#scottish! reader

[elliesmainhoe]

ellie would go crazy with the typical british accent mocking bruh

like if u were making breakfast, every morning she would hit you with a “tea and crumpets love” and ur just like 😐

she would also tell all her friends ur “bri-ish”

and if u was scottish she wouldn’t be able to mock you cus half the time she doesn’t know what ur saying (i’m scottish pls don’t come for me)

no she 100% does.

with an English partner, she is unbearable.

she's one of those Americans that constantly talks about the Boston tea party for fuck know why?

loves flexing that her partner has a swanky accent and when she gets drunk imitates a wobbly eng accent and starts yelling about 'puttin' the kettle on for a cuppa and a crumpet"

also thinks a crumpet is bread for some reason (I've seen a lot of Americans say that) when it's just. not. don't get me STARTED on scones.

If you're Scottish? just how did you manage to get Ellie to date you- she doesn't understand a word your saying /jk.

Scottish accents are actually quite easy to understand once you've been around them for a bit, so I think that there wouldn't be much trouble.

But when your angry? and the accent comes out in full force. she's shitting bricks. an angry Scottish accent is terrifying, because the dialect is ineligible and the pure passion is blood curdling on its own.

when she first meets you, unironically asks if you can play the bagpipes... she's a little stupid but she's hot so it makes up for it <3

..... might write some Headcanons on this.

[myosotisa]

the 141's reactions to you shaving/waxing your bush

Price: doesn't really mind either way. whatever makes you more comfortable, love. a grown man can handle whatever you have down there in terms of hair or not.

Gaz: is surprised. makes sure to let you know that if you shaved/waxed because you thought he would like it more, it wasn't necessary. but if you did it for yourself, then that's cool too. just wanted to make sure, babe.

Ghost: doesn't react at all. and if you press him for a reaction/ask him what he thinks, he says something about the table dressings not being as important as the meal. cunt is cunt and dick is dick, and brother he's here to eat, not talk.

Soap: 🫨 WHAT HAEVE YE DON TO EM?!?! 🥹🥹🥹 YER NAEKID AS A BAIRN, BONNIE. 😭😭😭 HOW COULD YE DO THIS TO MY SWEET LAD/LASS?????? 😭😭😭

[ohmygraves]

ghost who eloped with his spouse, who moved into a small house for about a month before he had to fly out on a missions outside of england. hell, the place was pretty bare and he couldn't even manage to put in some nice furniture before price told him to get his arse into a plane to russia for a five month long mission. didn't even get to enjoy some honeymoon before his job fucked him over.

safe to say, he hadn't established a routine at his new home yet ever since he moved out of his barracks room at the base. he was only at home for a little while, it only makes sense that he doesn't know where everything goes sometimes. and of course, he somehow misplaced himself.

at the end of the deployment, he was too tired to even care. his eyes were so heavy and tired that he made his way back to his old barracks room, kicking the door down and throwing his bags to the side (and scaring poor soap who was asleep on the bed, since of course he's the one who took ghost's old room back at the base).

his eyes met the scot, a little confused as to why he sees someone on his bed.

"whit the hell!? lt!? did the missus kick ye out?" soap groaned, scared shitless as he tries to calm his heart.

the question took him off guard, and he stood by the doorway quietly, just processing it.

"... i have a spouse."

"ye eedjit." soap shook his head, telling him to leave soon or else an angry spouse will buzz off his mohawk.

poor ghost, rushed out of the base in the middle of the night trying to get back home. he's got a lot of apologizing to do. hopefully his spouse was asleep and didn't realize that he practically drove twice over the speed limit and possibly ran over someone just to get to his spouse's arms.

[drgnflyteabox]

something to remember you by

pairing: soap x fem reader summary: your boyfriend wants some memorabilia of you to take on his deployments. only, he wants his superior officer to take the photos. w.c: 3.7k tags/warnings: dubcon, cucking, mild degradation, oral (m + f, rough), hair pulling, un-negotiated kink, dom!soap, clothed man naked reader, teasing scent kink (m + f), one (1) pussy slap, crying, squirting, unprotected sex, some anxiety, reassurance mid-fuck, overstimulation, some aftercare, abrupt but open ending, reader has some internal shame around sex/kink, reader doesn't rlly like her bf

At first, it’s nothing. Dirty talk, suggestive texts, passing comments while he’s on his second deployment with a hand around his cock and you pretending to be into it.

"Think about it, babe," he’s panting, but it’s less sexy when you can tell he’s deepening his voice on purpose like Christian Bale Batman. "Don’t you wanna give me something to remember you by? While I’m out here fighting for you?"

Corny. So fucking corny. Your feet are kicked up on your coffee table, fuzzy-socked, face schlopped with a cooling gel mask. Quarter past 8 o’clock, and he’s trying to sell you on letting one of his army buddies fuck you and take pictures of you. The absurdity makes you almost laugh.

"…babe?" Oh, shit.

"Yeah honey, I’m here." You’d kind of feel bad, if it weren’t for the ick factor. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him, he was fine, it was just that since he’d joined the army he’d inched closer and closer to picking up a mic and dictating which body counts were okay to women over podcasts. That, and he’s gotten hornier. Kinkier.

Which is fine, really. Only you don't consider yourself adventurous. Sex is like a chore, something to put you to sleep, to relax the muscles. Relationships are quid pro quo - I suck your dick, you make my parents think I’m succeeding in life, deal?

Not to mention, you've never even considered stepping outside of the idea that sex is between committed couples only, sequestered away and hidden in the closet like old clothes.

"So, are you picturing it?" Schlap schlap schlap. He must’ve added lotion. "You can say no obviously, ughnnn, but I know this guy really well. I'd, ahhh fuck, sit in the other room."

