wrist of the hand still down her shorts to place her palm against her belly. “I’m gonna push down a bit, okay? Just relax.”

Ivy hiccuped, but nodded. She was still managing a thin stream of piss, seeping into the seat of her shorts and just barely beginning to form a puddle under her butt, but her bladder was screaming at her.

Nora pushed down and Ivy squirmed violently. The pressure was so much more but it wasn’t doing anything but hurting. She had to piss so bad and she couldn’t and inexplicably she felt like she could cum again just like this but not quite. And then her urethra gave way.

“Ohmy god,” Ivy choked. The piss flooded out of her.

It didn’t even feel like she was sitting in the passenger seat of her girlfriend’s car, her entire bottom was so suddenly drenched. She might as well have been sitting in the tub in a few inches of bathwater. Hot, very slightly piss-scented, bathwater.

It was euphoric. She might’ve been cumming again, for all the pleasure searing through her as her release hissed through her panties and pooled on the fabric seat faster than it could soak it up. She genuinely couldn’t tell.

The stream was hot and steady against her fingers as it sprayed out of her. Absently, she petted along her inner labia.

“Shit,” Nora said, like she was in awe. “Shit.”

The stream started to peter out, in fits and bursts. Just when Ivy thought it was over another gush would start up, each one a little weaker than the last.

There was a dull drip, drip, drip as the puddle on the seat dripped onto the floorboards.

Nora’s eyes darted between the road and Ivy, with a desperate sort of want. “Oh my god, Ives. That was…”

“I think I’m still going,” Ivy said. She felt a little fuzzy around the edges, numb in the very tips of her fingers and toes and slightly cross eyed. Fucked out.

“Fuck,” Nora whispered, enthralled.

The final dredges of her bladder’s contents were still dribbling out of her, like her urethra couldn’t quite figure out how to close back up. Ivy tried to force it a bit, by clenching up, but all that caused was a violent shiver to rush up her spine and a soft little gasp.

Finally, finally, Ivy felt herself stop peeing.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, satisfied and spent and high on sex.

“You okay?” Nora asked. Her hand was back to Ivy’s thigh, mindless of the piss starting to cool on her skin.

“Yeah,” Ivy sighed, sleepy and pliant. “M’great. Maybe, uh, in a bit you could get a towel outta the back?”

“Yeah,” Nora agreed. “’Course, baby.”

#omovember #omorashi #fem omo #day 1 #original work #piss kink #original character #omovember 2023 #fic

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metalnecklace · 1 year ago

Text

Be Good To Me

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader (plus size)

Words: 3899

Summary: Periods are awful, and sometimes Joel loves taking care of people.

Warnings: Slight age gap (Reader is somewhere in her late thirties/early forties, old enough to have had a period for a while before the outbreak, Joel is his age after the series), Blood, Periods, Pain related to periods, Doctors failing people with reproductive organs, Fatphobia because doctors suck, Reader is afab, Allusions to smut, Hurt/Comfort, Joel is an asshole until he isn’t.

Notes: This is barely edited, my period is late and my hormones are going nuts so this is totally for me. Also periods suck, so so bad. This may not be everyone’s experience with them but mine are absolutely awful (yay PCOS), so yeah!

Masterlist

Periods before the outbreak were no walk in the park. Women’s health wasn’t viewed as something that needed to be looked at too closely by professionals, so when my period was too heavy and too painful the only prescription I was given was the advice to lose weight.

That didn’t happen.

In fact, even once the outbreak happened and food became scarce I still didn’t lose weight. I believed it was the stress, but there was no way of knowing. However, one good thing about the malnourishment was the absence of a period.

I still got one, from time to time. And it sucked. It always caught me by surprise and was either extremely light and barely noticeable, or it felt like I had been hit by a truck and left an unreal crime scene behind.

I took what I got in stride, though. I was okay only having one every once in a while instead of the monthly horror that I had been living through before. It was bad enough to have to survive through the outbreak, let alone bleeding along the way.

Things changed once I reached Jackson. I was introduced to regular meals, less stress, a routine, a schedule, a roof over my head, and reusable period products. Fabric sewn together made pads that I could wash and reuse over and over, and a diva cup helped when I needed that extra protection. Especially if I left my house.

Because once I was more at home, my period came back. It came back hard.

It was still monthly, though the only thing that let me know it was coming was the hurricane of mood swings that took over me days before. When they were happening my cramps were usually so bad that I was bedridden, and the bleeding was so heavy I couldn’t leave the house unless absolutely necessary.

I had spoken to Maria about it when it first happened and I found myself doubled over in pain during mealtime. She helped me get comfortable back at home, and listened to my complaining until I fell asleep on my couch. Although her periods weren’t nearly as bad, she still held sympathy and allowed me to rest when I needed it.

I usually only needed rest for the first two days, although sometimes the cramps lingered into three. Maria was the only one who knew why there were days I couldn’t leave the house, and we kept it that way. Most people understood, some didn’t.

Joel Miller was one of the ones that didn’t.

To him, work was work. No matter the pain you were in or the comfort you lacked. You were there to help everybody. He was especially pissy on the days he had to help pick up my slack on patrols or cleaning out the horses, and he was usually the one who stepped in because Maria knew he wouldn’t say no to her.

This carried on when we were stuck on patrols together. He usually grumbled about how hard some people work, and how he never had patience for slackers. Though, I never slacked while on the job, especially around him. It was almost like I felt I needed to make it up, and that I needed to prove I could work just as hard as anybody else. That was a habit that I carried with me from before the outbreak.

One day we were patrolling further away from Jackson than I had liked. My moods had been awful, and I knew what that meant. I made sure to wear a liner and pack some pads with me for the day, knowing that the storm cloud that hovered over me was an omen for what was inevitable. I didn’t want to have to leave patrol early because I was ill prepared, and Joel didn’t need one more thing to dislike me for.

Unfortunately, the cramping started once we reached the end of our patrol route. I was glad we were heading back, but it was still at least an hour ride home. Plus, having period cramps while riding a horse was not pleasant. Still, no matter how much the pain started to creep in, I kept it together.

Until we came across an infected. They came out of nowhere, and usually I would have been able to hear them but I was so focused on getting home that I didn’t.

Joel was knocked from his horse, and it took me too long to get my gun locked on the target. Luckily it took two shots for the thing to drop dead, and Joel’s horse was only spooked. He was also okay, other than a slight limp that I wasn’t convinced he didn’t have before that day, but he was angry. Extremely angry.

“What the fuck, (Y/N)?” He barked at me. “You know I can’t hear as well on that side! Pay attention next time. You’re fuckin’ lucky it didn’t get me.”

I just nodded, still sitting atop my horse, feeling a knot form in the pit of my stomach. My eyes started to prickle and I pressed my lips shut to stop them from trembling. The last thing I needed was for Joel to see me crying just because he was scolding me, and rightfully so. I fucked up, he could’ve died, all because my body sucked.

He climbed back on his horse, turning in his saddle so he could see me. “Don’t you have anythin’ to say? Or are you just gonna sit there.”

“I’m s-sorry, J-Joel,” I stuttered out, feeling the knot rise from my stomach into my chest, then into my throat. “I’ll pay attention.”

He shook his head, and turned back forward. We rode the rest of the way home in complete silence. I didn’t dare move a muscle, and even my tears fell silently down my cheeks. My jaw ached and a headache was forming from holding back my grief, all while the pain from my abdomen bloomed throughout my lower body. I still listened for any other dangers on our path, but mostly kept my eyes glued to the stony shoulders in front of me.

When we finally arrived back in Jackson I felt like crying from relief. Then frustration, as I thought I was being ridiculous. That was usually how my moods went though, from pure anger to extreme sensitivity when my period actually started. It didn’t help that I would’ve been upset anyway from fucking up, especially when Joel had come that close to dying. But I wouldn’t have even been distracted if it wasn’t for my period to begin with.

Maria was at the stables when we arrived, and I could tell by her face that she knew something had happened.

“Did everything go okay?” She asked anyway.

“Fine,” Joel grunted. “Only one infected, it’s dealt with.”

Maria’s eyebrows twitched up. “Why does it feel like it wasn’t fine?”

I didn’t even get a chance to say anything as Joel got off his horse and marched toward her.

“Next time don’t pair me with someone who’s going to get me killed.” He started toward the barn, his horse leading behind him.

Maria looked at me, and I’m sure she noticed the look of pure discomfort on my face. “Shit. You should get home, (Y/N).”

“Her? What about me?” Joel whipped around, his face reddening. “I’m the one who got pushed off a goddamn horse, and nearly bit!”

“Joel, cool it!” Maria countered, rounding on him. “Mind your fucking business and put the horses away.”

I got down onto the ground and Maria reached out for my reins, then handed them to Joel who grumbled as he marched into the barn. Maria turned back to me with a look of pure concern on her face.

“You alright?”

I nodded sheepishly. “I will be. I just feel awful. He could’ve died and it’s all my fault.”

She stepped toward me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay. Things happen, and he isn’t dead. You’re both here and you’re both okay. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? I’ve got your patrols covered for the next two days.”

“Okay. Thank you, Maria.” I smiled but felt tears brim my eyes.

I made my way to my home, and once I was there I let the floodgates open. I had heard about ugly crying, and didn’t experience it until my parents had been taken from me at the start of the outbreak. However, when I got home from that patrol I couldn’t stop the sobs from escaping my chest.

I was grateful for the hot water in Jackson as I sat in the shower and let the water cascade down my aching body. Blood swirled in the drain and I averted my eyes, not wanting a reminder of why I was so upset. The cramps had fully settled in however, and no matter how hot, the water wasn’t enough. I eventually had to get out, and I utilized my period products to their fullest.

Once I had comfier clothes on I buried myself under blankets on my bed. Luckily sleep pulled me under, giving respite from the cramps climbing my abdomen and reaching down my inner thighs.

Sleep was the only time I wasn’t in pain, and it was like my body was so exhausted that nothing could wake me. Except for a knock at the door.

I groaned but climbed out of bed, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders like a cape. I was about to tell the unwanted visitor to go away but was rendered speechless when I saw Joel on the other side of the door.

“What do you want?” I was no longer upset, too groggy from sleep.

He sighed as if it pained him to be there. “I came to apologize. I was a complete ass, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Joel,” I said through a yawn, knuckling at one of my eyes. “I fucked up, I deserved to be scolded, okay?”

“Yeah, but we all fuck up.” He stepped forward, his voice soothing for the first time when speaking with me. “Hell, I know I’ve fucked up many times.”

A cramp pierced its way through my lower abdomen, and I tried my hardest not to show it. “Well, thanks, Joel, for apologizing. I know that’s not easy. I’ll let you get back to your day.”

