#It's not accurate to call of duty

[helpinghanikan]

Gently, Please

Konig x reader

Sum: Konig has been hit with a particular bio-weapon. It only has one cure: You

Since the beginning of your time here König has always been someone who was just there. At first he was just another operator in the corner of the room. Then he became the one operator that nodded at you when you addressed the room. Then he became the man named König. Then he was the man who you looked for when stopping by the mess. Eventually he became the man who smiled by crinkling his eyes behind a snipers hood. Who had a nice chuckle to your jokes, asked how you were doing and actually meant it.

Tonight, however, he was the only thing between you and death.

You’ve stayed less than a foot away from him since landing. One of three desk jockeys let into the to download and scrap together what you could.

“Floor two is clear.” Came a voice through König’s mike.

“Floor one is clear.” Came another.

You and König were headed for the fourth floor. Where the labs and your goal was to be located.

“Do not get ahead of me.” König reminded you. “Stay close, do as I say, understood?”

Where was the man who never spoke up at meetings? Who visibly blushed even while wearing a sniper’s hood? That man was left behind when König entered the field. He didn’t need to be worried about the people around him out here. After all; killing people didn’t count as a social interaction.

“Yes, Sir.” You said, holding your Glock 22 towards the floor.

You had taken the time and training to something of a master with American Police’s favorite side arm. It wasn’t going to do nearly as much damage as the rifles and guns carried around by the operators. Hell, even an unarmed operator could cause more damage than your weapon. But it was the thought that counts.

“Good girl,” König replies. The elevator doors opening before either of your could fully register what he had just said. “Forward.”

The guards and scientists on floor were prepared to die for their research. Women in armor and women in lab coats pulled weapons with the same amount of passion. They all died the same; with a single shot from the best non-sniper in the world.

The lab you searched for was in the very center of the floor. Surrounded by glass windows with only one entrance from a long hallway. Cameras followed you the entire time. König gave you barely a glance when you got annoyed and started picking them off.

“In here,” You said, reaching the lab door.

König enters first. Sweeping the room and finding only one lab worker hiding in the corner. She had raised her hands but met the same fate as the others when she went for a knife on the counter. A pool of red started to cover the floor as König called it clear.

“Floor four is clear.” He said into the mike.

You had already started on the data. A cheap laptop bought for the specific purpose of holding everything sat on the counter. A wire connecting it to a wall sized computer bank. One of five that would be copied and stolen today.

It was as everything started to download that König made a pausing comment.

“These guards, the lab, they’re all women.” He said, looking down to the last one to get a bullet.

“A little sexist to only expect men to fight.” You say, not thinking too deeply about the comment.

“No,” König steps up next to you. Demanding your full attention. “There are only women here. That doesn’t happen. There’s usually some women, but not only women.”

He turns away to speak into his mike. Asking the rest of the squad if they had come across any men while sweeping the area. You didn’t have to be close to know what the answer was going to be.

At the same time you got curious enough to look at some of the stuff downloading: It was all the usual things; guns, ammo, materials, and a nice little list of people who needed to be taken care off. The list of projects currently being tested before use in the field was what your higher ups would be interested in.

One of those was hidden under an SS file. The only one you opened due to it’s testing addressing being the same building your were currently standing in.

Just skimming through the drug’s contents, it’s symptoms, and the resulting reports forced you to call König over to take a look. Point at the specific part stating “only use of hormonal release through orgasm could flush Siren Song from the body. A partner would be needed to keep the affected individual from going into cardiac arrest and create the proper hormones.”

“Sex bomb,” König says bluntly. “That’s why there is no women.”

“This thing needs to go faster.” You said, as if the computer would get the hint and hurry up.

Meanwhile, one floor down, a lab coat managed to slip past the gun fire. A single individual who ignored a shoulder wound to reach the smaller lab.

The firing got closer as she worked. Death calling her name that she tried to ignore but simply couldn’t. She focusing on her task. The last thing she would remember is allowing the release from the main lab. After that red would cover the screen and an alarm would go off in the fourth floor.