"Thanks for being so considerate," you sound dry, but you’re honestly intrigued. Life has been monotonous since graduation, the transition from study to office… rough.

You aren’t adventurous. But you’re so fucking bored.

"Can I see him first?" On the TV in front of you, muted, Matthew Macfayden confesses his love tearfully in the rain. You want to be bewitched, body and soul. To feel something.

"So you’ll do it? Oh, fuck-" Not what I said, you think. His voice goes high, reedy, trembling with his orgasm. "See how fucking hot this makes me? I’ll send a pic, give me a sec."

It’s a group photo. He’s dressed in his uniform, head shaved, standing next to a group of a dozen or so men. Outlined, at the far corner with a group of guys big enough to dwarf a good third of the rest, is a man with building biceps and a smarmy grin and a confident, wide-legged pose. Hips jutted out. Fuck, he’s hot. You can see his bulge through his pants, through the picture, under a heavy tac vest.

"Get in, get in!" the apartment is clean for once. At least, clean without you getting sick of his clutter and playing maid. Did he do it himself to impress his friend? That makes you snort, but he doesn’t catch it, too preoccupied with his phone.

"Um, woah-" you start, taken aback. It looks like a porn set. There’s a plastic sheet on the ground in front of the couch. "I thought this was supposed to be casual?"

"It is, babe," he’s brushing you off, same as he did the few days leading up to this. You’d gone through some minor confidence and judgment crises, anxiety building like a balloon about to pop. All of which he’d brushed off.

It’s all fun and games, babe. Plus he’s done this before, he’s like a pro, showed me some videos - that was something you hadn't agreed to, just some pictures for him to take on deployments.

Still, trepidation makes you sweat, makes your thighs stick to the brown leather couch when you sit and try to sip water. Your socks crinkle the sheet.

You don’t turn when he arrives, still too nervous, knees stuck together and hands slipping on the glass from condensation when they start talking behind you. There’s too many what ifs - all reasons you’d used to avoid hookups in college, all reasons you wanted to break through your shell now.

Plus, you’re sick of hearing "did you finish?"

"This must be her," says an accented voice, gruff and maybe amused, "ye feelin' shy?"

No. You’re just nervous. Exposed. One of the only conditions you'd pushed was no cuck chair, but now you weren't sure how to feel to be left alone with him soon. This man is so big, so imposing.

"Hi," you say smartly. He looks just like his photo, only bigger. Bulging muscles and the same wide stance when he comes to stand in front of you. It’s only because you can’t stand sitting face-to-face with his crotch that you stand and hold your hand out to shake.

"And polite!" Loud. He introduces himself as Johnny, which makes your boyfriend's eyebrows raise. "So cute." he takes the liberty of bypassing your hand and grabbing your waist.

Oh fuck, he runs hot. His hands burn, even through your shirt. You feel self-conscious, plain, looking up at his probing blue eyes. They’re so intense, captivating, distracting you from the feeling of him getting closer and closer, till your tits are pressed to his.

"Hey-"

The moment breaks. Your boyfriend is looking at you both, unreadable expression on his face. Is he regretting this? Feeling emasculated, maybe? Hard to feel much sympathy when you’re the one about to get fucked.

And it was his idea.

"I’m gonna go to the bedroom," his eyes squint, flitting between the both of you before he scurries away, pants tented.

"Now that that's outta the way," Johnny grunts. "C'mere." And sits down with a grunt, pulling you to him.

You try to pivot, to sit next to him, but he's strong and coordinated so you wind up in his lap, back touching the arm of the couch and your legs slung over his, bum on one thigh.

"That's more like it, no?" there's that wolfish grin again, so close. One hand rests on your knee, possessively, while the other wraps around your shoulders and plays with your shirt. "Why don't we introduce ourselves?"

The hand on your knee moves to your face, gripping your cheeks in a grip hard enough to push your lips out into an embarrassing pout. You struggle a little, pulling at his wrist, but he doesn't budge.

He pulls his phone out, aiming the camera at your face, recording a video through a text-app. You can that it's a groupchat, assured by your boyfriend before that it was totally private, babe. This is jut between us.

"Now say hello," he puts his stubbly cheek next to yours, rubbing like a cat. "And introduce yourself."

"H'llo," you struggle through it, muffled by his grip. Your name is almost unintelligible, and your jaw starts to ache a little.

"Say, can I please suck your cock, sir?"

Your stomach tightens, right down to your pussy, which gushes a little into your panties.

"Cn'I please suck your cock, sir?" he's so fucking forward, just jumping in headfirst. The loss of control, your being told what to do, makes your clit jump. Sex has never been like this - you've never been so acquiescing.

"Of course you can, bonnie!" you're almost tossed to the floor, no gentleness as he pulls you toward him by the hair so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. He scoots to the edge of the couch, leaning back against it, and uses that strong arm to rub your face on his bulge. "Get me hard."

He puts his phone on the arm of the couch.

You flounder, hands finding his knees and trying to pull back. He doesn't let you.

"Use your mouth, kiss me," his hand finds a firmer hold on your hair as you start mouthing against him, tasting denim, smelling his musk, letting it get to your head and make you dizzy. "That's right, kitten."

His cock starts to chub under his clothes, and you almost wish you could feel it in your mouth. Oral isn't your favourite, but the way your pussy clenches around nothing and drips into your panties is making you think maybe you were wrong about yourself.

"Up, up," your face is rubbed a little raw by the time you sit up, looking at him. Waiting for instruction. "Everything off, except your panties."