I stepped back to close the door but he stepped forward, placing his wide palm on the wood to stop it from closing. “(Y/N), are you okay?”

“Never better,” I gritted out through my teeth as another cramp bloomed through my lower back. “I just need some rest, is all.”

“I know you’re lying,” his voice was gruff but the concern shone through his dark eyes. “Here, let me help you.”

Joel pushed his way into my house, closing the door behind him. We had been alone on patrols before, even while doing odd jobs, but they were done in silence while focused on the task. This was a whole different beast. He stood in my entryway, my decor seeming odd as a background for him, while he stared me down, willing me to break.

“Joel, it’s fine. Maria is aware of how I’m feeling,” I assured him, pulling the blanket tighter around my body. “I just need some rest, then I’ll be back to working rounds and shoveling shit, okay?”

He shook his head. “(Y/N), I know Maria knows, but I don’t. Please, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

I winced at a smaller cramp that burrowed into my body. “Kinda, just leave, Joel.”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me,” he said. He was standing firm, like a brick wall.

I sighed, admitting defeat. “Fine! It’s my period, okay?” My cheeks burned at the embarrassment of my admittance.

“What? I don’t understand.” His brows knit together, and he would’ve looked adorable if I wasn’t so frustrated.

“Of course you wouldn’t understand,” I grumbled. “You’re a man. You don’t have to deal with this bullshit.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He held his hands up as if I was a rabid dog about to charge. “I just mean that I don’t know enough about them, that’s all.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to go to the kitchen. I wasn’t usually a drinker but sometimes the circumstances called for it. Joel was silent as I poured us both glasses of whiskey, and only broke it once I had settled with my drink.

“My daughter, Sarah, had just started before…” he trailed off. “I always wanted to learn more, and had only started to, a bit. Her mother never told me a thing about them, and I didn’t think I’d be a single father at the time. I was naive and should’ve put more effort in, maybe.”

I took a sip, letting the liquid soothe my throat.

“I was with someone, a few years ago, but she never wanted to tell me about that stuff. She put on a brave face and never wanted to show weakness. And Ellie,” he chuckled, “Ellie threatened to skin me alive the last time I asked her about it.”

I laughed, thinking about the daggers the kid could probably shoot from her eyes if she tried hard enough.

“All this to say, I’m an old man, but I can still learn.” He downed his drink and placed his glass on the counter. “I know I’ve been… unhelpful, when it comes to you needin’ time, but I just didn’t know.”

He stepped forward, taking the glass from my hand and placing it next to his. His hands then came up to mine, rubbing the backs with his thumbs. My heart caught in my throat, feeling warmer than I had in the shower.

“Will you let me know? The next time?” He asked, his voice sending vibrations through my fingertips. “Will you let me help you? Let me take care of you?”

I thought about his question. As much as I didn’t want to be a burden, and didn’t need anybody to take care of me, really, the idea of Joel being the one was too appealing. I had always felt a pull toward him that I never had with anybody else, but was too ashamed, feeling like he hated me for needing the breaks I did. Like I was a freeloader.

It was no use letting my thoughts surround him in the past. But this time…

“Okay, Joel. I’d really like that.”

A few months passed with him doing just that. Taking care of me.

Joel always seemed to know when I was about to start, probably because of the way I threatened to break everything I touched for a solid three days before, and he always had the best snacks for me. He usually stayed as long as he could before having to start patrol or whatever other chore he had to partake in.

It was like we were in sync, like the second I started he would be knocking at the door with a snack and ready to deal with my whining.

“Ellie recommended chocolate, and lots of it,” he said once when I asked him how he knew what to bring. “Maria also suggested tea but I wasn’t sure if you liked it or not.”

“I like tea,” I replied, after thinking on it. “Depending, anyway. I used to drink this cinnamon tea with lots of honey whenever I needed extra comfort. My parents would always make it for me.”

The next time my period hit, he arrived at the door holding cinnamon tea and a jar of honey.

“Joel!” I stood in front of him in shock, a tug in my heart at the gesture. “How did you get this?”

He shrugged. “I have my ways.”

He also made sure that I wasn’t bothered by anybody else whenever it came to needing a few days off. One guy made a comment about it once after Maria let me leave the barn early one day, but one look from Joel shut him right up.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I said after the incident. “I’m used to some people being dicks. Like you used to be.”

“Yeah, but I’m not easy to deal with,” he grumbled. “I don’t want any other assholes bothering you.”

“Just you?”

He laughed. “Yeah, just me, sweetheart.”

That was another thing. The names. Mostly sweetheart, or darling. The latter always made me smile, with the way his drawl would cut off the last letter. The former always stoked a fire deep in my chest, spreading warmth through my bones.

One day my period hit me like a ton of bricks. It had been about a week later than usual, and it was like it needed the momentum. It came in the morning, which I was grateful for as I laid in bed clutching my stomach, since it didn’t catch me when I was already out. I had showered after waking and seeing the blood on my liner, and was ready to spend the day under the covers.

After a few hours of falling in and out of sleep I heard my door open. I stayed where I was, knowing it was just Joel letting himself in. He didn’t bother calling my name, already knowing where I was. It took a few minutes for him to finally enter my room, not making much sound except for his soft footsteps and the small thud of the hot mug of tea I knew he had just brewed as he placed it on my bedside table.

I heard him start to leave, probably wanting me to get as much rest as possible, but I wanted something else.

“Joel?” I croaked, using my voice for the first time that morning while poking my head out from under the blankets.

He stopped and turned back. “Yes, darlin’?”

I smiled. “Could you stay?”

He smiled back. “Of course, I’ll just grab a chair.”

He turned to leave again but I called his name. “I mean, stay with me?”

The tension rose in the room, threading itself through the silence. He was confused, I wasn’t making any sense. I also felt extremely nervous.

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. His hand reached out to a lump under the blankets that resembled my leg, and he massaged my calf with his thumb. “You don’t want me to get a chair, but you want me to stay.”

Then I realized. He knew what I wanted, but wanted me to say it. The smirk that spread on his lips confirmed it for me.

“Joel, please. Stay in bed with me.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” He smiled and stretched himself out beside me.

I felt myself growing bolder. “No pants allowed, though. Only comfort.”

After a moment of silence where I thought maybe I had gone too far, crossed some sort of line, he sighed and stripped off his jeans. He looked at me as if to say ‘happy now?’ and I giggled before wrapping the blankets around him.

“Is this okay?” I asked while scooting closer to him.

He slipped his arm under my head and pulled me closer until I had my head on his chest and my arm and leg draped over his torso. I pulled my lower body away from him.

“Sorry, was that too close?” He asked.

“No, I just don’t want to leak on you or anything. I don’t know how heavy it is this time.”

Joel chuckled. “I’ve had enough blood on me over the years that I really don’t care about yours. Come on.”

He pulled me closer once again, until one of his thighs slotted between my legs. My body melted against his and we both sighed as if finally feeling relaxed for the first time in who knows how long.

We laid like that, his hand tracing patterns on my back, while I smoothed my thumb over his ribs. Finally I pulled back a bit so I could look up into his face.

“Thank you, Joel,” I said. “For taking care of me.”

He smiled, his eyes softening even further. “Someone had to.”

I wrinkled my nose and he copied me, causing me to laugh. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I know. But you don’t have to.”

The laughter died in my chest, replacing itself with a heat that spread through my body. A tension rose in the few inches of space between us as he lowered his head.

With nothing but pure bravery, I lifted my head.

Our lips met gently, sponging together. I felt the air leave my body, and I pulled myself even closer to him. He moaned softly, gripping onto my thigh and deepening the kiss.

It was like we were starved. Starved for each other. He drank me in as our tongues massaged against each other and our fingers gripped us closer. I never wanted it to end, but a cramp sliced into me, causing me to pull away and groan against his heaving chest.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart, you alright?”

I nodded, whimpering.

“Here,” he started helping me flip my body over, “this will feel better.”

I maneuvered myself until my back was plastered against his front. My body melted once more into him, as his arm wrapped around my middle. His hand was a welcome weight against where the cramps were aching the most.

“But I want kisses,” I whined, feeling like a child not getting their way.

He laughed and pressed his lips to my neck, trailing them down to my shoulder. I moaned as he continued smudging them along my skin, mixing between soft kisses and small licks of his tongue. My body writhed under his grip until my ass pressed back into the hardness of his crotch.

“Calm down there, darlin’,” he warned, placing a final kiss just behind my ear. “There’ll be plenty of time for that when you’re up for it. Just rest for now.”

“Fine.” I wasn’t happy stopping, but felt good having him with me. “Can I put your hand on my stomach?”

He slipped his hand to mine, letting me move him around. “Of course. I’m all yours.”

I held his hand and pushed it up, under my shirt. I placed it onto my abdomen. When I pulled my hand away he kept his there, splaying it out so some of his fingers were tucked beneath my breasts and his palm was like the perfect heating pad.

We sighed once more together, and I promptly fell asleep. When I woke up he was still there, snoring softly in my ear. He stirred when I twisted in his arms until we were tangled up face to face once more.

“Don’t you have work today?” I asked, my voice thick with sleep.

He didn’t even open his eyes. “Nope. Got someone to cover me so I could take care of my girl.”

I smiled and nuzzled my face into his chest, inhaling his scent. Sleep crept up on me once more, and the cramps dulled away.

I was ready to stay in that bed forever, even through all the pain, as long as I had Joel with me.

———

Taglist: @sullyosully @ashleymsnodgrass

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller the last of us

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yooopii · 8 months ago

Text

strawberry milkshake MDNI

John "Soap" Mactavish x Female!Reader

wc: 1,619

co-written with @emstpwkk!!

Your period cramps are more painful than normal. Fortunately, your boyfriend comes home early just in time to help.

Laying down on your couch after your last day for a while from your shitty job was great, especially when you get to finish that one series you've been meaning to watch. Especially when you get away from creepy coworkers, who always ask to drive you home, or to share a cig with you. You didn't even smoke!

It would be a dream night, eating ice cream out of the tub while watching TV if you weren't on your goddamn period.

You had a history of horrible, mind-breaking period cramps, which led to a heavier flow than most other women you knew. They were so bad that when you were younger, you missed school days and had to leave sleepovers early. But thankfully, you had an out to these problems. Once you got older, you fell in love with Johnny. A Scottish SAS soldier with a mohawk. He had helped you through them each time, and it was like he had memorized them to know exactly when to take off his lifesaving duties to help you.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the case, and you were curled up in the fetal position, holding your knees tight to your chest as you tried to distract yourself from the pain. You had taken pain medication before, but it seemed like it didn't work anymore.

