#cod x anyone

[lovelovelovelovelove987654321]

His Knight In Shining Armor

Simon doesn't quite think this is real. You. Him. The warmth. Doesn't quite understand how he can touch you without hurting you. Yet, at the same time, not hurting you is the only thing he understands. He would rather be buried alive- again-, would rather be surrounded by the rot and death that is his brain forever than lift a finger towards you. You are his everything. His sun, his moon, his rock, his ocean tides. Everything he does is governed by the push and pull of your mere existence. 

“Time izzit?” You asked oh, so sleepily, lips pressed against his throat, nose tucked under his jaw. “Time for you to go back to sleep.” And with a small huff, you do. He still marvels at that, you know. The way you trust him so much, that you take everything that comes from his mouth as truth. The way you feel safe enough around him to just close your eyes and sleep. Near him. The monster, the demon, the husk of a human being, the creature made up of the shreds of humanity left on the battlefields once the corpses have been dragged away. The thing that can't bear to look in the mirror because what he sees there shouldn't be allowed to roam the earth. Not in broad daylight, at least. Him.

Yet you just saw a man. A closed off, emotionally unavailable, stubborn man, but a man all the same. He’d surreptitiously ask what your eye scores were after every time you went to the doctor, because maybe you were hallucinating, just a little. A lot. Because how could you see anything worthy of love in him? 

He knew that, in the conventional western view, his body was attractive. He hated this body. It works, and that's good. But he hated how it accompanies him everywhere he went. He wished he could become a fleck of dust, maybe, be breathed in by you and settle in your lungs, listen to your heartbeat for the next several centuries. 

When he looked at his hands, he saw them dripping with dirt-thickened blood. When he saw his legs, he saw them broken and bruised. When he saw his feet, he saw the harbingers of all the death that followed him. When he saw his arms, he saw simply tools of war. When he saw his torso, his chest, he saw Roba. He saw the organs that should have done the word a favor by failing him long ago. He saw the heart he could no longer feel beating. When he saw his face, he saw no trace of the man he might have become. Instead, he sees a machine. 

When he sees his scars- oh, when he sees his scars- he sees the evidence of death and pain and hate and despair that surrounded him everywhere he went. He saw nothing deserving of life. 

But you. You.

When you saw his hands, you saw the hands you held when you were happy or scared. You saw the hands that had caressed you so gently, so lovingly. You saw the hands that had picked you flowers and given you gifts and brushed your hair from your face. (“I love your hands,” You’d told him once, twice, a million times.) When you saw his hands, you saw love.

And that gave him hope.

When you saw his legs, you saw the legs that had tangled with yours as you slept. The legs that took up room on the sofa, the legs that cracked and popped every time he stretched. You saw the legs that got humped by your best friend's dog, the legs that had run to catch up with you at the carnival and the supermarket and the park and the campground and everywhere else you had ever been. When  you saw his legs, you saw love. And that gave him hope.

When you saw his feet, you saw the feet that had tickled yours in the pool, the feet that had gotten buried under the sand at the beach, that wore the stupidest shoes you'd ever seen. You saw freckles and pale skin (“They look a bit like dead fish, Si!” You’d once said as you laughed.) You saw the bad circulation and wool socks and too-long nails. When you saw his feet, you saw love. 

And that gave him hope.

When you saw his arms, you saw the arms that had kept you warm on cold nights. The arms that had held you safe as you watched movies. The arms that had kept you together, had kept you from breaking apart, when you had laughed and cried and everything in between. You saw the arms that reached things on shelves that you couldn't, the arms that were strong enough to lift you up and twirl you around. When you saw his arms, you saw love.

And that gave him hope. 

When you saw his torso, his chest, you saw the solid plane of flesh that you leaned on for support. You saw the dips and curves, all perfect places for you to rest your head. You saw the weighted blanket you used him as. You saw the lungs that breathed in your laughter and smiles 24/7/365. You saw the heartbeat that kept you on track, reminded you that it would all be okay. You saw the organs that kept Simon alive. When you saw his torso, you saw love. 

And that gave him hope. 

When you saw his face, you saw the smiles he reserved only for you. You saw the eye crinkles, the nose scrunches. You saw the lip quirks and the dimples and and the beautiful brown eyes that housed the soul of your beloved. You saw the pale eyelashes, the under-eye bags, the smattering of extra pigmentation that were scattered across the bridge of his nose. You saw the furrowed brows and the crows feet. You saw his laugh and his voice and his whispers and his hums. When you saw his face, you saw love. 

And that gave him hope. 

When you saw his scars- oh, when you saw his scars. You saw his pain, yes. You saw the gruesome stories that were carved into his skin. You saw the death and the blood and the hatred that had imprinted itself in his very being. 

But.

You also saw the proof of how much he loved you. You saw the saga of his love, the confirmation that, no matter what, he would come back home to your arms. You saw perfect trails  to follow with your lips, the perfect places to press caring kisses now and then. You saw silly shapes of animals and constellations and plants and boats and maps of make-believe kingdoms. You saw everything that he was, everything he had done. When you saw his scars, you saw love. 

And that gave him hope.