You obey, stripping your shirt and bra and then your shorts. Your nipples tighten in the cool air of the apartment, goosebumps dancing along your arms and your belly. Self-consciousness almost has you reaching to cover yourself, until Johnny grabs you by the shoulders and twists you just enough that you're back to facing his phone.

"Look at these," he grunts in your ear, fingers finding your nipples. Pulling them, pinching them. It's not for you, it's for the camera. You feel like an object, an accessory, secondary to getting the shot of the rough pads of his fingers teasing you into whimpers.

You've never been more turned on.

"Nice, eh?" he pulls them up and out, which hurts, but draws a line of pure electricity from your nipples to your clit. "Whatd'ye think, L.T?" the name doesn't register. Army stuff, you assume.

You're turned back around sharply again to face his actual cock. He's pulled it from his fly, thick and leaking, while you were getting undressed. It's unfair, really, nice and long and curved.

"Ask me again," a statement. A command, phone discarded.

"Please can I suck your cock, sir?" the words make your cheeks burn, your body quiver, your clit jump.

"Ye can," laughter this time, worsening your embarrassment. His hand finds your hair again, pulling you down when you're too slow to touch your lips to the head of his dick. "I'm gonnae fuck your face, alright?"

Without waiting, he lifts his hips up and thrust into your mouth. It's not as deep as it can go, but you almost gag, unprepared. The next thrust is deeper, quicker. He's letting you build up to it, letting your hands rest on his knees for balance.

Your nose touches his pubic hair, inhaling the scent of him. Any attempt at hollowing your cheeks, sucking, licking, is futile. He's so quick that the best you can do is hang on for the ride, keeping your teeth in check.

Drool builds and spills past your lips, making wet sounds compete with his frankly pornographic moaning. He's a man possessed, using you while you squeeze your eyes against overwhelmed tears.

Finally he yanks you off of him by the hair, holding you up while you splutter from the unexpected change. Your hands go to your face, trying to wipe.

"None o'that, now," he bats them away, giving you a shake when you keep trying. "Leave it." like you're a bad dog.

Strings of spit connect your swollen lips to his cock, thin and gooey, that fall to your bare chest when he sits up.

You're turned, stood up and then guided to the couch to sit. Johnny slaps your thighs to get you to open them, lifting your feet for you so that your heels rest on the edge of the couch cushions.

"Awe, look how wet she is," he holds your legs, exposing your wet panties to him and to his phone, where he takes a few pictures. Again, you wonder about the appeal of this for your boyfriend. It's hot for you. Degrading, but hot. Or maybe more hot because of the degradation.

"Oh god," you say out of shock. You've never been so fucking wet in your life, and god forbid he sees how swollen with arousal you are underneath.

"Naw, just me," Johnny says, rubbing his knuckles over your pussy through the fabric. "She all wet and frustrated?"

You don't answer, hands keeping you sat up, chest heaving. You're still a little dizzy.

Johnny licks over your panties, mouthing over them not unlike what you did for him only a few minutes before. It's nothing, really, but you're so worked up that it startles a long, drawn-out moan from you.

He continues like this, never actually making contact with where you need it, with your skin. Every one in a while he turns his head to the side and grins, taking a picture or a videoclip while you tip your head back and resist begging him to just get on with it.

His nose presses on your mound, where he drags it down to your hole and sniffs.

That's what breaks your resolve.

"Please," you whine. Your voice is rough from taking his cock in your throat.

"Please what?" he opens his mouth and puts his teeth on you, not biting, just letting you feel them. Gnawing gently.

"Please do it," you look down at him, and even though he's on his knees you know you aren't the one in control. "Please lick my cunt."

A laugh, mean and condescending. Your eyes close in shame, pussy burning for attention.

"This cunt right here?" he pulls the gusset aside, whistling. "This desperate little cunt?"

"Yes, please," you curl your toes into the couch.

Something shifts in his eyes, some unrecognizable flash. It feels like danger, like you're in over your head. Johnny takes two fingers and rubs them over your clit, slowly at first, and then quickly when he feels how slippery you are.

Somewhere, a volcano erupts and it isn't comparable to the heat or the feeling of your clit finally getting attention. It zings through you, making you squeeze your muscles, taught and trembling.

The pads of his fingers are a rough sensation on your swollen skin, the worlds best vibrator, ribbed for your pleasure. All he does is rub, up and down over your clit, quickly and until your face starts to scrunch together in orgasm, trembling hard.

Then he pulls back and slaps you so hard on your pussy you scream.

You almost come from it, shocked, legs kicking out, skin burning and clit pulsing with desperation, back bowing. You keep making sound after, a long and drawn out aaaaaahhhhh while he grins like the cat that got the cream. Takes another picture, the click of the camera loud in the face of your disappointment.

The intensity of it almost brings you to tears, looking at him with betrayal and vulnerability in your face. You feel weak all of a sudden, cored, devoured, pulled apart as soft as slow cooked meat.

Your panties fall back over your skin, a minor comfort against the sting.

"Poor girl," Johnny says with false sympathy. "Let me make it up to ye."

Then you're up again, pulled and pressed against Johnny's chest until he pulls your underwear down and rearranges you to sit on his lap over his spread legs, yours dangling on either side.

"Gonna bounce ye on my cock, alright?" you nod. "Sit on it."

You lift your hips, using his knees for balance, and he guides the head of his cock to your hole. Stops you from sitting back right away with a hand on your hip, squeezing the soft flesh there, and holding you there.

"They're kissing," he laughs. You feel it, your cunt mouthing at him like a conscious being, separate from you. "Ye think they want tae meet each other?"

"Can I?" you don't fight to keep the whine out of your voice. You want to come, you want this aching and this emptiness to end.