Soap was currently on a mission somewhere in the country, which means he couldn't help you this time. He was supposed to be back a long time ago, but apparently, his mission had gone longer. It had been months since he’s left and you haven’t had him to help.

You had let go of your knees and were clutching your lower abdomen like a vice, trying to ignore the full-body shocks of pain that waved across your body as you writhed in pain, trying to distract you with the playing TV in front of you.

You groaned and let out little whines as the cramps kept hitting you like a truck nonstop, barely even letting you breathe. You try to focus on the TV, but the creak of the unoiled door breaks your trance. You know it would probably be Soap, but you still get up and check anyway. As you leave the spot where you've been curled up in agony for the past few hours, you peak the corner and notice a big, burly, and very handsome Scottish man shrugging his coat off. You sigh in relief and smile as you inch closer, as Soap notices you. He smiled right back, his dimples framing his smile.

You stay quiet as you slowly close the distance between you two, and he immediately knows what to do. He opens up his arms and engulfs you in a hug, kissing your hair as you two stay there. This wasn't normal for you, since you'd usually be waiting for him in the living room or your bedroom.

“What's all this for?” He looks down into your eyes and grabs your face to make eye contact as he asks.

“I'm in pain,” is all you mumble out as you tilt your head back down to nuzzle into his chest. A tinge of fear flows through him and he immediately adopts a concerned look on his face, as he checks your body for physical injuries.

“What's wrong bonnie— Are you hurt somewhere?” His tone was a mix of concern and confusion as he looked you up and down, even turning you around. You smile gently as you shake your head no, explaining what you meant.

“No no no Johnny, I'm not hurt. I'm bleeding profusely.” He stares at you for a few seconds, before understanding what you meant. He lets out a faint sound of acknowledgment before pulling you closer to his chest, “Sorry lass, the mission ran a little longer than expected..” he explains before a huge cocky grin appears on his face as he leaves more kisses on top of your head.

“Johnny… what are you planning?” You ask as he leaves soft kisses on your face before he speaks in an amused tone.

“Y'know lass, I saw somethin’ on the internet sayin-“ You cut him off with a giggle and place your hand on his mouth to silence him, already knowing where that was heading.

“No!” You say with giggles falling out of your mouth, covering your face with your free hand as it turns pink. He tilted his head like a pup, wondering what was soo wrong with his great idea. “I'm not having sex with you while I'm quite literally bleeding everywhere! We’ll stain the bed and the sheets!”

He grabs my hand off his mouth and brings it down to his chest. “It’ll help ye wi yer cramps! Promise, okay?” He hugs you tighter, before letting you go to take off the rest of his duty clothesline. You try to argue, claiming that you would make a big mess everywhere. He cuts you off with a click of his tongue, saying “An'll clean it up. Towels exist.”

This mindless silly arguing dragged on for a few more minutes until he finally convinced you to let him help out differently. His smirk only got bigger once you agreed, quickly grabbing you by your thighs as he hoisted you up around his waist as he walked to the bedroom. He kept himself busy, spreading kisses all over your face.

He sat you on the side of the bed and got some towels from the cabinet, laying them out on the bed before laying you on top of them. You rest your hips on them as he stripped himself of his clothes. First his shirt, then his cargo pants. His chest was littered with scars, some small, some large. One even started from the middle of his torso to his back. Your eyes were drifting down his body when you caught sight of him fishing himself out of his underwear. He was heavy in his hands as he started to fist his cock as he stepped closer to the bed, frothy precum dribbling out of his foreskin.

You quickly jumped into motion at the sight, pulling your shirt over your head and sliding the thigh-length pajama shorts off of you, along with your panties. You instinctively went to close your legs, but Johnny stopped you with a click of his tongue. His hands went to your knees, spreading them apart to either side of his hips.

He smiled as he slotted himself in between your thighs, his blue eyes looking over your curves. “All this for me, lass?”

You tightened your hold against his sides as he grabbed a condom, ripping it open with his teeth and sliding the rubber onto himself as he stared at your slick, red folds.

“Aye bonnie… I'm too lucky to have you…” His voice was rough as he pressed his swollen red, angry head into your clit. You bite down on a moan, eyes almost rolling to the back of your skull as he rubbed circles with his tip on your clit. It was a subtle gesture, but it felt so good that you couldn't help but softly moan. He dipped his cockhead into your slit as he collected your fluids, pressing right up against your hole as he carefully pushed into you with almost no resistance.

“Come on lass, tha’s it, biiiig stretch…” As he pulled out, his dick was coated with streaks of red wrapped in your mixed fluids. His hands softly found your hips as he started to bounce into you slowly at first before quickly picking up the pace, the skin-to-skin contact echoing throughout the room along with Johnny's soft praises in your ear. You couldn't feel much of anything other than your cervix being kissed by his tip, and the burn on his hips meeting yours.

Your eyelids were screwed tight from the pleasure, your head tipped back slightly as moans melted into the sounds in the room, his pace not stopping or faltering. Your eyes flew open before falling into a half-lidded state as he pinched and softly twisted at your clit, then soothing it with soft circular strokes.

He lifted your legs higher as his chest met yours, his breath fanning your ear as your nipples rubbed against his chest. You gripped onto his shoulder blades, dragging your nails down his back, in an attempt to find purchase.

He didn't slow down as he stuffed his cock into you, deeper than you ever thought possible. The fluids mixed on his dick and inside you made it comically easy to fuck, his dick was sliding in and out faster and faster as more precum dribbled into the condom.

“Fuck- s-so close-” His words got swallowed up as his breath got caught n his throat, his brows furrowing as his thrusts got more needy. He came into the rubber and felt his eyes roll back, whimpering as he pressed his forehead onto yours. You soon followed him and came, feeling small droplets dripping from his waist to yours.

You both panted, and he carefully pulled out to dispose of the condom and clean you up. Minutes later after he switched out the towels, throwing the dirty ones in a corner to be dealt with later, gave you fresh panties, and gave you snacks and water, did he join you on the bed for snuggles. You were finishing up a bag of chips as he kissed you softly on your cheek, nuzzling into your hair. You were maybe pancaking him, but he didn’t mind. He wrapped his arms around you as he slowly fell asleep, exhaustion catching up to him. You held his hands as you fell asleep, without any cramps.

thank you for reading!!

#johnny soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish x reader #cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare #soap cod #cod smut #soap smut #Spotify

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lavishl0ve · 11 months ago

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Hiii I love your writing so much🫶🫶

What would Johnny think of the reader actually being obsessed with him like he brings another victim home and the reader goes crazy?

(Totally fine if u don't wanna do it tho🖤)

hii! tysm 🫶 Sorry I finished this request a bit late I hadn’t seen this til later 💔 (plus i’ve been a little busy). Besides that this request was superr fun to do so ty! 💋

⚠️ TW !!!

Background Information: As I wrote this I had imagined after you were forced into the Family you’d heavily rely on Johnny, to the point he’d drive you mad.

————————————————————————

The whirring of the old air conditioning reaps into my ears. I sprawl out on the couch waiting. Waiting for him. I’ve made this my daily ritual now, I can’t seem to break it either. How I wait for him each day. How I wait to hear a roar from the engine of his truck. Oh, how I long to see my Johnny. I can’t help but feel giddy when I think of him. His perfect face, his perfect teeth, his perfect voice. He’s soo perfect.

Oh how I adore my Johnny.

Staring at the ceiling fan I begin to feel my eyes cross. Couldn’t time pass faster? Then I heard that familiar engine. 27 minutes later than usual. I rise from the sunken sofa, standing by waiting for those thuds of his heavy boots. Their replaced with light taps. That wasn’t Johnny. I peer around the wall. A tan girl, her blonde hair illuminating those green eyes. She gives me a weak reassuring smile. I think it was more to reassure herself at least. I watch Johnny’s broad frame step behind her. She cuts her sentence short, startled by that thud. That thud I wait for everyday. That thud which now fills me with confusion. What was he doing with HER? He only gives me a simple glance before walking near the basement door, pulling the lady along. Green eyes locked onto mine before they completely disparate into the darkness of his dungeon. My heart swirls and my eyes burn. She was so gorgeous, so different from me. Why did he want her..? The iron scraps against the oak floors. I huff, stomping over toward the kitchen, rust bleeds from the tap eventually turning clear(ish). I take a knife from the bottom, scrubbing… occupying my mind. My breath feels heavy. Where was he? Why didn’t he say anything? Why’d he choose another girl?

What was he doing with her now..?

My body tensed, scrubbing harder until I realized the blade cut through the sponge, cutting deep into my hand.

“Shit!” I exasperate, throwing the knife back into the sink.

The women’s scream erupted through the floorboard. 12 minutes less than when he would usually kill them. 12 minutes more he could’ve done stuff with her. My knees buckle, my balance becomes trippy and I grip onto the kitchen island, red staining the granite. I gasp out stumbling to the bathroom door. Collapsing in the sink, I open the cabinet knocking a vial of pills over. Grabbing the bandages I run the water, rinsing the blood off revealing the incision. It’s deep. What the hell did I do?

I wrap the bandages tight til I can't feel pain anymore. The scraping iron re-entrances. Those thuds of those boots approached. His broad frame blocked the doorway, I ignored him and continued wrapping. A good while passes. A light scoff from him and he grips my bandaged hand, raising it, forcing me to turn to him. Shoving his face into mine I can smell the whiskey of his tongue.

“You makin’ too much noise.”

He squeezed my hand harder, I felt the warm liquid run down, staining the white. My eyebrows furrow. He pushes his face farther

“Quit it.” He growls.

He throws my hand away without another word, those same thuds now fading. Tears stain my cheeks, I can feel the pulsing of my hand, of his grip. It’s so different now.

He had not even cared.

Didn’t even care how I hurt for him.

Bleed for him. Because of him.

He did not care about me.

He cared about her.

That girl.

That perfect girl with her golden hair.

Her perfect tan.

Those Emerald eyes.

Her pretty lips.

Her perfect…

everything.

Warm feelings rush through me, I stomp towards the basement, swinging the iron door as it clatters against the wood, my heavy steps cracks the wood. The fridgid air doesn’t affect me. I want her. I need her.

Where is she?

From a turned corner she lays there, slumped against the concrete wall with blood seeing from her throat. I bend down, raising her head. Her doe eyes, beautiful after death, the gloss sheen enlightens them even more. Her sparse freckles paint her cheeks perfectly, her lips slightly parted with those amazing teeth, her curls fall perfectly. The blood paints her body like art. She just stares at me. Those eyes. So pure. Too pure… it angers me. Red flows through me and my breathing becomes sparse.

I lunged out digging my thumbs into those beautiful eyes, her eyes which mocked me, laughed at me. No more pretty eyes from him to look at, yet now the cold shoots through me. No satisfaction.