The steam that starts to come from the ceilings is light pink. It smells sweet but hearty, like unfrosted cake still warm from the oven. You take a deep breathe in out of habit, sighing at the smell.

“Leave, we need to go.” König declares, hitting his mike. “Gas leak on floor four. We need an immediate evac.”

“No, we need to lock down.” You correct. “This entire level needs to be locked down before any of it gets out.”

It’s amazing that your fingers didn’t break from slamming through the lab controls. Taking longer, so much longer, than is needed to finally get the lab to lock down. Heavy metal sliding down over the single door. It wouldn’t be surprising to find out that the windows were already bullet proof. A red light overhead makes itself known. Blinkingly lightly as if it didn’t want to make too much of a scene while doing it’s job.

“König, what’s happening on your floor?” Asked Captain Price through your mikes.

“Bio-weapon has been released on this floor. It’s a-.” He looks over at you with a pause. Looking to you as if asking what he’s supposed to describe it as. “-pheromone based kind.”

“The lab is staying in lockdown until the weapon dies off. Should be a few hours.” You add. “we have another problem, though.”

“Is your target corrupted? Can your data still be saved?” Laswell asks. There wasn’t a chance that Laswell would let this mission happen without her. Not when three of her best techs were in the field.

“Yes, the data is safe and downloaded. But that’s not our problem. The weapon is; König is already affected by it.” You say, looking at your protector with apology in your eyes.

There’s a pause on the other end. Likely Captain Price talking to Laswell on a private channel before he asks; “What’s happening? What is the weapon?”

König turns his back towards you. He does the one thing no operator should ever do by setting his weapon down on a counter in the corner of the room. He leans against the counter, as if you wouldn’t notice the heavy breathing.

“You need to leave.” König States, but you ignore him.

“It’s called Siren Song, Captain. You know that legendary sex bomb? Yeah, I found it. It only effects males but we can’t let it out of the lab. I’ve already engaged the lab to start filtering. But it’s gonna take some time, I’ll keep König alive during it.” You explain to Captain Price. Any other time you would have been more formal, but it’s easier to be blunt and quick about explanations.

“You need to go…” König whimpers.

“It’s your choice.” Laswell says. “But no one will say anything if you need to take drastic measures to defend yourself. Especially not König.”

“Copy that watcher. Keep our mikes quiet for a minute.” Was the last thing you said before turning to König.

“I’m sorry,” You said, taking off your vest and weapons.

He doesn’t say anything as you approach from behind. In those few steps a million questions are going through your head. The confidence you momentarily had replaced with a question mark. How do you even start something like this? Will he be able to stop before seriously injuring you? Does he even want you?

All these questions are stopped as König whips around to face you. His hands stay on the table, gripping it so hard it’s amazing there weren’t dents.

“Go…” He says again, head tilted down to avoid eye-contact.

“König, if you die I’m not going to have anyone translate shit for me.” You say as if humor could help the situation. “I get that I’m not what you want but if you wanna live-.”

You’re interrupted by a barking laugh from König. As if he is incredulous at the thought you aren’t what he wants. It’s the first time he makes eye-contact with you.

“I want you, König” You whisper, stepping closer as his hands grip tighter. “Do you really want me?”

He nods his head, incapable of words anymore.

You go to your knees. Reaching towards his pants that are, thankfully, easier to undo than a harness.

“Then let me have you.” You said, managing to pull his pants and briefs down almost past his backside.  

You aren’t the only one to wonder what Mr. König was packing under there. At six foot ten he was bound to be larger than average. You didn’t have a tape measurer on hand, but you had to guess maybe six to seven inches. Thick enough that your mouth watered and felt heavy in your hand.

Control is a ticking clock while you start to stroke. The table is most certainly going to have fingerprints in it. Especially when you stick out a tongue, swirling over his uncut head. The only warning he gets before the tip is taken into your mouth.

“Scheiße!” König screams into the air.

He lets go of the table. That strong grip now grabbing the back of your head. It’s everything you can do not to completely gag on his cock when he pulls you forward. Pushing passed your lips and into the warmth of your mouth.