"Can ye what?"

"Sit on your cock, please."

"Well, since ye asked so nicely," and then he notches himself properly again, and forces you down with two hands on your waist. You shout, arching, head thrown back. "Bounce on it now, kitten. Show me how badly ye want to come."

And oh god, you do. You rock forward, shaking at the feeling of him, no technique to guide you just pure intuition, brain and cunt and body as one. Distantly, the sound of the camera registers, but it only makes you move faster.

He spreads your cheeks, exposing where you're connected, putting the camera close to the wet clench of your cunt around his cock and - oh, he's filming it. There's no click, just the wet sounds of you riding him.

"Thas'right," he murmurs lowly, maybe for show. "You wanna come?"

"Yes!" you lean back, then, sweat slicked back sticking to his shirt, forgetting where you are and why you're here. Everything narrows down to your pussy, but you feel compelled to keep your hands off your clit even though you know it would make you come quickly.

You want to listen to him, to wait for permission. The thought is searing heat through your core.

Fingers find your face, slipping into your mouth. Your lips wrap around them, sucking like you would've his cock.

His other hand lifts his phone in front of you both, snapping shots of your unfocused eyes, your tits pushed into the air, his smarmy expression. He hooks his fingers then into your cheek, pulling back like a fishhook.

"Good girl," his lips against your ear, stubble scratching the hot skin of your neck. "I'm gonna fuck you for real now, alright?"

You nod, desperately. He pushes you up and off of him, face down in the cushion. He's still clothed, for gods sake, jeans rubbing against the backs of your thighs when he drags your ass back toward him.

The mushroom head of his cock finds your cunt again, pushing in, driving you nuts. You're moaning helplessly, letting him take your boneless arms to hold them behind you.

He fucks you like a man possessed, in a short strokes, barely leaving the hot clutch of your pussy. The sounds, if they were bad before, are worse now, wet and humiliating.

Every thrust feels like he's slowly inflating a balloon inside you, like something pulling taut, like pressure about to burst.

"Fuck, wait!" you shout and turn your head. The pressure is insane, mixed up with a building orgasm, twined together. He hasn't even touched your clit, and yet you're on the precipice.

Johnny leans down, lips on your ear. He slows, but doesn't stop.

"What is it, bonnie?"

"I have to pee," you'd have mumbled it before, but the feeling is so strong you can't help but whimper and cry. "Please let me up."

"Ye aren't gonna pee," he laughs. "Trust me, just trust me." Then keeps pistoning into you.

You feel like jello, like mush, the only solid part of you is about to burst and somehow it makes you feel real anxiety, dampening your enjoyment.

"Johnny-" you whimper, emotion clogging your voice. You feel vulnerable, held down and bared.

In need of reassurance.

"You're alright," he leans back down and nuzzles your wet cheek. "Ye can let go, kitten, I've got ye."

You gasp, pulsing hard around him, the feeling back again, before you gush around his cock, a spray so intense you cry as it forces him out of you.

"Good. Fucking. Girl!" he slaps your ass once, twice, on both cheeks. Rubs your flank like a horse and then plunges back into you when you finish dripping down your legs.

This is purely selfish, him fucking you hard now, jackrabbiting his hips into yours. You hear the phone again, just barely, as your ears ring.

You're raw from coming without any touch to your clit, a weird limbo between being on-edge and oversensitive.

"Gonna give me another," he's growling now, getting impossibly faster. You actually really cry when he reaches around to twist your clit, thrashing under him, not sure if you want to leap off the couch or crawl right back into him. "Come for me!" he shouts, pulling up the hood of your clit to really get at you, rubbing rough circles around your beleaguered little nub.

The second orgasm melts your brain out of your ears, so long and drawn out that you're still shivering with the aftershocks as he pulls out of you and paints your back with his release.

You pant, arm one arm dangling over the edge of the couch while you the other covers your eyes.

Johnny rubs a hand on your thigh, light and gentle, patting your bum as he stands. You move your arm just enough to squint at him.

His jeans are soaked.

You laugh, uninhibited, delirious. He laughs with you.

"All you, darlin'!" he takes another shot of you, pulls your legs apart and takes a picture of your wet, sore hole.

"Is she good?" ah, your boyfriend. He has his own wet spot on the front of his pants.

"She's good," Johnny confirms. "Ye need to take care of her now, right?"

Something in his voice changes. A different kind of authority to the one he used on you, one reserved for soldiers. For men beneath him. At that thought, your pussy makes a valiant effort to clench.

"Yeah, yeah," you hear. Your boyfriend has his phone out, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "These are great man, thanks."

You start to sit up, still shaking, but not wanting to have him see you that way.

"Man, you weren't kidding!" he goes on. Johnny frowns and steps forward to clap him hard on the back and grab his nape.

"Run a bath, do it now. Ye got granola bars?"

"Uh, yeah. Hold on."

You're touched by his concern, and wind up soaking in warm bubbles after he leaves. You wonder about the photos, about what you look like. If your boyfriend is satisfied, if Johnny is.

If you were good.

Feels like you were, but somethings changed. Johnny found a soft spot knife-deep inside you and dug himself in, made you fly and made sure you were brought back to earth after, tenderized and then wrapped in comfort.

Beneath the water, you touch your pussy. Not to masturbate, just to feel the soft sore flesh, to remember the feeling of fullness.

Maybe, after his deployment, your boyfriend will want more pictures.

Fresh material.

Beneath the water, your finger curls into yourself and you sigh, satisfied.