I gasped. I can only collapse onto her body begging for forgiveness, gasping for air from my flood of tears. I feel insanity. I remove my fingers, still hunched over her. I raise my head to look, but oh…

she didn’t even need her eyes to be beautiful.

——————————————————————

I found myself adopting her persona unknowingly. I had my hair bleached and would wake up to curl it each day. I stayed outside more to tan, I would do the same smoky makeup she had on, I would walk like her, stand like her and everything. Even have the same clothes she wore.

But I was not her.

I could never be her.

Johnny stood more distant. I would see him around once or twice a day. But I haven’t seen him lately at all. Not for the past two weeks, hell knows what he’s doing. But I miss him. So. so. much. But while doing the dishes one day I would hear the engine of his truck. I would hear the thuds of his boots. Those thuds I love and long for. Those thuds I would run to, only for him to stop me in my tracks.

“The hell happened to you?” he said in disgust.

My heart pulls. To me? Didn’t he want this? Didn’t he like this?

“What do you mean…?” I long out.

He pulls out a cigarette, “Your hair, and those stupid clothes”.

“Stupid..?”.

Am I stupid?

He walks up to me.

“Mhm” He mutters, puffing smoke directly into my face.

He leaves me there stunned, walking straight pass. I can’t help but ask.

“I’m stupid?”

He leans against the kitchen island, titling his head in a slight agreement. Another string pulls.

“IM FUCKING STUPID?” I yell strutting toward him.

I pound my fists against his chest, “I DID ALL THIS FOR YOU!”

I feel the wetness I've familiarized fill my eyes again. Black from my mascara mixes with tears and my vision fogs.

He pushes me back, “The hell wrong with ya’?” He questions in astonishment.

My back hits the hard cabinet and I fall to the floor. I can feel my heart finally shatter from the impact. Empty. I felt so empty.

Looking up at him black stains your cheeks, your eyes red and hair messy you stare, almost in disbelief. Johnny just glares, confused. You rise.

“Johnny…” you cry out.

“I only wanted you.”

Seconds pass. Silence. No words spoken from an outspoken man.

“…just you.”

My tears dry, cleaning his blurred face. I see that cold stare, I can't help but hate it. Quietness fills the room.

“Were my eyes not green enough?” I scoff.

“Was I not tan enough?”

“My hair not blonde enough for you?” I begin to rant.

“Oh and don’t let me forget” I pause, “I apologize for not having those freckles”

“Or her BOOBS, or OUTFITS, or CHARM!” I scream out pounding my injured hand on the table.

“What’re you talkin’ bout?” He steps back.

I follow him, “OH I'M SO SORRY I COULDN'T BE LIKE HER JOHNNY!”

My voice echoes through the house. With each step he takes I take another. Closer.

“IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED?!” I grab a knife from the drying rack, stabbing it into the cutting board.

It was the same knife which had cut into me. The same knife that cut into me because of him. That same knife that made ME BLEED BECAUSE OF HIM. A surge of intense heat courses through my vein, tightening each muscle, and clouding all rational thoughts. An overwhelming sense of frustration and irritation takes over. My vision red, I scream, shoving him against the cabinet, shaking, hitting, crying, hoping to knock sense into him. I exhaust.

“I’m the only girl you need..” I trail off sobbing into his chest.

I continue sobbing, “If I can’t have you, then I don’t want anyone else to either.”

A strong hand supports the back of my head. I look up to him. His face is flushed red, his breath quivers. I look down.

The kitchen knife. It now makes him bleed because of me.

I shierk, stumbling back. My stomach turns, what have I done? He collapses to the floor, supporting himself with one knee.

“Johnny!” I cry, falling to help.

His left hand caresses my face, moving her blonde hair from my face. His gaze lingers a little longer. He struggles. The reflection from the metal of his skinning knife makes it’s appearance, my eyes begin to gloss. I don’t want to look away. And with a sudden sweep the sharp edge makes its contact with my neck. The blood begins to spill.

Maybe it’ll paint me just as beautiful as her.

Maybe he’ll see that.

Maybe he’ll know how much I loved him.

#johnny sawyer x reader #tcm #tcm game #johnny slaughter #johnny tcm #johnny sawyer #johnny slaughter x reader #johnny x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw game

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camryntheking · 6 months ago

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Season 4 reaction

I might just do this for every season cos i need to rant (Autism things. Iykyk).

Ok. 4x03. The whole Eddie and Hildy thing is so fucking funny. And Buck and Chris teaming up to get the coffee maker is so domestic. I love it so much lmao

And naturally i watched 9-1-1: Lone Star 2x03. Ive seen some episodes so i have some knowledge about the characters, but not much. But its so funny. TK always knew lmao

Then we have 4x05. Buck Begins. Man i almost cried so many times. I knew about the Daniel thing but i didnt know the whole story and. Whew. Its a lot. But im glad he has the 118 and Athena to help him and to be his family. Maddie to. I can see both of their sides tho. But when Buck got the clean bill of health Eddie was just like a husband waiting for him to come home lmao. I love them so much. And the ending scene with Maddie and Buck is so sweet 🥹

And i know its not my usual topic, but in 4x07, the whole plot with David, Michael, and Bobby is so funny. I dont know much about Michael’s storyline, so i am actually clueless as to how it turns out. But the three of them are so great together and i hope to see more!

4x08. I know some about Taylor. So the fact she is back is making me 😠. And she did not have to call Buck out like that. Homeboy has been through some shit and is trying to figure it out. But Buck and Chris’ friendship is so pure and i love them so much❤️❤️

4x11. Athena’s “dont even think about it Buck” has me CACKLING. She is such a mom to him and its amazing

And Jealous Eddie in 4x12 with the treasure hunt? Homeboy does NOT like Taylor (cant blame him tho). And Chim and Hen’s friendship is fucking amazing. But the whole 118 trying to find the treasure is so funny. The fact that Ravi found it first tho? I love that man

4x13. Eddie is already having doubts about Ana. Homeboy does not like women and you cannot convince me otherwise. And the scene of Eddie getting shot made me cry. I can definitely see why people think that this is where the Buddie arc was supposed to happen. Cos they held eye contact and Eddie reached out for Buck. And that could be seen as platonic but knowing everything we do, it just seems like it was a set up for a romantic arc

And 4x14 starts with Buck crawling under a fire truck to get to Eddie. Without a second thought, he rolled under a firetruck, the thing that caused so much trauma, to get to Eddie. And Eddie was so concerned that Buck was hurt even though he was the one bleeding. And i guess Taylor can have her good moments. But the scene where Buck tells Chris what happened breaks my heart. He was trying to hold it together for Chris but once he knew that Eddie made it through surgery? He couldnt hold in his emotions. And then when they are talking about the will. Its so soft between them. And Eddie just knows that Buck wouldnt say no to taking in Chris. And i think that just shows how close of a bond they have. This was totally a set up for a romantic arc, but of course F*x had to shut that down 😒

“Because, Evan” 😭😭😭

And i love that Albert is gonna be a firefighter. I love that man

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jaythelay · 3 months ago

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Everyday I pulled this app up, what was meant to be a safe haven from politics, and saw Video after Picture after Story after Source after Debunk after Admittance after Enablement after Propaganda after Virtue Signaling after Using Minorities as Meat Shields to discussions, to god knows what else.

What finally did it for me was the toddler girl shot over 300 times, the rapings Israel is defending while their citizens are attacking journalists for exposing, a literal, baby's ash covered, bleeding, head, rolling in a body bag with A Body that might not even be theirs.

This, all the while, Israel Snipers are shooting people for collecting bodies, shooting old women in the head, placing IED's shaped like canned food. (Improvised Explosive Device) Whilst salting the earth to make sure no one can grow food. They love their land but turned it all to ruins.

While completely destorying homes and having settlers take them, on footage. Like. Ya'll just refuse research.

All the while I'm hearing "anti-semetism!" all I see is the worst humanity can be. No religion can do this. Only a tyrannical shithole that presently, Netanyhu is proving very much is not a democracy by forcing this genocide as long as he can before he has to go to jail for various other reasons. All the while? Biden is repeating every word he asks of him verbatim.

I don't even remember everything. I can't as is with a poor memory pull up. I forgot that they raided a hospital and forced doctors out, killing a shit ton of babies and people inside afterwards. Or was that when they turned power off to a hospital already full of premature babies? Hard to remember. I just know they've been killing kids with intention.

I've seen children have the veteran's stare. You can't make a kid act like that. Oh and them asking for their parents while Palestinians, also bloody and covered in ash, do their best just to survive and keep people alive with basically just scraps of flour they were given months ago now.

The Several Times a "safezone" got bombed. The fake aid trucks. The Waiting for Palestinians to surround food trucks to open fire. The sheer number of journalists killed, doctor's killed, again, babies and children killed. Footage. Raw. Footage. Not AI bullshit like some cruel fucks on the right like to claim and dems soon will too.

Israel has free healthcare because of our tax dollars. 80% of their military budget, we donate.

The concept of "defense" does not include war crimes or genocides. To pretend otherwise means I'm gonna puke on you at a ball game, not offer an apology, sit back down, and stare at you until you leave.

Fuck off Pro-Genociders.

I've Seen Reality time and time again.

You Simply Rejected It. Refused it. Denied it.

But reality is not gonna leave, much like the reality of Dump losing the elections by 9mil, the reality of flip flopping on Biden after he was out, and that Israel is not defending shit.

Ya'll MF's woulda support the afghan war because of 9/11 and if you don't understand, lift your shirt up, I'm aiming for your skin with this eaten hotdog that's not sitting well having to be near you.

#israel #palestine #kamala harris is doing more than half of all dems #which duh but wow never thought it was possible for a politician to try #anyways if you dumbass pro-genociders want her to win you'll start calling it a genocide and demand a ceasefire #anything else is to disagree with her stance on the issue that is bringing people like me back in #ya'll are why after Harris I may never vote dem again. I will not sit at a table with nazis. Not sorry. Be better. Get a different table.#Seriously. You don't disagree that Genocide is Bad under and circumstances #you demand better from your leaders #not cower at scrutiny less you be punished #kamala harris #politics

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hero-adjacent · 2 years ago

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In Revelations, Buffy & Faith have their first fight of the season. Buffy is trying to stop Faith from killing Angel. They break through a glass door.

In GD #1 Buffy & Faith have their last fight of the season. Buffy is trying to stop Faith from killing Angel. They break through a glass window.

In Bad Girls, Buffy & Faith are in handcuffs and work together to get free. Buffy worries about leaving the cops unconscious in the car. In Graduation Day #1 they're in handcuffs again. Buffy worries about Faith unconscious in the truck.