He’s dreamed about your mouth since the first time you’ve met. Watch your lips move with every word. Trying not to stare when you apply your lip-balm or stick. He had wanted to know what it would be like to streak that lipstick you sometimes wore. What it looked like when he would kiss it messy, how he could make you blush from those kisses.

You weren’t a blushing woman, now. Your eyes are screwed shut, hands digging into thick thighs, and breathing through your nose as that was the only thing you could do.

The salty taste of König’s coming ejaculation wills you to open your eyes. Looking up to your tower of a man. His torso is bent forward, as if the entire experience is too much for him to handle. Although his eyes are closed his eyelashes are prominent against his cheeks. He looks almost innocent if he weren’t currently fucking your face.

He calls out your name, your real name, when he cums. Pulling your face in to cum down your throat with no chance of you being able to escape. He continue to say your name; whispering it as if he really was your man.

He lets you go, and the weight of sitting up straight on your knees comes down heavy. The ground is there when you fall backwards gasping for a stronger source of oxygen.

Although his cock is flaccid there’s no calming König’s heart.

“I just need a second.” You say, standing while trying to get your boots off.

It’s a little bit like a game. You trying to stay away long enough to get your boots, pants, and panties off while König walked towards you. His steps are slow, but his eyes are focused.

He follows as you make it around the counters. Although you are down for it there is a certain level of fear. This is normal when a man big as König has a target on you. Especially when his steps are quicker, and you don’t have time to say anything else before your pressed face first onto the counter.

He’s still flaccid when he presses against you. This does nothing to stop him from grinding against your backside. Laying over your back like a heavy blanket. He nuzzles against your neck while his hands start to work. Had he not been wearing the mask he would have been able to give you the kisses he’s been holding back for so long.

Instead of leaving marks with his mouth, he can only leave them with his hands. Squeezing your bare thighs, encouraging you to spread them further and further. He didn’t let go until he got one of your legs up and onto the counter. Spreading you open wider than anyone would ever be allowed to.

“Beautiful, I need you…” He whispers into your cheek.

You don’t what to say back. Not able to think of anything to say when his fingers find your slit. His gloves are harsh against the sensitive skin. It makes you hiss and whine.

“König,” You pleaded, looking back the best you could. “The gloves. Please, take them off.”

His bare fingers are hot, practically boiling. With the removal of his glove, giving into your final request, he has used all of his control. Now he only knew the need that the weapon caused. The need to take, to own, and to fuck the beauty in front of him. Had it been anyone else he might have had more control, but he was already a bit intoxicated by you. The weapon taking advantage of this as he slides two fingers deep within your pussy.

At first it feels like a punch. The spread and pumping of his fingers inside of you were a bit past rough. It was experimental; testing the boundaries of what you found painful and pleasurable and wanting to dance that line.

His thumb against your clit was his first right move. The jolt and squeak you give in reaction brings a hidden smile to König.

“Beautiful, Beautiful girl…” He whispers into your neck, thumb slowly rolling circles over your clit.

His flaccid cock continues to grind against you. He continues to finger and slide through your pussy. Desperate to have something inside of you when his cock couldn’t be.

Warmth grows in your stomach. It almost compares to the feeling of König’s hands against your bare skin. It’s probably for the best that König kept most of his gear on, otherwise you might have gotten heat stroke from the contact alone.

The pleasure builds from your stomach. It travels and owns your chest, swirling over your nipples and teasing them through your shirt that is suddenly far too constricting.

Your feet scramble for some sort of purchase on the smooth ground. The pleasure, the heat, the everything is becoming too much. Your orgasm coils and builds in your pelvis until it escapes out your moan in an extended moan.

König moans just as loudly. His teeth lining the side of your neck. Desperate to mark you but unable too with the thin line of fabric keeping him from his goal.

“Fuck me,” You whisper, sagging against the counter.

“Yes,” König almost snarls, pushing himself up from it’s presence over your back.

You’re only cold for a few seconds. In that time gentle pressure from the tip of König’s cock touches between your lips. Sliding back and forth once, twice, before finding your entrance and starting the firm push forward.