[erwinsvow]

i keep thinking about soap and how he’s such a damsel in distress kinda guy and you just happen to be at some random bar at the same time as him—you’re a little too drunk to find your friends but sober enough to know that there’s a guy who won’t leave you alone, who keeps following you around. you finally end up smushed up near the counter trying to turn around so this guy can’t see you, desperately waving down the bartender because maybe he can help? when the stranger pulls up right behind you again.

lucky for you, soap is there. and he’s never seen you before but it takes him all of two seconds to realize you want to be left alone—or even further, that you’re scared. you’re all jittery, eyes big and concerned, trying to politely—why are you still being polite? he briefly thinks—tell some drunk asshole that you’re not interested. and then you lock eyes with him for a second. and well, you don’t have to ask, he just takes care of it for you. the guy is out and away within minutes, choking out an apology while soap bends his arm behind his back. and then soap turns to you, with such pretty eyes and such a pretty smile, saying something with a thick accent that you can barely understand in your hazy state—you hear the word bonnie in there somewhere.

and you think you just fell in love.

[charliemwrites]

The Scottish Cabin in the Woods - last update: 4/4/24

"Let's go camping," Soap said.

"It'll be fun," Soap said.

"A lot of fun," the psychopathic serial killer said.

You didn't say anything, you were too busy trying not to get kidnapped - and failing.

Content: Serial Killer AU, Dark Content, Kidnapping, Violence and Murder, (Mentions of) Torture, BDSM Elements and Dynamics, (Mild) Pet Play, Predator/Prey Kink, Dacryphilia, Impact Play (Spanking), Humiliation Kink, Dub-Con, One (1) Ableist Slur (and the guy ends up dying)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[stellewriites]

trans!soap who buys one of those dick molding kits and drops it in ghost’s lap, asks him to do it so he can have a braw cock to fuck his new girlfriend with.

“need something that’ll leave her weak-kneed, ya ken? an’ i know from personal experience that yers’ll do the job, lt.”

[konigsblog]

SCOTTISH WORDS AND PHRASES TO USE WHEN WRITING FOR SOAP MACTAVISH ☀️

i know i've made a couple of these posts before, but i'm going to go for less obvious ones. this is coming from a scottish person, if you're interested. :3 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

i saw a tiktok talking about this and i was surprised that some people don't use these words... (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) these are just some that come to the top of my head, although i might update it later. 💌

bolk/boke — can be used if something is so disgusting that it makes you feel sick, or gag. “that gives me the bolk.”

minging — i love using this word... minging is disgusting, it's something that is gross. “oh, that's minging.” if someone has done something is gross. you could use it if something smells bad or unpleasant.

belther — a blether is a chat. if you're having a blether, you're having a conversation.

chinwag — i'm not sure if other countries use this, but similar to a ‘blether’, a chinwag means to chat.

scran — i don't think this is just scottish, but if you're having a scran, you're eating.

mockit — mockit means dirty. for example, if someone's shoes are mockit then they're very dirty.

piece — a piece is a sandwich. a bacon piece, a chip piece, etc.

eejit — if someone is an eejit, they're an idiot.

greeting — most people would think greeting means to greet someone, but ‘greeting’ in scottish slang is crying. if a wain is greeting, they're sobbing.

wain — a wain means a child.

dreich — dreich is gloomy, dull, depressing. “a wet, dreich morning.”

tattie — a potato is a tattie. for example, mince and tatties would be mince and potatoes.

[killerpancakeburger]

Bluebeard's wife

SUMMARY: On a visit to your boyfriend, you end up having to deal with a creep on base, but Soap and Ghost's methods of resolving your problem are... far more drastic than yours.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader (and BFF!Ghost)

TAGS: Dark content, Badass!Reader, Established relationship, Dark! a bit yandere! Soap, Dark! a bit yandere! Ghost.

WARNINGS: Canon violence, blood mention, sexual harassment, insults. Soap and Ghost are acting creepy but not towards Reader.

WORDS COUNT: 1,1k words.

A/N: Was thinking about how high the risks of sexual assault are in the military for women + about how much the Task Force could get away with (Soap's mohawk is NOT standard issue lol), but it turned out kinda dark. Not my usual kind of content. This is my first time writting those characters, pls be indulgent.

Your elbow connects with the man’s nose with a satisfying crack.

Immediately he howls, pressing his broken nose with one hand, blood dripping between his fingers.

“FUCK! What the fuck! You broke my nose, you crazy bitch!”

This. This is why you didn’t want to meet the Task Force on base. There was always one brainless fucker who didn’t get the memo that, no, despite having breasts, you weren’t here as a comfort woman.

The private is glaring at you with a hatred as deep as it is sudden, one that screams murder.

The only good side of the situation is, with how loud he’s being, you won’t even need to call for help. Already most of the soldiers nearby are staring at you, muttering among themselves. Not that you can’t beat this guy up on your own, but the military tends to frown upon civilians roughing up their members, you learned it at your expense quite early. On the other hand, soldiers settling accounts between each other was… well, not exactly authorized, but it was way less trouble for you.

He grabs you by the collar, his rage only exacerbated by your composure. The action stains your clothing with his blood. You mentally grimace. You’re no stranger to blood, but the idea of this repulsive individual’s bodily fluids being anywhere on your person is disgusting. 

“Are you listening, you dumb bitch!? I’m gonna fucking kill-”

The venom-filled verbal onslaught stops dead as a hand takes hold of your assailant’s wrist.

“Now, now, at ease, soldier. Ya making a spectacle of yourself.”

The thickly accented voice of your boyfriend sends a wave of warmth in your chest. 

Your harasser hesitates a second too long, so Soap makes the decision for him, tightening his grasp until the soldier winces, and finally takes the hint, letting you go and taking a few steps backward. Johnny immediately positions himself between the two of you, shielding you.