Hope that he could be a better man. Hope that he could keep you safe and happy forever. Hope that, one day, he might be worthy of your love. Hope that maybe he could be something more than just the sum of his parts. Hope that, perhaps, your goodness might seep into his pores and infect him. Hope.

[ghostedbunnie]

mmm my brain is buzzing with an idea of knight! ghost stumbling upon a carriage getting robbed late at night. appearing like a monster that mothers warn their kids about when they misbehave, mask covering his face and after the bloodbath finishes and no one is left standing but him, he let's out a sigh before making his way to the carriage, one of the window is broken but the heavy curtains are drawn.

when he opens the door he doesn't expect to have the curtains thrown in his face and an absolutely feral maid trying to cut him with the shard of the window held so tight in her shaky hand that the other side cuts deep into her palm. something clicks in place for ghost in that moment, this little cornered thing protecting her mistress with ferocity of a tiger but with fear oozing out of her every pore.

with something that resembles a snort he knocks the shard out of her hand and pulls her out by the scruff as if she truly is just a little kitten showing her claws and he is finding it extremely amusing. the mistress is less of a fighter, he finds, it took one look at him all bloody and dark a picture straight out of nightmares and she passed out on the spot.

with the maid fighting him every step of the way he manages to bring them to his master, his king. turns out the mistress is a princess that was travelling to marry the king and for saving her life, he deserves a gift. anything of his choosing. anyone.

the maid could feel a cold sweat drip down her back when for the first time since they travelled together she heard his voice (she believed his vocabulary was made up of grunts and growls) when he pulled her in with his heavy gloved paw on the back of her neck, "I'll take 'er."

edit: full fic here

[shadow4-1]

"Can you just pretend to love me tonight? Please?"

Simon's never gotten a request like this before.

He's never had any qualms about selling his body. Whether it was for his cock, units of his blood plasma, or his war honed body. He's always done what he's had to - anything to stay off the streets and keep a full belly.

The girls who've paid him always wanted a brute, someone to mount them and take them for all they were worth. That was what he was used to, not some doe-eyed sweet thing begging him to be gentle.

"I want to feel loved." You admit, leaning back on the motel bed, thighs crossed in nervousness. "I um...I know I'm not very pretty-"

Simon leans forward on his knees and kisses you gently. Well, he tries to. The tip of your teeth graze painfully together as he mouths you. You squeak beneath him, hands going up to his shoulders to try and push him off on rabbit instinct. He pulls his mouth off of you just enough to mutter an apology.

"Sorry." He swallows.

You look up at him with impeccably beautiful eyes brimming with tears. You seem to finally understand there's nothing gentle about him even when he tries to be. Simon wants you to call him off, send him out of the cheap hotel. He knows he can't be as sweet at you want - as you deserve. He's just physically not built for that. At least, he's sure of it nowadays. He has a brief memory of holding his newborn nephew but it slips away just as quickly as it came.

"Can we just...go slow?" You ask again. Simon can hear the waver in your voice. You're unsure if you want to continue, but you seem to trust him for some reason. "Really, really slow?"

"Yeah."

He can do slow. He can do glacial. If there's one thing he can do, it's be measured, methodical. He wasn't a Lieutenant for nothing.

For the first time in years, he takes his time. He's used to the fast paced, hungry fucks that pay his rent in thirty minutes. This is...new, not wholly uninvited. He kisses down your collarbone, down the swell of your breasts. He nips at the lacy fabric (you dressed up for him when he was expecting just to rip it all off) as he makes his way down further. He laps at the skin beneath your belly button, making your belly flutter. Ticklish. He likes that.

Simon noses his way between your thighs, easily spreads your legs with his thick forearms. As he kisses down your cloth covered mound he admits he likes how you smell. Usually the taste of women turns him off. He prefers men, but desperate women pay more. You're desperate alright, although its a different type of desperation. Something about the nervous wetness staining your new panties has his cock jumping in his trousers. He presses his nose to the fabric, inhales deeply, and relishes in your shy squeak. Simon starts to understand your desire.

You want to be explored, mapped, and consumed slowly. You want to give up control but feel as if you can stop at any moment. You want to be seen, tasted, then completely devoured.

Instead of slipping your panties to the side, he licks his way down your thighs. You squeal and try to squirm away from the sudden sensation but he doesn't stop. He kisses down your calves and across the top of your feet. His hands are so large that they wrap around your soles completely. Simon pushes them up until they're up by your ears. He knows the position is uncomfortable for you, but he likes the view of your soft, cloth covered mound.

He nips at the back of your ankles and calves, licks down the expanse of your thighs, ans nuzzles into the gusset of your panties. Simon relishes in the squeaks and gasps ans twitches of your expectant body. It's been so long since he's teased someone, much less a sweet lil' thing like you.

Your scent is heady, comforting, nothing like he's experienced before. He finds he really likes just inhaling you in. You whimper, thighs shaking already. He hasn't even licked you yet. Simon finally admits to himself that you're stroking his ego.

He plants a firm, sweet kiss to your cloth covered cunt. The fabric is practically soaked through. He can smell your taste on the tips of his lips. His curiosity wins. He takes a firm, long lick from bottom to top. Simon tastes you, but also the flowery tang of your favorite fabric softener. You taste good. He wants more.