In another world, another time, König would have wanted to go gently. He would want to slide in slow through your slick lips. He wants you to feel every inch and remember the stretch that came with it. He wants you to sigh when he is flush and ask him to move when you are good and ready. Not a second more.

König doesn’t get that. Instead he penetrates you with a solid, quick, thrusts that jolts you both. Your gasp comes out almost like a shout. Reaching out for the side of the counter and grabbing hold.

The thrusts are quick and rapid. With no rhyme or reason to them. Only the pursuit of a second orgasm that isn’t coming fast enough.

He practically collapse onto your back. Sliding an arm under your chin with the other going across your neck. Holding you in a gentle headlock that keeps him grounded as he starts to pound harder, faster, and more directed than before.

He cums after a few more, sloppy, thrusts. Staying inside of you deeply as he pumps inside of your pussy. Moaning in a language you didn’t speak really well. Muffled by the hood and the ringing in your ears from being kept in a headlock for longer than you should’ve been.

“I love you, Beautiful,” König whispers.

There are plenty of things you can blame for what you said next. It was the post-orgasm feeling. It was the thick, delicious pounding taking place. Or maybe it was just the drug having the tiniest effect on women after all.

None of those reasons mattered. Because when you said; “I love you, too.” You really meant it in that moment.

[livecrow]

You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.

Dark!Ghost x fat fem reader drabble

CWs: dead dove, rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink(?), animal play(?), threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism

(A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.)

_____________________________________________________________

It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.

In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet, after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more? 

No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people  “jus’ need killin’”. 

As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither”. After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality. 

No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.

Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.

You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it. 

Wrangling you was simple, it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your lack of instincts was staggering, it was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you, it only endeared you to him. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.

The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”.

Simon's main concern was not damaging you too much, he was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory, but he’s not applying enough pressure to actually choke you. You’re just forced helplessly to come along or be dragged.

Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led, he would simply tighten his hold, and allow up a quick nap. He’d pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.

On the big stainless steel work table the metal stings you even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but your nipples is where his roaming gaze finally settles.

He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle. You were a bit of silly thing, he thought. Maybe it’d be a minute till you’d actually catch on.

You're his little prize. Simon will coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness.

“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what y’ need clothes for?” he scoffed. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want you to answer. A dog doesn’t answer “who's a good boy?” does he? 

He’s measuring you, jotting things down. You think distantly that the pencil looks puny in his fist. While he's at it, he's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store.

Only when you think there’s finally a reprieve, you’re being hogtied. You’re trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape its bite. Simon says it looks good on you, can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing pinch. You struggle of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn. 

He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of d-rings. It will be more comfortable for you and he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chaffing. 

As he admires your skin, he’ll remark offhandedly that he’ll have to ""'ave somethin' from you" too. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. Couldn’t find more supple could y’? He hasn’t decided what’ll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That’d be about the first time your consciousness flees from you.

Simon will lay it on thick, praise how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you can't blame him for any of this, really. He'll say something about kobe beef and taking good care of you. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.

Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.

It’s all completely horrifying, it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged. 

His hands are always on you, it’s never fucking ending. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating and you hate every second of it.

The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.

He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats, might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food, you don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful and to no one’s surprise it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop of course, only the best for you.

He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye”. He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'".

You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner, even if seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. Steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, roasted broccoli.

You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over on the floor, forced to eat off a dish without the use of your hands, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise. Still, if he’s in a mood he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess”. 

The food was prepared, but this time the kitchen knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your peripheral.

He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.

On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like. 

You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.

Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence.

”...you'll taste better.”

He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes. 

“Chew.”

It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.

“Swallow.”

His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then. 

With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.

Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.

The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side.

Then it’s on your tongue.

He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue 

“They’ll say ’m ‘spoilin’ ‘er rotten’. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?”. He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.

Whenever Simon’s put up enough with your smart mouth, he enjoys the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.

The sounds you make when gagged are special little nonsense noises, almost like you're trying to talk like a person would. Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.

Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.

If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.

Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.

He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little. 

His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze. 

He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.

He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.