He’s been smiling the whole time, but it’s the kind of dangerous smile you wear when you’re about to give an asshole a righteous beating.

The private looks partially sheepish, but not defeated, indignation burning in his eyes. He lets loose a torrent of justifications and excuses, actively painting you as the villain, not caring if he contradicts himself in the process. You don’t pay attention to the details of his speech. It’s always the same “she was asking for it” kind of diatribe. The fact that he sincerely believes that there’s a chance that Soap will take his side instead of yours is laughable, but not surprising. 

You wonder how long this will go on, until the private notices something next to you, and all blood seems to desert his face as his voice deserts his vocal cords. 

You turn your head and, to no surprise to you, Ghost is there. He stands so close to you that your arms are almost touching. Clothed entirely in black, which brings out the white skull on his mask, his presence is as menacing as ever; all he needs to do is scowl at lesser soldiers to make them cower in fear. He doesn’t look back at you, but his support for you is so obvious through the rest of his behavior that he doesn’t need to.

Soap takes advantage of the newfound silence to turn to you.

“Ya good, yeah?” He asks, cradling your cheek tenderly, and stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. 

The question is futile - if you were hurt, he would have noticed right away. But it’s still cute to see.

“Yeah. Not a scratch.” you smile.

“That’s my girl”, he smiles back. “So, what the bloody hell happened here?”

You glance at the private behind him. He’s shaking, and the look he sends you back is begging for mercy. Remembering the first words he addressed to you earlier, you realize you’re all out of mercy for today. Thus, with a sadistic little smile, you recount the events.

“This man came to me complaining that I was unfairly privileging Sergeant Mctavish and that he wanted his turn. Then when I explained that I wasn’t some kind of free-for-all buffet, he took it the wrong way and put his hands on me. That’s when I exploded his nose.”

By the time you finish your explanation, Soap’s expression has darkened considerably.

“I see.” is all that leaves his mouth. Anyone familiar with him would know that for him to start talking by monosyllables like Ghost, something must be very wrong.

Pivoting again, he faces the private and, as the latter opens his mouth to plead for forgiveness, punches him right in the face. Blood gushes, drops of it landing on his face. You mentally count until three, one for every blow, and when Soap still doesn’t stop punching, you frown, disturbed and worried by his conduct. He’s never been one to remain impassive in the face of injustice, easily riled-up even in critical situations and despite his superiors’ orders, but you’ve never seen him go this far. 

You’re about to intervene when Ghost beats you to it, putting a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. That’s right. Ghost, the voice of reason, the paragon of self-control, their cold-hearted leader, will fix everything.

However when you hear the next words that leave his mouth, it’s like the world tilted on its axis.

“Not out in the open, Johnny.”

The words are whispered low enough that only Soap and you would have heard. They send a cold shiver down your spine. Rattled and unsettled in a way that they never made you feel before, you contemplate the situation in silent incredulity.

“Aye, L.T.”, replies Soap with an abnormally monotonous tone.

Before you can ask what the fuck is happening, he proceeds to punch the soldier so hard in the stomach that the latter collapses without a sound, except for the muffled noise of someone winded. The scene makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You feel like Bluebeard's newest wife, having stumbled upon the one room you were forbidden from entering, having witnessed something you weren't supposed to see, and now you can never go back to how things were before.

You counted on Soap and Ghost’s intervention, sure, but you expected them to put an end to the fight, maybe intimidate the guy a little, and ultimately end things here. You didn’t expect… whatever this is.

Staring in shock at the two Special Forces, you shake your head to get a grip and come closer.

“Alright guys, I think he’s had enough-”

Ghost interrupts you with a hand on your shoulder. The Ghost touching two people in less than five minutes? Yes, something’s seriously wrong. Looking at him, you try to convey urgency with your gaze…

“Simon, this isn’t-” 

…but his next words make you lose hope of winning this argument.

“Easy there, love. Johnny’s takin’ care of it, ya don’t need to worry ‘bout a thing.”

The next thing you know, he presses a hand against your lower back, making you leave the premises, completely ignoring the way you stare at him in utter disbelief… and growing apprehension. 

He had never called you “love” before.

[ccrites]

chokehold

listen, I've had this idea in my wips for a while (since the begnining of the year actually) and the fat reader worms have been wiggling in third gear with all the awesome stuff early ( @391780 ) has been putting out lately. So have 6.4k words of Soap being an absolute pussy eating freak but you know you love him

(also on ao3 if you prefer the formatting there, or if you want to drop a kudo)

.

The second the doors swing back closed behind you, you start feeling the scratchy feeling of doubt at the back of your throat.

It was predictable, really.

A small gym in a small town, heads turn when the hinges creak, not because they’re staring at you specifically, but because it’s a reflex.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to keep the scratchy feeling from turning sour in your mouth. Or make you throw up from embarrassment.

Perhaps your New Year’s resolution should’ve been to start on a home gym type of situation. Buy yourself some girly weights, a mat, and some sort of stepping device, and do those easy exercises every slim, pretty, high-ponytailed YouTube instructor seemed to preconize people out of shape do. Like a hamster on a wheel inside their cage. A rat chasing its own tail, maybe.

No, you promised yourself no more fake promises. Perhaps the money spent on the gym membership (stupid fucking New Year’s promotion) would motivate you to use it, lest it’s just money down the drain. 

You wore the stretchiest, thickest pair of black leggings you owned, hoping no one would see the terrible shape of your underwear through it. On the opposite spectrum of things, you knew the largest hoodie you owned would smother you and make you boil with sweat, so you chose the next best thing: the widest black t-shirt you owned. It was definitely not black enough, the dye faded into a dark gray from use over the years, but it was the only thing that camouflaged your body enough from the others’ sight. God forbid they imagine what your body actually looks like underneath.