Simon finally releases his hold on your thighs. On instinct, or perhaps strain, they fall apart. You try to sit up but he tugs your body further towards the edge of the bed. He can feel the tension in his old knees from kneeling, but he ignores it. You've opened up your body to him. He wants to take full advantage of it.

Simon goes back to lapping at your clothed cunt. He doesn't stop until his tongue is raw from brushing repeatedly over the stitches. Drool drips down his chin.

"Off."

You huff in confusion, trying to sit up. Instead. With too easy of a tug, off come your panties. There you are. Simon knows he should slow his movements but he doesn't care. You haven't stopped him yet, and he'll be damned if he doesn't get those sweet lips in his mouth. He spreads you apart with his middle and forefinger. You're a sight to behold. Perhaps not pornstar perfect anatomy, but you're delicious looking nonetheless. He eyes your glistening, dripping slit. As bad as he wants to force his tomgue deep inside you, instead he presses a firm kiss to the hood of your clit. You jolt, trying to back away or pull him closer, he can't tell.

Simon follows your movement. He mouths hungrily at your clit, flattens his tongue and practically drools against it. He laps at you with a muted fervor. He doesn't want to hurt you. He can tell you're sensitive. It must've been awhile since the last time you'd had a man willingly do this for you. A damn shame.

Your shaky little moans are like music to Simon's ears. He follows them like a map. He circles your clit, traces the entrance of your hood, even dips lower to tease the sides of your inner lips. You seem to like that alot based on the sounds you make. He sucks on your inner wings and you squeal, thighs wrapping hard around the sides of his head. He does it again and and again until you're hiccuping in delight. Your slick drips down his chin and throat. You're such a good girl for him.

Simon knows he's going to make you cum, it's just a matter of time and technique. He has both on his side. He uses his other hand to pet at your entrance. He tries to commit your anatomy to memory, and so he takes his time dipping the pads of his fingers against your fluttering slit. Despite it obviously having been awhile, your cunt holds no resistance. In fact, it practically swallows up the tip of his middle finger. Fuck yeah, that's what he likes to see.

With measured ease, Simon slips his whole finger inwards and upwards inside of you. You keen and gasp and he can feel your insides twitching. You're tight. So tight he can feel his finger already starting to cramp up from the resistance.

If he's going to fuck you right he's still got some work to do.

[3amfanfiction]

You and Simon are walking home when something frightening happens. One thing about being in a relationship with him, you just KNOW he would be hauling you around like a sack of flour if something dangerous happened.

Cw: ptsd

It’s been a good day. Simon is home from deployment, the sun has just set and the weather is clear.

You’ve been out running errands with him for most of the day. Your partner’s been home for a week and this is the first time either of you have left the house. You miss him badly when he’s away but you’d give anything for days like today.

You’re walking down the sidewalk, hands tangled together as Simon carries the shoulder bag of groceries on his other side. The quiet evening is peaceful, storefront lights beginning to click on as the day winds down.

You’re not sure exactly what happened. One moment you’re chattering at Simon, telling him about the new recipe you were going to try out tonight and the next you’re being forced against the building, Simon’s hand pressing your head towards your chest while he slams his body into yours, covering as much of you with himself as possible.

You gasp in a stunned breath once your lungs stop seizing before your ears recognize the reverberating boom in the air. You watch with wide eyes as the bag Simon had just been holding spills groceries onto the sidewalk, cans and jars rolling away from the spilled bag.

You yelp as he pulls you away from the wall and half picks you up while keeping you tucked into his chest. He moves quickly into the alleyway you had just passed, keeping himself between you and the street. You shuffle your feet trying to keep up as he bodily drags you.

Si-Simon you gasp breathlessly in shock. What are you doing? But there’s no response. You look up into his face only for your heart to stutter in your chest. You’ve never seen that look on his face before. Two more booms shake the air before there is a faint crackle.

His eyes are steely above his mask. He doesn’t wear his balaclava when he’s home, but dons a blank, black face mask when you need to leave the house. You never thought you’d be scared of him but if he looked at you with that face you would freeze up in a heartbeat.

You realize what’s going on as a red glow lights up the alleyway before fading back into darkness.

Simon, it’s okay. We’re okay. It was a firework, baby. We’re safe. You’re home with me. Nothing. His gaze is jumping to every shadow, still sheltering you between his body and the wall.

You raise your arm to try and cup his cheek, attempting to bring him back to you but he rips his face away with a snarled stay down before shuffling you further into the alleyway.

His grip on you is tight as he shoves you into a deep doorway, wedging himself in after. You can feel his heart pounding from where your face is pressed against his chest, his other hand still holding the back of your head, pressing you against him.

You try again. Simon. Simon you’re home. You’re here with me and it was a firework. Some idiot has gone and started setting them off. There’s probably going to be another boom here in a minute and then you’ll be able to see it in the sky.

Like the universe is listening, there is another explosion right then with a trailing shower of lights afterwards. It casts enough of a glow for you to see his eyes again. They’re panicked and darting every which way trying to see where the danger is coming from.