In Bad Girls, Faith draws a heart with an arrow through it. In Graduation Day #1 Faith wears a shirt with a dagger through a heart.

imagery with a dagger going through or behind the heart which signifies ruthlessness, death, sacrifice or betrayal by love lost. traced to early Christianity artwork. the symbol has traditionally been called the “Immaculate or Sacred Heart of Mary”

Although Our Lady said nothing about her Heart on this occasion, the children understood her Heart was pierced and bleeding because of sin, and that Our Lady wanted reparation for sin.

I promise salvation to those who embrace it, and these souls will be loved by God, like flowers placed by me to adorn His throne.

First Evil to Faith: Deep down you always wanted Buffy to accept you, to love you.

In their shared dream in This Year's Girl, they make a bed together. Faith wears a shirt with 3 doves flying around her stab wound. In their previous shared dream in Graduation Day#2 they were unconscious in the same hospital area. Faith gave Buffy advice on how to kill the Mayor.

In the Old Testament of the Bible, a dove is a symbol of reconciliation, forgiveness and peace. In the book of Genesis, after the flood, a dove returned to Noah holding an olive leaf.

an olive branch, is a symbol of peace and friendship dating back to ancient Greek mythology

honoring the Immaculate Heart of Mary: Pray the Angelus. Wear a Miraculous medal. Honor Mary in your home. Meditate on the Scriptures.

fun fact: Faith attended Catholic school

a heart & dagger can also represent Voodoo spirit Erzulie Dantor, a bisexual female goddess who is believed to protect women, children and those society has cast away

a symbol of betrayal or devastating heartbreak

"The dagger itself is an ideal metaphor to use in the representation of betrayal, as daggers were the weapon of choice for assassins long ago. Due to the knife’s small size and ability to be easily concealed, daggers gained in popularity amongst killers.

The manner in which the dagger was used to kill the victim only added to the sense of cutthroat brutality. heart & dagger tattoos display a sense of betrayal."

#faith lehane #btvs #fuffy

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year ago

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Garden Party: Frankie 'Catfish' Morales x Reader

Tagging: @aaronhtchnrs @rosaliedepp @mysoulisasunflower @kabloswrld @xoxabs88xox @crazy4chickennuggets @justreblogginfics @witches-unruly-heart @infinity-mars @pimosworld @beardedbarba @est1887 @creativitybeware @mortal--soul @spookyboogyuniverse @corruptedcoffin @nu1freakshow @@oureternalbond @the-wandering-lunatic @thebaileybugle @proceduralpassion @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @thanossexual @the-wandering-lunatic @thebaileybugle @justreblogginfics @deekaag

Prequel to Come Up for Air

Frankie meets you at a garden party of all things. It’s his sister’s birthday and he’s spent weeks building the bar out of pallets, because he’s ‘handy’ and his morning stringing fairy lights across the top of the fences, along with fake roses to make the place look ‘magical’. It’s not even a big birthday.

Lucia is two years younger than him and has always lived extravagantly, his little sister deserves the world, but he wishes she wouldn’t whine about how his truck brings down the neighbourhood every time he parks it outside her house.

As he stands underneath the strings of light and looks up at the night sky, he realises that she may have been right about the vibe they bring to the garden. There’s an ethereal air to the place, the flowers accentuate the plush greenery making it seem like botanical wonderland.

He doesn’t know anyone here except Lucia and her husband Dave, the TV Exec. He knows fuck all about what Dave actually does, only that he makes an alarming amount of money. Frankie’s only been home a couple of months and honestly, he kinda sucks at making friends. He’s too quiet, Lucia tells him, too lost in his own head.

How could he not be? He thinks. The shit he’s done. He can’t burden anyone with that. There are only three people who can understand him on any level, and they are certainly not at this party.

A couple more minutes he thinks. He’ll stay a couple more minutes before making his excuses.

That goes completely out of the window when you literally bump into him. He doesn’t know how it happens because he’s standing stationary for Christ’s sake. You’re in the midst of apologising when he reaches out a hand to steady you, his warm palm coming to rest upon your shoulder, thumb accidently skirting your collarbone. It’s the first physical contact he’s had with anyone for a while, and it makes his heart thud even harder in his chest.

When he looks into your eyes he knows he’s in trouble. They’re a stunning shade, the hues bleeding into one another. He’s told women they have beautiful eyes before but with you he means it. The words slip out of his mouth before he can take them back and you tip your head back and laugh. It’s a musical sound that strikes a chord somewhere deep down inside of his soul.

“Pretty bad huh?” He says smiling despite himself.

He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t approach women, he doesn’t hit on them. Every single relationship he’s been in, he’s fallen into.

“I’ve heard worse.” You reply.

He can see it, you’re a striking woman. He’d sure you catch a lot of guy’s attention. There’s no ring on your finger and he feels a surge of hope.

“I bet you have.” He says knowingly, taking a sip of his beer.

It starts from there, the two of you sitting at the makeshift bar long into the night. You’re warm, companionable. He learns that you’re a writer for one of those sketch shows he’s seen on TV, that you don’t usually tell people that. You list the professions that you’ve made up during your tenure on Tinder, each one becoming more creative and silly the longer it goes on. He finds himself laughing for the first time in a long time and he’s forgotten just how it good it feels.

“Because they’ll ask for tickets?” he asks, questioning the reasoning behind it. He’s old fashioned, he prefers actually meeting people instead of using apps.

“Mostly.” You tell him before deliberating. “I also don’t want them to have that part of me. Remember this it isn’t a long-term connection I’m looking for; I just want to get fucked.”

Heat creeps across his cheeks and he takes a swig from his beer in an attempt to hide it. He finds your openness refreshing and it emboldens him. He hasn’t had this much fun in a long time, he can’t remember the last frank conversation he had.

“And why is that?” He asks you.

“My schedule.” You say with the shrug of your shoulders. You gesture to the space around you, it’s getting late, or early depending on how you look at it. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon, bathing the garden in an orange glow. Most of the guests have gone home and the entire yard is in a state of disarray. Frankie can see his sister sprawled out on the couch through the French windows, a blanket haphazardly tossed over her. “Everybody’s going to bed, but this is the golden hour for me. The work I do, the pitching, the rewrites, the editing, the filming, it all happens overnight. It’s entirely nocturnal. You can’t ask anyone to get on board with that. People think they can handle it but they can’t.”

He senses you’ve learned that from experience. That there’s been a boyfriend or two in the past who’ve called it quits because they couldn’t deal with it.

“I’m an insomniac.” He reveals to you, his hand clasped around his beer. “Sometimes when I can’t fall asleep, I drive around the city with the radio on, get out of my own head for a little while.”

“I get that.” You tell him with a smile. “The city is different at night, it’s quiet, it feels like it’s settling.”

You’re not wrong. He sees a lot of shit you don’t see in the day time, but it’s the peacefulness that he enjoys. There’s less traffic on the road, the streets are quieter. He thinks the nightlife suits him.

“The good thing about that is that I know all the good places to eat…” He says checking his watch. “… at four thirty in the morning.”

“Are you asking me out for breakfast?”

“Would you come along if I did?”

“Yea.” You tell him. “I think I would.”

“There’s a place around the corner.” He tells you, touching the edge of his cap. It’s a nervous gesture, because only now does he realise the enormity of his actions, that the night is shifting towards date territory, and he hasn’t been on a date for a very long time. “We can walk it?”

“Sounds like a plan.” You say as you climb off the barstool. Frankie follows suit, helping you into your jacket before the two of you slip out through the garden gate, trying to make as little noise as possible. There’s a giddiness to it, he feels like a teenager sneaking out of his parent’s house to meet a girl.

Out on the street he’s surprised when you capture his hand in yours. They fit together perfectly, your fingers entwining with his. It’s been a long time since he’s held someone’s hand, even longer since he’s met someone who he connects with.

“I like this.” He says, his thumb ghosting along the inside of your wrist.

He sees the blush creep up your cheeks and he can’t help but smile because it’s just so fucking adorable.

“Good.” You tell him. “Because I like it too.”

Enjoying my work with Frankie? Add yourself to his taglist!

Love Frankie? Check out his Masterlist here!

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales

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onippep · 1 year ago

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Is it fine to talk about certain scars now?

................. Which ones. Guessing, for thematic sake, you mean these?

[gestures to his top scars]

I, uh, guess so. Pfft.

So, a little recap-- born in Italy, moved over here when I was 16. Shit happened at 19. Came back when I was 24.

[TW FOR MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE, WAR, GENERAL UNPLEASANT QUEER EXPERIENCE STUFF, TRANSPHOBIA + HOMOPHOBIA]

We lived in a super-rural area when I was a kid, so I had no idea what all of that was about. I'd find myself doing things that boys would do and I'd get slapped around for it, or never really liking girls. All my friends were boys. I had a lot of body hair for my age. It was weird to my family.

I got a taste of big-town culture from my cousins and uncles and aunts; they're eccentric, and I'm pretty sure one of my aunts was gay (she never married). I got along with her pretty well, but god, my madre hated her, pretty sure. Haven't seen her in a long time.

Bottom line, I was the "weird kid" of the family, so my parents figured (Also as Italians) to give me a brother and sister, see if they could socialize me properly. Maybe they fucked up the first time. Worth a shot, right?

While my madre was pregnant with my brother, we moved here. Maybe city life would do me good. I was thrust into a highschool barely knowing any English, and naturally flocked to the outcasts and socially awkward weirdos that would get tossed around by bullies and such. It was brutal. I met a girl that disguised herself as a boy and went by a boy's name. I met a boy that had a crush on one of the bigger boys of the school. It was a bunch of new experiences that... for some reason, even with my upbringing, didn't feel foreign or weird. It suddenly aligned with me, and I didn't really think about it until I looked in the mirror one day and wanted to throw up at how I looked. I tried dating a girl I got along with. Being a teenager sucks. That shit hits you like a truck and bleeds like an open wound that you have no idea how to stop.

Not that I had the time to find a way. I did bad in school, got held back a few years, and within that time aggressively took my identity into my own hands-- I'm not who my parents thought I was, I hated my name, I hated them, I hated everything. I got quiet. I hated myself because I wasn't the easy, good-grade getting child that was born loving the body it was in.

One day, my dad gets me alone. He asked me what I wanted to do after High School. I said art. He asked me again. I said art. He said that was the wrong answer. I asked him what he wanted me to say instead.

"If you really don't believe you're a girl, then it's time to be a man."

I thought this had good intentions until I was at the front door of bootcamp with some fresh scars on my chest, a few years of testosterone, and...

[sighs]

...

Uh, what was I-- right.