The heads pretty quickly turned back around as you started walking towards the empty treadmills. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but the combined weight of at least a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes would’ve been enough to make you turn on your heels and back to your car, fuck the membership price.

At the very least, you could convince yourself that walking in place (no better than a hamster on its wheel but oh well) would be enough to get you started. Baby steps, and all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize the treadmill fucking sucks. Why would anyone suggest looking at a parking lot while suffering instead of the pretty scenery of a park or forest (while also suffering, but still).

The timer you’d set for the warm-up (ten minutes, just like the pretty blonde coach suggested!) crawls by way too slowly for your taste. You’d be all but whooping with joy when it beeps if you weren’t so out of breath and conscious of a gaze on you.

You’d seen him as soon as you walked in.

Between figures of balding men trying to get rid of their beer gut with abs, two thin women whispering to themselves in a corner while trying to look inconspicuous, and a few other, completely average-looking men and women, there he stands, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as he deadlifts an impressive amount of black plates.

He immediately looks straight ahead, correcting his stance, as if there were anything to be corrected, in your unathletic opinion. The muscles in his arms bulge even through the thin, grey hoodie, and the ones in his legs coil tight as the weight is lifted off the ground in a slow, controlled motion. Not even a grunt escapes his lips, at least no one you could hear from where you stood, completely mesmerized.

There was always something almost unappealing about overly muscled men. Their wife’s not feedin’ ‘em enough, your granny would grumble when passing by the rows of magazines at the checkout of the supermarket. 

Yet this man.

Yeah, he was muscled. But in a way, he looked… almost normal. Like he was built for strength, not necessarily vanity. Each bend of his legs, each twist of his arms…

You’d swoon if you hadn’t lowered your standards so low he’d trip on them. Accepted it a long time ago. Fats belong with fats, thins with thins, and if there’s a thin with a fat, either one’s getting fattened up, or the other’s getting dumped. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, and one you’d rather not be a part of.

You walk with shaky legs to the water dispenser, then get ready to grab the second to lightest weights to try some bicep curls.

You try to remember the positioning from the videos. Rotate in… or out? Should the wrists be like this? You go through ten repetitions on each side, before you think that you should’ve gone for the abs straight away. God knows there’s fat to burn there, and that the flab under your arms can wait.

You turn back from the rack and walk straight into a wall.

No, a chest.

Fuck.

“Sorry there, miss,” says a deep voice. You detect some sort of accent, unable to quite place it right away.

Your eyes run up, instinctively stopping for a second at chest level (holy heavens that’s a Chest with a capital C if you’ve ever seen one) before finally meeting that same pair of eyes you met a few minutes ago, through the mirror.

Double fuck.

“S-sorry, it’s me, wasn’t watching,” you stammer out, gesturing to the weights in a panicked way. “Just, y’know, switching exercises,” you sputter with a nervous laugh, like it was a completely normal thing to switch exercises after one rep.

He chuckles, and you really need to start planning your escape, because holy shit the way his pectorals rise and fall as his chest puffs up is getting a bit too much for your poor little humiliated self to handle, but he doesn’t let you as he speaks in a soft tone.

“I’m getting arms aren’t really your thing, eh?” he asks, not unkindly. Gosh, did it have to be a Scottish accent?

You can’t meet his eyes, they’re too blue, too piercing for your liking. “To be fair I don’t know what’s my thing yet, I’m just starting out, y’know?” you shift your weight on your legs, conscious of the size difference, and not in the way you wanted to be. Your neck is very warm all of a sudden.

He laughs again, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and you almost want the floor to open up and swallow you whole, but the words that come out of his mouth are completely unexpected.

“Figured! A girl with thighs like yours, I’m sure you can deadlift more than me with just a lil’ training. I’m Johnny, by the way,” he adds in passing, as if offering his name is the least of his concerns. “You ever got someone to train you?”

You’re entirely unsure if you’re dreaming or not. Did this Scottish hunk of muscle really just offer to be your personal trainer?

“Never - uh… lifted anything, I guess. Just when moving, my couch and bed and all, but I had a friend help me.” You definitely feel like you’re oversharing and you’re struggling to ignore the weight of the gaze of the two thin women, burning through you as they whisper among themselves, when you realize you hadn't answered the second part. “Oh and, uh– no. I’ve never… trained. Been trained. It’s my first time in a gym since- a while. I don’t want to bother you.”

You finally look up at him, and you’re unable to read his expression. There’s a sort of curiosity, a fascination, that blends fast into a wide-eyed joy that’s so open, so sincere that it makes your head spin as he gently but firmly grabs your wrist and pulls you where his bar stands on the thick mat, ignoring your sputtering protests. “Not a bother at all, lass!” He lets go of you as he bends down and effortlessly racks the barbell, starting to remove plates as he continues. “We can start by measuring your max lift, then the one where you can easily do three reps, then we’ll hike it up till failure, so I can calculate your starting training weight!” he rambles on excitedly. You nervously shift on your feet, conscious of more curious gazes on you, but then he’s back in your bubble, pulling your attention towards him like a magnet.

His smile is like a blazing sun, and you don’t have the heart to tell him to prepare for disappointment.

He’s infinitely patient as he shows you how to place your feet, and the angle of your hips (oh, how you feel your knee weaken at the feel of his light tough through the leggings, nothing short of electrifying, despite being perfectly friendly), the hold on the bar. It’s all a blur till you find yourself bent over in front of him, looking in the mirror at your position and trying not to feel conscious of the way he’s placed behind you. Or let your mind wander in inappropriate places.