You decide to wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze as hard as you can, hoping the pressure would help bring him back. You start talking, not giving a chance for silence to fill the space.

We were walking home from the grocery store. We were going to make that new pasta dish I was telling you about for dinner. I had just asked you about stopping in at that new tea shop on our way. You know the one, on the corner of 4th? They have a jasmine tea I’m really interested in trying. And I saw on their website they have a chocolate croissant too. I know how much you love them.

On and on and on. Narrating what you’d done that day, what you were going to do when you got home. The newest show you and him were watching together, how you had trimmed his hair for him yesterday, anything you could think of.

Finally, after what felt like years, his hold on you begins to loosen and his body begins to shake slightly with the adrenaline crash. The periodic booms making him clench back up each time.

After every explosion you made sure to reiterate, that was a blue firework. It looked almost like a weeping willow tree. You know the one . . . trying to bring him into the present and keep him there.

Eventually he stands up straight and you’re able to look him in the eye. He seems almost ashamed of what just happened. It’s okay baby. Let’s go get our bag of food and then we’ll go home. I’m thinking we order takeout and then cuddle for the rest of the night, how does that sound?

He nods his head before pressing a hard kiss to your forehead through his mask, apology or thanks you’re not sure. You make your way out to the street together, Simon insisting on staying bodily between you and the street still, head on a swivel with every movement that catches his eye.

By the time you get home he’s well and truly crashing. Slight shaking accompanying his movements, eyes beginning to go unfocused. The rest of the evening ensuring some part of you was touching him at every moment.

Next || Story Repository

[princessdimondheart]

Y/N: Simon?

Ghost: Yes, love?

Y/N: Can you come here for a second?

Ghost: yeah *goes to where Y/N is standing*

Y/N: sit on the couch *nudges him*

Ghost: *sits, confused* what is it?

Y/N: *places hands behind his neck and pulls his head closer* just come here

Y/N: *proceeds to shove Simon’s face into her well endowed bosom.*

Ghost: ?? Ghost: *muffled* ummm, ‘hat’s the poin’ of thiss luv?

Y/N: ssssshhhhhhh

Ghost: hah?? *tries to pull away*

Y/N: *shoves his face deeper into her boobs*

Y/N: sssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh

Ghost: ….. *mentally: okaayyy* *gives up and relaxes*

Ghost: *tightens his arms around Y/N* *cuddles his face further in her breasts*

Ghost: *slides his hands down* *squeezes her ass with both hands* mmmmhh

Masterlist

[omegapropaganda]

[ceilidho]

Okay but ghost who is turned on by the size difference between you two. Ghost who notices one day that maybe your forearm and his dick are about equal lengths and thickness. Now he can’t stop imagining the bulge it would create in your tummy when he fucks you slow and deep. Ghost, who is guilty of manspreading whenever you walk into the room and lives for the blush that paints your cheeks as you notice his size, and he can’t help but puff his chest up with pride. Omg or ghost who remains unbeatable when you two spar, pinning you down on the mats so easily it’s laughable, pushing his pelvis into yours as one hand holds both your wrists above your head and he is absolutely living for the doe eyed look you give him from underneath. Just giving you my ghost brainrot of the hour lmao

His brain short-circuits when his whole hand easily fits around your wrist. He stops you from grabbing something and something thrums through him at the difference in size, but it digs in when he notices how wide your eyes go. Just staring down at his gloved hand on your wrist.

It's even worse if Ghost notices how much his fingers overlap around your ankle when he's pulling you back down the bed when you try to crawl away. He loves the way your breath hitches when your fingers barely touch after wrapping around his cock. When his boots frame your feet when he's fucking you from behind, it makes his blood pressure spike to see the two side by side.

He always makes you sit down first whenever you go out for a drink or stop at a diner for food. That way he's the first thing anyone sees before their eyes fall on you, and they never get too interested if they register the sheer size of him first. Their eyes sort of glance off you after that.

[adrianlikesdinos]

my favorite category of ship: taking characters from a stereotypically originally predominantly male fanbase and puting them in a tender loving domestic queer relationship

[vicariousresearcher]

concept: hybrid needing a knot during their heat but none of the 141 has one...........they learn that two dicks is a good replacement

cw: heat, hybrid!reader, afab reader, double pen, underwear stealing, degradation, dub-con ish not really.

Canine hybrid! Reader who's been a bitch lately.

Mouthing off, flashing teeth, scrapping your claws at the leather collar banded over your throat, snarling like the feral animal you were when you first came to them.

Just being an absolute hellion to be around. 

The team think it ends there though. Just some mood swings and being territorial. You’ll get over whatevers bothering you.

You however were keenly aware of the changes going through your body; the restlessness that itched in your muscles, the almost overstimulating nature of even the most basic things, the more primitive part of your brain lighting up.

And of course the slick between your thighs. Having to change your panties in the morning because you’d soaked them through. And that's of course just throughout the nights. Days are worse. Spending all that time with the team, your body trying its hardest to convince you that the friendly pat on your shoulder was, in fact, not platonic.