Right, yeah, I was pretty much fully out a few years after I was... discharged. I had a fling with Anton. A few women. Some men. Tried the bisexual label for a bit but found out I was just a full-on homosexual.

...Did I get the surgery before or-- no, I think I...

[blanks out for a few minutes]

...[scratches his head] I-- sorry, I think I got something mixed up. I think I got top surgery after 'all of that'. Shit's scrambled in here.

...

...Right-- I was a fully out transsexual gay man by... I think I was 35? It wasn't a huge focus of mine though since I wanted to try and start my own business. My family knew hard they fucked up with me so they kept their distance-- I let them know how much they failed me (after many years of thinking I was the screwup). Eventually they started using my new name. It was sudden, and there were no apologies.

I couldn't get my art degree, sssooo... Peppino's Pizza it is. Yippee.

Met Gus a year or so after I opened it, connected with a few of the Italian community on the outskirts of the city, uh... then I...

[pauses again]

--Sorry, this, uh, wasn't a really happy story, but I just. Wanted to say that it was worth keeping myself alive to see myself big, fat, hairy, balding, and smiling in the body I've got now. And happy with the men I've decided to let into my life to love me and this body. It's...

It's something. Better than nothing. I understand that now.

#;peppino speaks #;pizzacanon #cw at this whole thing i think but ill. put some specifics #cw abuse mentions #cw transphobia #dysphoria talk #cw homophobia #GOD THIS IS. UH. WOW OK HANG ON #;pizzawhump #THERE.#SORRY IN ADVANCE YALL IT CANT RLLY BE AVOIDED W AN OLDER CHARACTER #long post //#emeto mention

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city-of-spooks · 1 month ago

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The Modern Prometrium

A short story about The Change.

You’ve not known tiredness like it. Sure, there was the time Alice had croup - back in ‘94, was it? - but that was when life felt like something to be dominated. Challenged. Wrestled back in its cage for precious order… and you were ever so good at it. So good that when Nanna Eileen had her fall, the first one at least, you’d shrugged off the baby-tired and took to your new shape as mother, do-er, giver, other like a duck to water. You’d even laughed that the hours previously spent sleeping felt wasteful.

It was all go from there. Hospital and paperwork and navigating the bickering over ‘what makes a residential home the right one?’ - even though Nanna would have rather gone for a long walk off a short cliff than suffer one of those places. “I’m not an old fogey, Janine”, she’d said, chewing the syllables through thin lips. “I’ll be damned if you start treating me like one.”

In the end it didn’t matter. She’d slipped again, all within a week of setting foot back home. Part of you always wondered if it was on purpose, a movie-starlet’s faint at the top of the stairs, but in the grand scheme of things, that didn’t matter either. There were no more trips to the hospital. Instead, they bloated into long, labored nights spent consoling the girls about the finality of death, nodding sagely as they hiccuped about her not looking right, asking why her mouth looked funny and what’s going to happen to you, Momma - an emotional gamut that required a delicate touch you weren’t quite sure you could deliver on such little brain power. But sleep-starved, staunching tears and, to your silent horror, shooing away imaginary phantoms of Nanna in the closet, the girls finally came to understand the ‘why’ of these things.

(You made sure to tell Mark that the bullshit about Fluffy ‘running’ away - and not, in fact, meeting the wrong end of a moving truck - did come back to bite you in the ass.) But it did not bring back the missed sleep.

Now, the tiredness doesn’t buzz. It holds none of the electricity harbored in youth. What was once adrenaline-fuelled and coffee-flavored has turned translucent, sinking into the bones with all the potency - and indifference - of carbon-monoxide poisoning. Slowly, then all at once. It’s weariness on a cellular level. An ache in the spine that doesn’t seem to go away, even with mindful Pilates. Bleeding from the gum line, despite a stringent flossing routine. Stubborn flaking from the nail beds, which refuses to bend to layer after layer of glycerine hand cream, the kind you get from the specialist counter at the pharmacist.

Of course, tired is fine. Your mother was tired. So was her mother before her. And so on and so forth, all the way back to the first women to sling their babies round their necks and go wading through the underbrush. Tired is in your nature.

But this isn’t just tired. It’s exhaustion that soaks the mind - brain fog, they call it - reducing any sane thought to a litany of questions without punctuation: where is that shoe, who is that man, what is that key for, until you sit on the floor of your bathroom and scream into the fresh towels. Sleep would be a comfort. But it never comes.

There’s the night sweats. Great hot flashes from toe to tooth, coming on thick and fast and entirely without warning. You’d spent many an evening trying to perfect lobster bisque (back in the early days of marriage, when business was brought home and bosses were wined and dined ahead of holiday bonuses) - and figured that this was some kind of divine retribution. The sweats broiled and curdled at all hours of the day, but especially thickened at night, waiting to sink its teeth into any semblance of rest.

Night is marked by the hours ticking by. Painfully dripping into nothingness, great annals of time are spent listening to Mark’s same-old droning snore, the splutter-cough of the AC unit, and the whining of the neighbor’s dog spliced over their late-night TV: spate-yip-in-yip-yup-the-area-yip-yip-advice-yip-yip-lock - until they yell at it to be quiet again. You had wanted to call the humane society but no, Mark hates conflict, so the miserable thing stays chained up within its run all night long.

God, the noise. After all these years, you’re still attuned to the slightest sound: a baby’s cry, a gurgle, the suggestion of breath - but now it feels unbearable. Mark’s snoring has taken on a rattle as he creeps out of middling age. A phlegmy quality that might have once been the roar of a motorcycle at 1AM, sneaking out for a late-night tryst and some over-the-clothes excitement - but now signals the looming likelihood of a CPAP machine.

As for the girls, they moved out years ago. Charlotte has little ones of her own, and Alice is busy finding herself in Guatemala or Chile or some other place where they wear long skirts and don’t have proper shoes. You’d said to her on the landline: don’t go about like one of those hippies or you’ll end up with unsightly callouses, but she’d laughed you off, saying that there were more important things to worry about, Ma.

But you know how easily callouses can form. Seemingly overnight if you’re not careful, and they’re tough, ugly things, large and puffy; right on the fleshy plantar of the sole that no amount of Johnson’s Smoothing Ointment can save. You’ve even taken to wearing socks to bed but sometime in the night they are lost to the sweats, half-shredded in fury. It’s unsightly. Disgusting, but you suppose it could be dignified in its own way.

Your mother had said that aging is a gift, not a given, but if you could go back and wring her sanctimonious turkey neck one last time, you’d do it in a heartbeat. How can you stand it? You’d scream, spittle flying. When the blood and puke and shitty diapers weren’t enough, when house was finally cleared of offspring and their dull mates had been sent on their way, and the den was our own again - man cave be damned - there’s this? What even is this?! Isn’t it supposed to be my time? Is this not the reward??

The reward is, in fact, lingering in the sink. Large strands of copper hair, peppered with gray, making loop-de-loops around the drain. Then there are smaller, more bristly offcuts that keep getting caught in the food trap, creating a thatch that floods and recedes like the swell of the tide.

The first time it happened, you thought it spelled the end.

“Cancer?” The doctor had laughed, leaning back in his chair with a loud, uncomfortable creak. Although there was no sign of lunch, the smell of something salted, like corned beef, permeated from his side of the room. “Oh no. No, no, no, Mrs Housman. Nothing quite so bad. Rather, this sounds like textbook menopause to me. It was bound to come knocking sooner or later.”

The butter-yellow packet of Prometrium eyes you suspiciously from the counter. It’s micronized progesterone, to help with the onslaught of symptoms like poor bone density and vaginal dryness. Although the box is open, the protective foil is still untouched and shines beautifully in the morning light.

The kitchen is a suntrap, just as warm as it had been on moving day back in ‘87, with a large window that looks out onto the garden. At one point, you’d discreetly tracked ovulation cycles and periods on the calendar pinned to the side of the refrigerator, in the days when Charlotte and Alice could have been David and Morgan, or no one at all - alongside the dates held aside for scarce dinners and the burden of visiting relatives.

Many moons have passed since, but the joy of watching the birds dip in and out of the hedgerow shared with the neighbors hasn’t waned. The only thing out of place is the bird feeder, which still sits precariously after their dog went for a group of young sparrows and decimated them in one bloodied gulp. Luckily the girls were teens by that point, armed with a full understanding of death and its permanence - but the grisly event was enough to put the dog on a chain and any bird-related ephemera well out of range.

At this time in the morning, the terrier usually lounges at the edge of the border. It has a name that escapes you - a generic eyeroll of a moniker, like Sammy or Ted - which isn’t helped by the fact the animal is nowhere to be seen. The chain is also gone.

You pull the hair from the trap and put it into composting. The rest that’s lodged in the disposal will have to go at the bottom of the general waste, along with the chicken carcass from Monday, which stretched to make pot pie, pasta and finally, soup. It’s easier to cook for just two these days.

As you open your hand, the pit-pit-pit of small bones hit the side of the garbage bag and join their brethren, being laid to rest beside the remnants of six rib-eye steaks, a large ham bone and the xylophone-esque shape that once belonged to a sturdy rack of lamb. Together, their components create a chimera knitted from bovine, ovine, porcine and something in-between.

You turn on the radio just as another bulletin starts up, reeling off the usual bad news. Corrupt politicians, rising bills, celebrity scandals, local jogger missing, new charity drive, pet killings. It’s grim, but makes excellent cover for when the garbage disposal whirrs to life, its shining teeth hidden at the base of a long, guzzling throat.

You grow sick of the headlines and twist over to a commercial station, and Stevie Nicks warbles about being 'fraid of changin'. The past fifty six years slink around your shoulders like a mantle, and your mind’s eye can track every scar and scratch, bite and birthmark like a well-walked trail. There’s only one that’s unaccounted for: a deep crescent of puckering flesh that curves from breast to belly, almost meeting the C-section scar from Alice all those years ago. High transverse, breech birth, so much blood.

The disposal is still going, and there’s a moment where you consider shoving your hand deep into the sink. You can almost feel the imagined crunch of muscle and sinew, which delights the deep, dark something lodged between the fourth and fifth rib. It ripples at the thought of flesh made meat.

Instead, the pills are snatched from the counter and unceremoniously dumped into the sink’s gaping maw. The whine of the mechanism sounds much more labored than usual, but you’re too far gone to care. Even with the tiredness, the unbearable sweats, and finding hair in places that don’t bear repeating, these past few mornings have left you feeling strangely sated. Full. Bright-eyed and bushy tailed, even. Maybe the change suits you. Maybe it’s what you’ve been waiting for.