He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hand are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.

It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.

Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.

That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.

Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.

He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker. 

From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day”.

He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it. 

It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes. 

...

You didn't dare question it.

But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.

[princeguri66]

TF 141 x Male Reader

-----

Can't help but think of a clingy drunk reader, and the task force knows this fact about him very well. He's outright told them how his friends had complained to him abt it. Admitting that he doesn't drink much is bcuz of how he is when he gets drunk, embarrassed because "it is soo not manly"

It's not long before they start getting curious. Everytime they've went out to a bar to celebrate you always lay off, persistent on staying the sober or at least nearly sober one of the bunch.

It isn't until a special celebration did they finally see how clingy and affectionate you are. Maybe it was your birthday or they completed a tough mission but whatever it is they convinced you to drink more than your usual amount (mostly Soap egging you on but the rest were just as enthusiastic)

There they find themselves with you being all handsy to em, and only them might i add. One moment you have your whole body leaning on Soap and as he gets up to grab more drinks you move your attention to Gaz, gesturing for him to come closer to you on the worn out couch you're sitting on, encouraging him to get so close he's basically sitting on your lap.

If both of them decided to just leave you alone you'll get up from your seat and slug around looking for Ghost or Price to cling on, draping your body from behind them.

At the end of it all you're till clinging to at least one of them, not wanting to let go, it's so bad that whoever you were clinging to had to personally get you back to your room. Rolling their eyes as you whined about having to leave the rest of the crew behind.

[forsworned]

This is so Johnny and Kyle coded

[yumethefrostypanda]

[eastbubble]

you and 09!ghost were never really on good terms, things were always frosty and cold between you two. missions kind of connected you guys but that was notning special, it was the same with everyone else on the team so you wouldn’t really consider that extraordinary.. until something happened.

the location was already bad enough — georgian - russian border, what a blessing. a part of the task force was supposed to clear the house hidden in the woods in hopes of finding makarov as this was one of his possible hiding places. you could only hope for the best.

the mission didn’t turn out to be a success, though. the area was cleared and you shot what felt like hundreds of soliders, yet there was no sign nor trace of the man that the whole world was looking for — vladimir makarov. roach was downstairs copying the files from the central computer he found there, but it was taking extremely long and you just couldn’t help but start exploring the house out of boredom.

your heavy gear was sticking to your body like a soaked towel, your body sweaty from all the stress that was put on you. the wooden floor was creaking under your military-issue boots that were so uncomfortable on your feet after such a long day. however, after a while, you heard the sound of another pair of boots knocking against the probably rotten wood, making you turn your head and look up. ghost. it’s ghost.

“impressive. you did really good,” he mumbled under his breath, though he didn’t seem like he was actually serious. to be honest, you didn’t even know what he sounded like when he was dead serious. the balaclava on his face always somehow filtered the tone of his voice and you couldn’t guess what could be going on in his mind.

and the next thing you remember is him pushing you against the wall and slamming his lips against yours, the fabric of the skull-print balaclava obviously being in the way. both of your saliva made a little spot on the soft cotton, and what a funny touch because you imagined your panties looking the same — with a silly little wet spot on it. he held you tightly under your butt with one arm, your back against the wall so it would be easier for him to keep you up in the air.

just like that, he was already reaching down to your panties. unzipping your pants with shaky, gloved fingers as he seemed incredibly desperate. he circled the wet spot on your undies, outlining it with the tip of his finger as a horrible excuse of foreplay. just moments later he was in his pants too, needily taking his rock-hard cock out of his boxer briefs and not wasting any time to pull the fabric covering your pretty cunt aside, almost immediately sliding into you.

it was really weird that he didn’t say anything. it all just happened and it was weird. you laid you head into the crook of his neck, fingers gripping the gray wool-ish texture of his pullover. at first he only slid in with his flared tip but then seconds later he pushed more of his length in, letting you feel the raw veins on his slightly curved length. he was huge and you were sure that he would hit your cervix the moment he bottomed out inside you — and that was why you began protesting with soft little sounds coming out of your mouth, tiny and silent moans of his rank slipping out. not ghost nor simon, not even riley. you felt ashamed that the only thing coming out of your mouth was just “lieutenant, please..”