And it's just getting worse the longer you ignore it. Accumulating in you locking yourself in your room after you were dumb enough to spar with Soap. All chidding comments and tangled limbs.

Getting tossed and restrained. Snapping teeth only to get a tug on your ear. Your face getting slammed into the mat and a goading ‘all that attitude and this is all you can do?’

Completely ignorant to the heat simmering under your skin and the patch of fabric between your legs where you’d soaked through to your pants.

……..

You practically ran away with your tail between your legs. Pissy and annoyed. Gaz saw the glare in your eyes as you walked past him in the hallway, recalling how Soap said the way to get you out of your funk was to beat it out of you because of course Soap thought that would work.

Didn’t take long for him to find the Scot and prod for some answers to what exactly he did. Rubbing some brain cells together they decided maybe a better solution was to be nice. Ask you to come watch a movie with em in the common room as an apology.

…….

They should’ve knocked, both decided silently. Assumed that you were in your room fuming and pacing like a caged lion.

What they didn’t expect to see was this.

Their dignified teammate, their hybrid, like this.

Lights off, straddling a pillow, bare from the waist down. Pitiful mewls muffled by the bunched-up fabric in your hand. Pressing it over your mouth and nose. Sticky noises from how fervently rode the slick soaked pillow. Choking when the seam caught over your clit.

All it took was one too thick swallow and your flattened ears perked up. Eyes snapping to the doorway. 

Took all of five seconds for you to retreat into the corner of your bed. A death grip on the pillow between your legs to maintain a semblance of dignity. The sneer on your face a perfect picture of humiliation and anger.

“This is why you ran off so quick?” Gaz said with a chuckle, breaking the silence. Pity creasing his brows as he connected the reason to your sudden change in behaviour.

He’s the one that moved first, leaving Soap at the door who was currently rebooting as he saw that the fabric in your hand was his boxers.

Took the time to adjust the chubbing in his pants before kicking the door shut. 

Pillows fluffed and padded around the bed like some sort of nest. Blankets-no-clothes strewn about. Ghosts hoodie here, Gaz’s track pants there. The shirt you wore having ‘Price’ on the breast. Just proving you’d been suffering like this for a while. Long enough to collect all this.

Your ears pinned back at their approach. Growl failing. Too high pitched, a needy whine.

The mattress sinks when Gaz places a knee on it. Up close he can see how dilated your pupils are. Feel the feverish heat your skin is emitting. One look and he knows you’ve gone nonverbal like how you do during stress on the field.

“Jesus, you had Price worried. Thought something was actually wrong with how you’ve been actin’.” 

Gaz says with a half smile. Like this was fucking funny or something-

As if seeing the impending snarl he closes in. Calloused hand smoothing over the side of your head, scratching the base of your ear affectionately. Voice sweet enough for the condescension to be drowned out.

“Shhh, you’re okay. It’s okay, pup. We’ll help.” 

Gaz’s smell is almost paralyzing. Dizzying in a way that makes you want to crack open his rib cage and live in his skin. You don’t even notice how your legs have been coaxed apart from the death grip you had on the pillow. 

Then Soap is up to your side, eyes locked down on the mess between your legs. Clit raw and puffy from your attempts at relief. Saliva building up in his mouth in anticipation of getting his face shoved between those thighs. Would you cry? Squirm? Pull his hair and ride his face?

Gaz’s patronizing voice in your ear stealing your attention long enough for Soap's fingers to ghost along your folds. A whine bubbles out of your throat when you flinch back. 

“Fuckin’ jumpy mutt.”

The look the two of them share is lost on you as you get manhandled. Soap wedges his hands under your ass and drags you forward so Gaz can slip in behind you. Your spine going rigid against Gaz’s chest as he flattens you against him, hooking his legs under yours and propping you open.

Long fingers clenched over your jaw, Gaz dragging your attention back to him. The look of uncertainty yet desperation on your face was enough to make him laugh.

“What? You don’t want him to touch you no more? You sit in here huffing his boxers like a dirty mutt but now that you have the real thing you shy away? Come on pup…” 

He kept his hold on your jaw while the other snakes around to hitch up your shirt's hem, letting Soap work without hindrance. Forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 

Soap doesn’t even have to work his fingers into you. Slick dripping onto the bed. Two sliding in so easily.  

“How often have you been like this hm? Is this why you disappear throughout the day? To get off?”

Three had your thighs jolting, straining over Gaz’s thighs. 

“Bitch in heat huh?” Soap says as he breaks his focus on your cunt to look at you. Neck arched back so your head can rest on Gaz’s shoulder. Lips parted to let out pathetic whines and whimpers. Gaz’s hand going under the hoodie to paw at your chest like he’s been wanting to since he set eyes on the obedient little hybrid who’d rip out throats at his suggestion. 

Four has your pussy squelching and wetness pooling into Soaps palm. A groan falling from his mouth at the sight. Freehand unclipping his belt.

“Stealing our stuff too? Hell, you even got some of Prices shit in here, you want to fuck him too? I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear bout that.”

The way your gaze slid down to him, humiliated yet so turned on made his grin widen. Cock straining against the seam of his pants.