Tha-thunk! The sink chokes, gears fighting - and losing - against an unseen blockage. The safety mechanism has sprung, meaning that something is well and truly stuck, and you flick the power off at the mains: just in case. You reach down into the belly of the disposal, and are reminded of fishing rocks out of the mouth of the stupid, soft dog from your childhood.

But you don’t find a stick. You don’t even find a bone. When you finally pull your hand out of the depths of the plumbing, delicately held between thumb and forefinger is a small, silvery disc. Although it’s fairly scratched up from the disposal, its surface still shines with all the brightness of the October morning: one of the coolest and crispest so far, with the smooth parts reflecting the orange and browns of the season.

But something else catches your eye. There, stamped into its cool face are the words: ‘JACK. IF FOUND, PLEASE CALL-’

#my writing #writing #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #female writers #werewolves #werewolf #werewoman #menopause #mental health #horror #horror writing #short story #flash fiction

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nochi-quinn · 1 year ago

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candela obscura chapter 1 episode 1: 🎶who you gonna call🎶

I'M HERE I'm just gonna stop playing totk on thursdays (lie)

background!!

matt!!

matt's scandalous naked wrists

oh the spotlight

oh auggie's art is good

the unintroduced characters being in shadow is nice

I need anjali in period dress forever

I'd vote for him

maybe even….president…..

ashley's face sjdflks

"I just GOT HERE"

don't keep ice atronachs in your furnace

the art camera panning around a desk instead of just the fade-in

"tol hat"

"as I expected" rude

laura noticing the light on her and perking up

murder hand MURDER HAND

voice!

art!

that is the correct response

donald :(

not the swamp gas

"who are you >:["

auggie (ashley?): mark me down as scared AND horny

robbie and laura already gossiping

"candela's recruiting fetuses now?"

void stuff

auggie is surrounded by posh weird women and is utterly unable to enjoy it

"we ain't found SHIT"

howard's kind of a bitch

she said the thing

"imagination!"

force hands

CHARLIE

"I don't think that was charcoal"

familiar (derogatory)

"well let's go home" mood

the more arlo talks the more I love her voice

"auggie's education goes far beyond book smarts" I love charlie

"did you need some help pulling that stick out of your ass?" I also love auggie

auggie is reminding of my kid when we ask her one clarifying question too many

I don't mean this in any kind of negative way, it's a totally valid frustration

"trauma bonding" sdkfjsl

calling panic attacks brain marks from now on

deeply enjoying auggie vs howard

not a chair

"we need a distraction. I'll go :D"

I love matt's Dumb Guard voice

"I'd love to help but I'm off flirting"

"I'm not very good at seeing things that are here"

"this is wood" dlkfjsl

Ghost Donald

"are you okay" auggie.

"you're so warm" that's. not great.

charlie

"it's FINE 👿"

"ROLL THEM BONES"

"I know who you are charlotte" lmao rip

fuckin leila

donald no. have you tried consent.

laura picking apart no matter what game system they're in

tiny magic messenger pigeons

Abodeless Individuals

ghost hand GHOST HAND

fable npc voice

"you're a bit older than I remember" "yeah, that's what happens"

oh bless her

mala: the circle learns about poor people

I was about to say "r.j. maccready vibes" and then I Remembered

roll for vibes

I like charlie as a bridge between the classes, as it were

"what's so funny?" "usually doctors are useful"

"rikers over it"

"sorry about the laughing at you" (lie)

howard has a death note

unecessary parkour

that one bit from arcane

can't wait for this ride at critical role land

"the children" howard

"help him, doctor!" AUGGIE

I'm a DOCTOR but not THAT kind of doctor I have a DOCTORATE but you can't HELP people with a DOCTORATE you just SIT THERE and you're USELESS

I may have seen treasure planet one too many times

this music is a+

charlie I don't know what you expected

mala: you're not his real mom

"I don't like the way you said 'great'"

oh ow

miroku

is this going to be the equivalent of trying to drive stick

"NO my sweet student"

not the final destination

fuck! all fails

vax get back in your own game

"you did it to yourself!"

mala: Matt: good rp. suffer more

"did it work?" "no! :D"

arlo and howard are A Pair of Characters

any time ashley does that half-lean shrug question thing

The Food Of Our Woes

hungry hungry ghosties

"you're bleeding out of your head"

not the chetney noises

oh shit

rip auggie

everybody keeps forgetting they can roll again

"SPOILER ALERT"

"leave it up to fate - no that's stupid"

robbie's so into this sdlkfjnls

old as balls

eddie? whomst?

"the gilded rainbow" gay as shit

"we were part of an industrial accident" swamp gas

"I crashed a truck into a building! it didn't work!"

"there's a reason he's a professor" it's bc he's a bitch

"don't set it on fire"

"your club tried to kill me, not sure if want"

in a few hours the sun will rise

gay

ah the true fantasy setting - free rent

"I slathered a nice man up" hate it

acted bizzare

they got a good grade at ttrpg

oh I love arlo

of course it's doc cochran

I heard the "mmmmakinmway" in my head

#candela obscura #critical role #candelatag #spoilers #crititag #liveblog #reaction post

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altarrot · 2 years ago

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HUNGER HURTS TO KILL. / VOL 5

[ ♡ ] pairing: simon "ghost" riley + fem!reader

[ ♡ ] warnings: references to past drug use, sexual content, bathroom sex, oral sex (male receiving), references to blasphemy, religious guilt.

[ ♡ ] series masterlist.

ACT 5 - SIN | PART 5/7

Over the course of events; a cramped pick-up truck, a stay in a motel with a near-death-bleeding-out experience, back in the truck, and now on the road hundreds of miles away from hometown — you feel like you're losing it. Hysteric. Your sense of reality is starting to blur, unlaced from your previous condition of living. You find purgatory in his presence, in his truck, but he reassures you're just homesick.

At the end of the day, he wasn't a good man. He was a criminal of war, a reason of infidelity, and near-murderer. But for the first time, ever since you were a young girl, you had seen him differently — you were seeing a man differently more than normal. They're usually pressuring, stern, archetypes of monsters in the real world; Ghost serves more as a symbol of an ideal man, dull yet affectionate at command.

Naive and incapable to survive out in the real natures of the world, you give yourself to him ungrudgingly, discovering a shelter of safety and rapture when with him. He's one of the first to not only be in love with your body, but loves you for your actual identity and kind nature, presumingly. Uncertainty had always clung to you, even when it came to him, an unsure man of many secrets. All you knew is that he was violent, tender, and private.

That's why one of the stops for the day was a pub; off the highway, nearing the late-afternoon, way too mature for your liking. It was his own way of cooling off, de-stressing off the responsibility of carrying both of you on. You sat on a barstool of chipped wood, a shot glass at your elbow, and Ghost under the bleeding lights of flashing signs at the walls. Shallow conversations are carried between him and another man — they seem close, old chaps, high-school friends perhaps, and he has a girl at his hip.

Your hunched figure straightens and you prod at the shot glass. Ghost chuckles, a deep raspy one at the man with the girl at hip, then he takes notice to you.

"You haven't met her, haven't you?" Ghost refers to you.

"No, I thought you were married." the man said. "Who's the younger lass?"

"Left the wife, too much of a bother," he said, "She's my new girl."

The man's eyes widened but decrease in size when he stretches a hand to you; a tattoo near his wrist, fewer than the ones Ghost adorned on his left skin.

"Nice to meet you, lassie," he said, taking your hand in his, "Soap—or Johnny, Ghost's friend."

You shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, how'd you find him?"

"Coincidence."

"Ah."

"Why are you two so far down the state?" Soap asks, "Last time I've heard, he was settled in some small town upstate."

Ghost clears his throat. "We're on a runaway, needed a fresh start."

"And the missus doesn't care?" He interrogates Ghost.

"She doesn't want anything to do with me," he shakes his head, taking a pour of his drink, "Neither the kid."

"You're making yourself sound like a scumbag." Soap said. "How'd you find her?"

"Town preacher. She was the preacher's daughter."

"Didn't take you as one to be interested in religious gals," he smacks Ghost on the back with a free hand, "Good for you."

He's more energetic than Ghost was, naturally friendly and welcome. Who knew that two complete polar opposites could be friends, some sort of best friends, even in the military; that's what you picked up from their back-and-forth rambles. He's a majority of smiles and one to lead on conversations easily. Easing off the conversation and slipping back into your area of thoughts, hysteria, you allow your perspective to wander the pub.

In the corner, in a crowded booth of solitude and abandonment, there's four people — divided equally, two men and two women. They're younger than you were, not young adults like you, but rather teenagers; senior year, junior year even. One of the girls has a packet in a hand and holds it out in front of the rest of the people at the table. The plastic pouch's remains are poured out onto the wood of the booth's table, white and shining under the feeble bulb, a solid card is pulled from one of the boys.

It was stupid to do that sort of thing here. Especially with people beginning to crowd in at the strike of rush hour, but they're fearless, taking turns at the smothered powder; index fingers pressed to one of their nostrils while the other swallows up a bit of the white, leaving a portion for the others. Memorials of behind the church, trying that similar category of substance but at a needle to the arm at the same age, reappear at the sight. Memorials that you begged to forget, to forgive to God.

You could barely contain yourself behind the church, so what made you think you could contain yourself now? Without help, without constraint, you were arranging in your mind. Arrangements of reliving that memorial.

"Honey?"

His voice is soft, smooth like a polished plane top. Ghost.

You whip your head back around. "Huh, yeah?"

"Did you hear me, love?"

"What'd you say? Sorry."

"I said meet me in the bathroom in a bit." he whispers out the side of his mouth, "After I deal with him."

These situations seem to unravel in nostalgic reels. Scene after scene, they repeat; same situations, different settings. (That were abnormally almost alike.)

You're forced on your knees under some green light of the pub, in the bathroom, it glows on your face like a nuclear radiance. The green light is accompanied with a shadow as well, Ghost's looming shadow of a drunken figure. Nearby is a rectangular window that's right at the left side of the wall, unable to reach and too small to fit anything through it except the night's air. He compelled you to the last stall, hand at your scalp and pushing you to the midpoint of his jeans.

His breaths are dense like a weight from his few sips of alcohol and a cigarette slipped to his lips. You sit shameful and in a pleasuring position; hands on your thighs and head sloped upwards. Your identity itself is unknown, not yet permitted to itself, but an amalgam of many girls that could've been in the same posture you're in. Bodies of beauty and loss painted in a sexual light.

Guilty, pent-up, you claw and slide your fingers to the zipper of his jeans — the metal rod coming down while you work at his belt, throwing it to the side of the toilet while you shove the garments of his lower half down. More sin runs in your veins than blood, chastening yourself for bringing yourself to stare at that powder; to bring up the delight of the memory of a needle stabbed to your skin. Desperate, your lips hunger at his blunt head, no longer struggling to take his full length; only a few bobs and it's prodding at the back of your throat.