“ssh, we don’t want roach to hear you downstairs, do we?” he asked almost silently, but you could tell that he was holding back a few gruff grunts too, judging from the way he breathed. “do we, sergeant?”

“no. no, no. but it’s so-“ and you had to swallow the rest of your sentence down because of how you could almost feel his tip leaking inside you with every word you painfully uttered out. it was messy and sticky, the lewd sounds your pussy kept making were basically reverbating off the walls. and it was all dripping down into your panties, small droplets sliding along your slit and soaking into the thin fabric. “nasty..”

“fuck..”

and as soon as he mumbled that curse out, you heard a pair of boots againts the wooden floor — one that sounded identical to your and ghost’s ones. shit. shit!

looking over ghost’s shoulder you had to blink thrice to confirm that what you saw was indeed real. roach stood there in the doorway like a deer in the headlights, his goggles pushed atop of his tactical helmet as you could physically see his adam’s apple bob from how hard he gulped. he held a few papers and an usb memory stick in his hands, fingers shaking as he slightly raised it up in to the air. ��it’s- it’s done, sir-“

[artistcalledbella]

updated this

[gunnrblze]

[danibee33]

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

It’s the middle of the night/morning but I have to make a quick post about the thought that plagues my head. You’re someone who calls everyone “Babe” but Simon doesn’t know that and just bends you over the nearest surface for a quick fuck the first time you call him that.

[fanartist666]

Scouse as fuck Price but this is him:

[helpinghanikan]

Domestic December: COD

Day 22: Soap, Beach

DD Masterlist

For any beach day to go off well it has to have a good start. This is where having someone like Soap comes in handy: his early morning jog that day wasn’t just to get a workout. Chair and towels already placed out for you to find towards mid-morning.

“Better not forget the sunblock,” You reminded him, tossing over the bottle which he catches with a grin.

“Put it on me? Come on, please?” He asks, tossing it back.

It’s simple things like this that makes it easy to take collection of his scars. By now you know most of his bruises and bumps. He’s told you, with as much basic information is allowed, how he got them.

Even now, as you gently massage his back, he’s talking about how he got that bruise under his shoulder blade. How Ghost wasn’t watching where he was going, and the big bastard slammed right into him.

He groans, deeply, when you press into the little purple mark. “Take it easy, Babe, I don’t need a bigger mark than what I already got.”

“Sorry, I’ll be more careful. You big baby.” You say, pressing into a safer place to massage. “Next time I’ll give Gaz a call, sure he’ll be a lot softer.”

“Oh, now you’re being cheeky. Come here, I’ll get you.” He says, making a gesture for you to lay back on the sand.

His weight is even and heaven as he straddles the small of your back. The sunblock is cold as he pours it over your shoulder blades. Quickly followed by his thumbs, pressing gentle circles into your back, and sliding downwards.

“Mmm, little harder, please. Just like that, fuck.” You asked, feeling the sand where you didn’t want it to, but it wasn’t worth moving to fix it.

Soap chuckles above you, “Watch the language, there’s children present.”

It’s easy to get lost in the moment, and in his hands. Distantly you can hear the children playing around you. The Parents calling for Timmy or Susie, making sure they don’t drown. Some women are laughing not too far away, their music loud and happy.

Too soon he climbs off of you. The warmth of his weight and support of his presence replaced with the sticky and cold feeling of sunscreen. He lays down besides you with a sigh, sunglasses on and beer in his hand.

You don’t move, you try not to even breathe, the moment is too perfect to let go of without a fight.

[emptyapartments]

everytime someone calls soap a twink an angel loses its wings

[harveywritings92]

R/n: You jumped out of a moving plane rather than talk to me about your feelings!

Ghost: You're exaggerating. The air sucked me out like a vacuum.

R/n: You hit the ground and started running! 

[wrylu]

doodle of this MAN.... who i totally DON'T care about

[roachy-draws]

Pov: detail ✨🪳

(game accurate roach with antennas under cut)