“Doesn’t need any more prep.” Soap addressed Gaz from over your shoulder, pulling his fingers out of you. Showing off the excessive wetness in the low light, a shit eating grin on his face. “Mutt took care of that already.”

They just moved you like some doll. Soap taking you off of Gaz and setting you on top to straddle his hips while Gaz worked at his own pants. His hand presses down on your shoulder blades to see your spine arch all proper while he settles in behind.

Their obedient pet, kneeling on all fours, back bent and ass raised. 

Fluffy tail wagging as Soap hitched up the shirt so he could grope at her tits. Swollen and sensitive and needing a pup to latch onto them. 

The sound that came out of you when he took your nipple was pornographic. Shrill and needy, no semblance of the respectable hybrid of the 141.

Gaz was the first to push in. Gummy heat overwhelming, like nothing he’d ever felt. Not an ounce of friction.

“Hybrids can’t get pregnant from humans right?” Gaz asked, pulling out till just the tip was in. Head swimming. He only earned a bark of laughter from Soap.

“One pump chump huh?”

“Fuck off you haven’t been in her yet-“ 

You flattening your ass against his hips cut off the conversation. The feeling of him bottoming out finally scratching that itch that’s been building under your skin for days. 

Gaz tries to say something bout you being a “greedy mutt” but you just keep moving. Chasing that tightening feeling in your stomach. Slapping back hard against his hips so he can reach as deep as possible. 

Only for him to pull out when your bounces got more frantic. A growl builds in your throat, ears pinned back when you whipped your head around. 

“Was wondering where that attitude went,” Soap smirked, notching his fat cockhead against your entrance. 

They just kept on with this. Taking turns plunging into your pussy because neither of them are willing to stick their dicks between your teeth or risk the potential freak out with your ass. A silent competition to see who’ll cum first.

As soon as they’d feel that heat build up in their stomach they’d pull out only for the other to lodge in. Never leaving you empty for a second 

Drool dripped onto Soap's collarbone, Gaz’s fingers lodged between your teeth to keep you from latching onto Soap's neck and marking him. They weren’t stupid enough to enable that at least. Price would have their heads.

Not that you cared. Brain fuzzy as the restlessness you'd been dealing with for days got dealt with. Gaz’s position lets his batter against your cervix while Soap's dick curves perfectly so that his shallower movements let him grind against your g-spot.

All growls thinned out into whines as they both jeered and jabbed at you and each other. Gaz thumbing over your rim, Soap rough fingers meanly pinching at your puffy clit. Their stupid little hybrid who only took a couple hard thrusts and friction to cum.

Yet that wasn’t enough. You needed more to be satisfied. To be filled. Fulfill the animalistic purpose to be pinned down and bred.

Didn’t take long for either of them to get to the end of their ropes. Slowly pushing themselves into overstimulation from the repeated edging, pulling out just as they felt their balls tighten only to have to let the other shove past to get inside of you.

Blubbering came from you, attempts of begging. More you needed more. More of them. Needed to be stuffed full. Claws digging into Soaps shoulders to create bloody crescents. Crying out when Gaz slipped in too early. Bullying in to force you to fit them both. Stretch bordering on painful, eyes rolling back in your head. Coil snapping at the feeling of what your body can only understand to be being knotted.

Your clenching walls force them both still beyond small, deep thrusts. Between you and the feeling of grinding against Soap's veins send Gaz over the edge first. Your cunt fluttering as if milking all of his load. Rapid enough to finish off Soap. 

Fucked dumb was the best word for you at this point. Overstimulating from the feeling of being stretched by two dicks, the smell of both of their sweat gives you a heady feeling. A lingering taste of copper in your mouth from breaking through Gaz’s skin.

They let you collapse into your nest once pulling out. Shaking thighs and a tear-streaked face. Soap scoops up a fingerful of his and Gaz’s cum and pushes it back into your quivering pussy.

Your whine earning mean laughs. Tail thumping against the pillows. Ready for round two. 

……

Later a video is sent into the group chat with a text underneath saying ‘teaching the dog new tricks.’

[karlachismylife]

So, we all know Simon is covered in freckles, beautiful constellations blooming on his pale skin, nature marking the perfect paths for kisses along his collarbones, down the dip of his spine, scattered on his arms.

And his face, of course, little spots on his nose and cheeks, sneaky ones all the way up to his eyes. Hidden from everyone, full attire, a mask and smear black providing cover for the shy stars, like clouds do on windy, humid autumn nights. Cold and detached wrap to keep this weird sign of life on a living dead body from overly curious eyes.

But not from his Captain. Price knows these freckles, he's seen them young and bright, he's seen them dull and almost invisible on a half translucent skin.

He's seen them disappear, long, cruel winter and the mask almost grown into Ghost's skull wiping everything besides uneven scars and black ingrained into his skin. He's seen the summer taken out of his boy, replaced with the dead sleep of the winter, white and icy like Simon's eyelashes.

And, frankly, he won't have that.

If there's not enough sun for those little specks of life to shine, be it London fog half of the year or excruciating cold of the northern polar night they're stuck in on an op, Captain Price is giving his Lieutenant a personal sunshine. One that will melt polar caps if you let it shine in full brightness, hot, unpredictable in its flares, relentlessly glowing and cutting it's radiation through any barier.