He breathes, throwing his head back with a palm splayed at your head. "Fuck, sweetheart, where'd this come from?"

A gag sputters at your widened mouth, your fingers raking at his thighs in response. Tears split down your caved-in cheeks as he permanents a firm clutch at your hair. He's grunting and has one arm finding purchase at the sprayed tiles of the walls, blinded by the greens of the lamplight when his head is met at a position that appears to look snapped. You find yourself acting as scandalous as ever, the most scandalous you've ever been.

Picturing it, it's almost a reality, realistic; the dead preacher's daughter caught sucking the married lieutenant's cock. It would cause a stir in the town, like flies to a rotting animal's carcass, your bloodline in decrepit and decaying — and just because you wanted to act like a little whore, going around and resisting her religion with some man that had her easily persuaded and on a hook.

Heat upsurges to your face and mobs your ears, a familiar suffocation birthing to life. His head rubs up at the tissue that's at the back of your throat, vowing that it was bulging out the outer layer of skin. Your hand under the aging gauze flexes and twitches, struggling to continue nailing at his thighs. There's a gnawing at both of your naked knees at the dirtied tile of the bathroom, denting the skin and impairing it.

The more you jolt your head and attach your lips around each prominent vein, tongue running up the slit of his blunt head, his impulsive act is to improve in volume and spasm at the barriers of your mouth. His hand at the wall slaps and fingers crook into the cracks, torturing himself with the mask at his head and emerging heat; the mask acts as a hazard, nearly at a loss to breathe normally.

With one, final thrust around his girth — his hand pushes your head away, heavier gags grappling at your throat while his cum is shot and splattered across your face; you take it like a sacrament, open and willing. He lets you off, leaving you to lean on the locked door of the stall, your fingers shakily stealing at the liquid at your face and staining it on your fingers, tongue lapping at it. His knees are bent, his arms lengthened out and at the walls, head hung low between them.

You've never seen him more vulnerable, less dull. Drops of tears still spill at your cheeks despite not choking on him anymore, your face contorted and coming to be buried in your knees that pressed at your chest. Quiet wails stifle into your legs — heart weakened and preyed to a pulsating ache. You feel miserable, humiliated. You didn't know why you kept crying, but at the same time you did; it was variability, something between your failing image of a human being and being weighted down by the memory of powder at your nose.

You were clearly failing, though. Zero fabrications. It was too far along to turn back now; go back and visit your mother, your hometown, revert back to a preacher status while you never see Ghost again after he ultimately leaves town and divorces his wife. The problem was that you didn't want to just leave him, not this soon, not when you had these visions of being his replacement of a wife, with him forever.

"Shit, are you crying?" he asked, collecting breaths.

"You have eyes."

“Too rough?”

”No, no—it’s not that.” you mumble, "Do you still like me? Like, really like me?"

"That shouldn’t even be a question."

You shake your head. "Nothing. I've just been doing some thinking."

Lie by lie, they're imperfect, worse to cover-up — but as of this time, your words weren't really a lie. It was more of a severance allied with a lie and a truth; that you've been doing some contemplating but the only lie was his retort.

Ghost reaches out his ragged hand of rooted veins and drawn discolorations of scars, his entire hand fits at your face and pushes your head back up to him, thumb at your cheek while the others dance at your jaw. His single thumb feels of your tears and swabs them of their salted liquid. You heed to his touch of manipulation and descend into lands of scarred skin, a fleeing and sputtering breath whining from you.

Finishing with the finale of tears that rest of your face, he keeps his hand there — at your face, but your eyes fall out of uneasiness. "No, honey, back up here." he said, his words shrewd and easy to your naivety. "Look at me."

Orbs of uneasiness focus like lens on him again; a domineering entity at your front.

"You know that I love you, right?"

You shyly sniffle.

"Yes."

He pets at your face again. "So don't give me any of that questioning shit—I know, you know, that I'd love you forever. That's why you're here with me, that's why you sacrificed everything to be here with me." he said, "And I swear on my life on that, understand?"

Your head nods.

"Good," he extracts his arm back, using it to pull his jeans and rest of cloth back up, finishing with the sound of a zipper, "Get yourself cleaned up and meet me outsides, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Late hours of the night is when the world seems to pitch and mangle into the worst of your fears; The existent reality, one that you were warned where men acted as wolves while women as lambs. Endangerment. For once in your life though, you feel some rebellion, some glory that you could convince yourself to enjoy in like how you've seen. In the gaze of the off-the-road abandonment, you're at a sick freedom.

It's a cloud of your nightmares, of your sins, where things went to die. You bit the skin around your nail when looking around the pub now shrouded of night-activity, of more people. More teenagers were hauled in by secret, some adults as well. Some wrecked at each other's faces in the phone booth with pinning and lips-on-lips, like they were in desire to swallow each other, eat each other.

More powder summons at more booths, in your sight while nobody really cared for it anymore. Blown off their minds and dozing into the condition of a drug-lost station, it pings at your head while the remembrances are brought back to you once again, forced down your throat. Ghost is nowhere to be seen; perhaps somewhere off with Soap and his wife in a corner, acting adult-like, mature without your unfitting, solid spirit there.

The drink at the shot glass, which you swore not to take, was burning down your throat, strangling your throat in an irresponsible manner. Multiple burns of shots. Your mind spins on a carousel, head in your rubbing hands while a sigh—a groan is fit through the strangulations.

"Are you alright there, miss?"

A hand at your shoulder, an unfamiliar voice of masculinity, a stranger.

You swing your head back, slowly blinking, the stranger in lines. "What?"

"I said, are you alright?" the lines repeat, "You seem too, uhm, tipsy."

"Yeah—yeah, I'm fine."

"You here alone?"

You dumbly respond, swept over of dizziness, amnesia — possibly.

"Yeah, just me, always me."

"Oh, well, okay," it said, "You mind if I sit here with you?"

"Don't care, go." you mutter.

Flesh rubs at your eyes at an effort to form a person out of those lines. More slow blinks occur but your vision restores to an original state, your hands drag to at the lap of skirted lace, brows furrowed at the now made-out man that sat in front of you; where Ghost was supposed to be. (But to your forged amnesia, you were just too stupid to say take notice to it.)

He was a brunette set of hairs, most of it greying, and older than Ghost. He kept a decent build but in total — was just an average kind of guy, a bit of creep that tingled at your spine once you got a greater glimpse of him, regretting your drunken agreement to his request. A smile of dimples is at his face while you only frowned, annoyed, you kind of wanted to leave and tell him to piss off.

His eyes shine under the light, smile on his lips. "You from around these parts?"

"No, I'm not... upstate."

"Traveling?"

"You could say that." you sink into a fist, sighing.

"Upstate, uhm, I've been up there," he expresses with a stutter, "Been around a couple times, seen pretty girls like you."

His attempts at flirtation were admirable but weak, nothing charming, it just came off in a creep-like-sense.

"Not much up there." you said

"You a Christian girl too?"

You tense at his words, eyeing him in suspicion.

"What? How'd... you know?"

His eyes no longer shine, his drink is at the table, his expression plain and difficult to perceive.

"Because I've attended your masses, listened to your sermons," he said, "You're that preacher's daughter, aren't you? You're the one that your mother has been holding up missing posters to store-fronts, seen with that man in a mask."

You collect yourself off your stool, stumbling back a little with a breath. "Mister, I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't try lying to me," he breathes, heavy and daunting of whiskey with his palms slammed at the table, "I've seen you all now—I can go tell everyone back there that you're on the run, sleeping around with a married man."

His words shrink you down, causing you to fluctuate in fear, body trembling and begging for a savior in the moment. You needed protection, a physical protection — his sworn protection. Where even was he? Where was Ghost? And why did he fabricate that protection, right when you needed him most? (God, you sounded pathetic.)

"That's what you are," he spits, "A lowlife, sinning, blasphemous whore. What would your father think?" What would he think of his precious, innocent girl acting in such a way like this?"

"Shut up!"

Their eyes are everywhere— his, your mother, your father— you're left unable to run, to hide away from their judgements. You were descending down spirals of hallucinogenic terrors knowing that it was aware, they were aware, aware of your sinning accomplishments and hidden tracks. Those accomplishments and your faulted feelings were sure to be the traitorous consequences of your faith, forever stuck in a purgatory wasteland of these blasphemous deeds.

You've went against everyone, especially the preacher. Your father. No matter how hard you scrub of the memory, no matter how deep you bury the ditch, you cannot escape the creeds of your father; the sins he was originally bound suffering to, passed down a generation to you. Your body rots, collapses inside and out, the weight of awaiting penalty heavy to bare. You're tormented, losing it, distant—

"Whose this?"

The voice is no longer a stranger. It's full of warmth, of that rasp, and like a home. You look into the voice, finding a face of familiarity.

"The fuck are you doing with him?" Ghost rasps to you, a finger to the man, "And she's with me, what are you doing with her?"

"She said she was alone." the man replies.

"Clearly not."

The man cuts his concerns off the rope. "Do you know you're running around with a wanted woman? Someone who went against her faith and turned to whorish deeds?"

Ghost pulls you to his side with a strength, your arm coming to wrap around his left bicep, face smashed right into it and clinging like a child.

"You know her personally?" he asks.

"Yes, I actually do." the opposing one out of the two men said, "I've attended the masses she's lead—disappointing to see what she's turned into."

"That's not personal, mate, really just the opposite of it."

"Still," he shrugs, "She's a missing girl, anyways, and her community is waiting for her, her mother." his adjustment on the stool is driven to two limbs and stood on the ground, "Let me have her, will you? You can come along too if you like, it's just one other part of your big journey."

"She doesn't know you, I don't know you, so I'm not giving her up to some lunatic."

"I'm just returning her to original state."

Ghost presses his head to yours. "Let's go, love, eyes on me—and keep up."

He has a distaste of wasting his time; so that was his reason for no longer keeping conversation with the insanity of a man, his arm to your shoulder, a majority of him in control of navigating away from the man and through the crowds of people, pushing past in a silent hurry. You rest your face into his jacketed arm, the scent of cigarettes on it, comforting down from the matter of unlucky circumstances.

To your luck, the man does not keep up, and is lost in the bunches of teenagers and crowds. His recorded verses of vulgar nicknames for you and berating insults resonated through the structure of the pub. Labels of Innocent between Whorish and Blasphemous. It's a flux of bemusement, what really were you? — innocent? or a whore to the Devil?

#fic collection: hunger hurts to kill #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x female reader #simon riley x female reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 fanfic #religion & military au #call of duty fanfic #mw2 fanfic #female reader

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