Deadly as a burning globe of gas can be. Sergeant MacTavish.

Johnny doesn't have a problem with disregarding laws of physics. If this sole, dark, barren planet of ice refuses to circle him like everyone else does, Soap flips all those heliocentric theories over and instead makes a satellite to Ghost out of himself. Simon's joints stop aching when the shared space heats up, air few degrees away from rippling around Soap's broad form like it's boiling overhead a fire pit. His breath appears visible again, contrast to the almost non-existent fog that was leaking out of his mouth, making everyone who knew (not many of them) wonder, if Simon Riley actually ever left his grave.

One day, Simon's knuckles turn white and hurt. One day, Simon's frosty lashes flutter and not a single cloud of steam exits his mouth. One day, he feels frozen in place despite being basked in molten sunlight of Johnny's gaze, because Sergeant's restless hands found a makeup pen and are swiftly covering Simon's flushed cheeks in freckles.

Crowded constellations, all little sister stars from the MacTavish clan, clinging to Simon in semi-permanent kisses.

Price walks in on them, Simon sitting with his hands clenched tight and his breath held, Johnny with his tongue stuck between his front teeth as he keeps bringing spring out of its long dormant state on Simon's once again alive face.

Just like a sun should. Just like Captain Price expected.

[fishsinsareacknowledged]

Sometimes Nikto feels like he's underwater. Unable to breathe, unable to think. Just wanting to survive, drowned out by the waves.  His eyes sting from his own lack of sleep and his lungs feel rotten from the inside. But then there's you. Slowly, surely. You make him feel less like he's in the abyss of the ocean and more like he's in a bathtub. Getting his back scratched by your hands and sponge feels something just short of heaven.

You weren't the sun no, you were just his dingy bathroom light, the same one that he's had for years. Reliable, nothing could go wrong with you, it was just the way you were made. So he wont blame you when you shy away from him when he comes in uninvited. He wont blame you when you nearly kill him when he tries to sneak his way back into your arms after a long mission.

He just cant blame you when you accidentally spend over 50 with his card. He can't even when you try to brush it off, sneaking an american 50 next to his foreign cash collection. He simply can't blame you when you slice his hand, he did try to sneak up on a person living alone in his few months absense.

"It's me, its me", he tries to usher when your breathing grows faster. His chest squeezed when you wrap your arms around him. Fear and guilt shed into tears that he wipes away with a bleeding palm.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry."

"Not your mistake, come to bed with me?", he'll never blame you. He just can't.

He'll just laugh when you spill the alchohol all over his palm, kissing up to your neck when he drowns his pain away. Patting your hair with a clean hand while he lets you take care of him. He only has one of you, he can't lose that.

[lovelovelovelovelove987654321]

Sacrificial Dove

A/N: Hey! Hope you guys like this one! I have actually no idea what to write so asks would be deeply appreciated.

Content warnings: Some mildly graphic gore at in the last paragraph.

He should have worshipped you sooner.

He beats himself up every single day about it. He should have been kneeling in front of you from day one, because the signs of your strength had always been there, he just hadnt wanted to see them.

Instead, he saw weakness. He saw flaws. He saw someone too emotional, too sensitive, too indecisive to be in the 141. He didnt understand how you'd made it in. Sure, you did okay in training sessions. You were a decent shot, he could give you that. And, okay, you had an okay memory. Could rattle off facts about weapons like it was the end of days. Yeah, fine, you could admit that you had occasionally surprised everyone by suggesting a maneuver that none of them had thought of. Fine.

But anyone could memorize facts. How could someone who cried when they spilled their coffee be any good on the battlefield? For Gods sake, you had a 'good luck teddy bear' on your keychain! Someone like that would simply not be capable of shooting enemies point blank. No sir.

So when the next mission rolled around, Ghost wanted to protest. But that wasnt his way. So he glowered and went along with the stupid fucking idea of bringing you along. You would die, he was sure.

He moved away from you once they had touched down. He was absolutely positive that he would see your corpse once he circled back around. He did his thing, killed his targets, did what he was supposed to. As he neared your position, he heard rapid gunfire. Not at all unusual, given their line of work.

Your funeral would have a closed casket, he thought with some satisfaction. You had been too pretty. It would be good to see you dead.

But as he peeked around the corner all the air left his lungs. There you were, angel of death. Ghost had never believed in heaven, never, but this had to be damn near paradise.

You were coated in blood. Soaked. Dripping. You were holding a machine gun and utterly annihilating anyone who came near you.

When it was over and done, you wiped a hand across your blood slicked face and smiled at him. Smiled. And you had blood staining your teeth and your lashes were crimson and-

Ghost wondered how you would look with his blood covering you. He could be your sacrificial dove, if you would let him.

Thank you was Ghost's last thought 2 years later when you had betrayed the team. You had him chained up in a cement room, drains inlaid across the floor. 'They tortured the others' you'd whispered in his ear, 'But I wanted you to myself'. You'd kept his mask on, a small kindness or a huge tragedy, depending on how you looked at it. Ghost tended towards the latter.

You'd slit his throat with an approving smile, watched the life leave his eyes almost fondly, his blood trickling down your cheeks like tears.

[yawnderu]

CW: mentions of kidnapping and stolen body autonomy.

Find a way in, kill the enemy, retrieve the hostages, leave. A routine of sorts that gave his life some sense of purpose to avoid going insane for the past two decades. Simon liked to believe he got over what happened in his past... truly, he did; and yet Manuel Roba’s horrors seem to haunt him no matter where how many years pass.

“C’mere.” Simon’s voice held no hostility, he made sure of it, yet your stiff position never changed. Legs angled to the right, hands folded on your lap, and eyes looking forward, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze even if it’s been hours since your rescue. Garrick, Price and Johnny have already tried to get you to talk multiple times, all of them with different approaches. 

Garrick was friendly, trying his best to seem approachable, a bright smile on his lips that you didn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at a wall no matter how much he tried to hold a conversation.

Price seemed fatherly, never once laying a hand on you even if it was itching to comfort you, and so he settled with telling you you’re safe now, how no one will ever get you again now that they're here. His words didn’t seem to do much, either. 

Johnny was… something else. His first attempt was a shitty pick up line, getting a reaction out of you for the first time— a nose scrunched up in disgust, but a reaction nonetheless.  

And Simon… Simon’s approach was different. The man was used to barking out orders and obeying them himself, not to deal with an unresponsive hostage. His behemoth frame was nestled next to you, putting a tray on the table and observing your reactions. From the way you swallowed thickly the moment the meal was presented to you, to the sound of your stomach growling. 

“Go on, then.” Your gaze follows his movements for the first time, the feeling of your stomach rumbling makes you more aware of your hunger, so many years being fed nothing but what was necessary to keep you alive by Manuel and his associates, so many years of being trained like a dog to obey to their very order. 

Simon can see the hesitation in your body language, too tense to allow yourself to dig in the way you wanted, yet no longer as stiff as before. There was a sense of relief at the fact that they didn’t seem to want to hurt you —unlike Roba—, yet years of non-stop brutal training can’t be erased within hours.

Roba’s training was engraved into your brain, and while the sense of security the SAS blokes gave you is something you’re thankful for, nothing guarantees they’re not working for him. You’ve seen other military men come and go throughout the years, always Roba’s friends, and always sharing the same disgusting, sadistic desires.

“Eat up.” The rest of the men watch the way you move, curiosity and amusement mixing at how strange your movements seem, almost robotic. Your forearms rest on the table, elbows away from the cheap wood as you attempt to hold your own cutlery— attempt, because it looks fully foreign to you, trying out different angles to make it work, and yet it's the first time in years you've been allowed to try and feed yourself.

Simon is the first one to catch on, having lived under Roba’s rules for long enough to know he enjoys taking people’s autonomy, to reduce them to nothing but a pathetic mess that depends on him. His gloved fingers are gentle as he takes the spoon from your hand, scooping up some food before holding it up to your lips. His full attention is on you, relief starting to make its way into his body as sees your rather soft lips wrap around the spoon, eating whatever he was feeding you. Lucky for you, this time it wasn’t an MRE… or beans on toast.

His gloved thumb wipes the corners of your lips every time you’re done chewing, and he’s quick to pick up more food from the plate, nothing but patience and kindness shown in his actions, so unlike the brooding soldier he's known to be.

“... two goldfish are in a tank…?” Johnny’s loud groan gets your attention for a second, yet you quickly glance back at Simon, curious eyes looking up at him, almost as if asking him to go on. 

“One turns to the other and says… ‘you know how to drive this thing?’” You can see the corners of his eyes crinkle before he even finishes his joke, clearly trying his best not to laugh at just how awful it was. A small smile hides in the corners of your lips, and Simon takes that as a victory, ignoring the questioning looks he’s getting from his team, for now.

[poorlywoventhread]

Sighing Y/N dug out a lighter from their pocket. To keep their hands occupied, realising the flame, then quenching it.

Y/N: "Want?"

Ghost responded by pulling out a cigarette tucked away within the folds of his clothing..

Ghost: You dont even smoke. Why do you carry that thing around?

Y/N: You know me. running around. Living life. Committing arson.

[wordstome]

SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED A BIG TALL GUY WHO GOES “!!! 😳” WHEN YOU FLIRT WITH HIM OKAY. SORRY FOR HAVING GOOD TASTE!!!!!!

[shadow4-1]

I'm imagining getting injured in battle and Ghost having to decide to leave you (and perhaps live) or stay (and you both die).

But you scream at him and tell him to leave. Sob and curse and tell him he needs to keep going. He's been your friend for so long-

"Oh, who m' I kidding." You hiccup out, pull yourself close to his chest. You snuffle into his neck and allow yourself a last moment of peace.

"I love you Ghost. I'll always love you."

You peck a quick kiss to the front of his mask before pushing him away. He's in shock, but he knows what he must do. He finally leaves, your phantom kiss sits heavy on the front of his face.

(There was no real danger to begin with. You both just decided to be a bit dramatic.)