“Whenever yer ready, hen.”

You brace yourself, close your eyes for a brief second, wondering how the hell you’d landed on this planet, then breathe in, open your eyes-

The weight is in your hands. Not on the floor. You’re holding it.

You almost drop it when he cheers behind you, warm palms rubbing down from your shoulders to your elbows and back up. “Easy! I told you you’d be a natural! ‘S all in the legs and you’ve got awesome legs, bonnie! Let’s add twenty more.”

It’s a blur of racking and de-racking and lifting once and setting back, and redoing it again and again. You’re out of breath, sweating like a sinner in church, but you’re smiling along with him, finding yourself giving him double high fives, and doing small, excited jumps.

“Next one’s exactly my weight, if y’can lift that, I’ll be losing my bloody mind! D’you realize how well yer doin’ for a first-timer?” He says as he bends next to you, adjusting the bar for the next set of weights. With a wipe of his forearm over his forehead, he crouches slightly down, placing his head right above your shoulder and looking your reflection in the mirror straight in the eyes with a conspiratory grin. “Swear to God, if ye can lift it off the ground, I’m buying you the most expensive drink at the bar next door!” he says, grin blending into a blinding smile, too genuine for your own good.

He’s just friendly, just friendly, just friendly, you say to yourself like a mantra as you position yourself. He stands again to his full height behind you, hands ready under the bar, a safenet.

Deep breath in– hold it…

Slowly but surely, you lift the weight off the floor, your ears ringing from the effort. You see his lips move as he cheers you on, but the blood pumping in your eardrums makes it impossible to hear him. Suddenly, the weight is back on the ground and your feet are off the floor as you’re lifted in a tight embrace and spun around like you weigh nothing.

You yelp and flail but he’s holding you tight, face pressed smack-dab in the middle of your chest, between your tits, rumbling praises about your prowess while you’re trying to figure out whether this can be something that your brain is capable of summoning as a dream.

“Put me down, Johnny, oh my God, put me down!”

He thankfully complies but not before squeezing your ass tighter, and suddenly nothing feels real anymore.

“Jesus, I knew ye were perfect,” he says, pulling back reluctantly to rerack the bar and put back the weights. “I cannot wait to properly start training ye’ tomorrow, but for now, I have a promise ta’ keep, and, uh, let’s just say I wouldn’t mind using those strong thighs as earmuffs with this freezin’ weather. On the way back from the bar, what d’ya say?” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows with a crooked smile that lets you know he’s joking around. (Is he?)

You laugh with him and for a second, you forget what you were here for.

+++

The way to the bar is short. It was just a block away (Good for business, he jokes), but the conversation with Johnny made time really fly by. 

He seems genuinely glad when you tell him you’d decided to head to the gym not just as a New Year’s resolution, but trying to simply become a better you. There’s no condescendence, no talking down, no (God forbid) pity, just an overall nice interaction the whole time. He tells you about being on leave as a soldier (Medical leave, he specifies, a fucked up knee can work in a gym, but it’s a different story out in the field), you tell him about your studies and how that led into a “big girl” job that left you no time for yourself.

“But I’ve always been a big girl,” you feel the need to justify. “Just… gotten bigger as I stopped finding time to move. The desk and the laptop are pretty stationary,” you joke, still trying to make sense of why a man like him (broad, and tall, and strong, and… gosh, just perfect-looking) would even deign to accept being seen with you.

(It’s not a date, you dumbass)

“I happen to like big girls,” is what you don’t expect him to say.

Wait, what?

His blue eyes glue you to your seat, and you respond dumbly. “What?”

“I mean, why do you think I’d offer to train you?” he continues, placing his hand, big and warm over your thigh. It’s squished as you sit, wide and flattened in your seat, yet his hand covers a good amount, almost covering the whole width.

Your brain is short-circuiting but you have to answer something.

“Out of– uh… out of niceness?” you stammer out, feeling your insecurities climb back out of the hole they’d been sleeping in all this time, making you shrink even more, trying to cover yourself as if he didn’t see right through you with that piercing gaze. “To feel good seeing you be the reason I lose weight?”

He chuckles, squeezing your thigh as his head hangs down, almost as if to hide the smile that spreads on his lips.

“Strength training doesn’t work like that, bonnie.” He looks back up, and his eyes are blue, and wide, and so pretty, that you can’t find anything to argue back. “Ye’ think building glutes underneath that fat arse does anything but make it bigger?” He shifts, inching closer as he licks his lips and drops his voice lower. “Ye’ think growing your quads will make this,” he gives an even firmer squeeze, wiggling the fat back and forth, and you tense under his grip, but he’s got you pinned down, “any less wide and soft?”

He presses closer, and the booth has no escape room, you’re practically squeezed into the corner as he pushes his body against yours, bending to whisper lowly in the crook of your neck.

“I did not joke when I said I want yer pretty thighs wrapped tight around my head.”

You can’t be blamed when you don’t remember how you ended up in the back of a cab, Johnny barely taking the time to bark an address to the poor driver and throw fifty quid on the front seat before kissing you absolutely senseless, shamelessly groping your tits with a hand and wrapping the other around your thigh, squeezing you close.

You should probably think more about going home with basically a stranger, no matter how hot, but when he presses his entire palm against your cunt, cupping it over the quickly dampening pair of leggings that didn’t seem so thick anymore, you can’t think at all. He swallows your quiet moans, and hums contently against your lips, taking each gasp for air as an invitation to slither his tongue into your mouth. God, you’d forgotten what a good makeout session was like, and you can’t even find it in you to be embarrassed when you see the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, instantly looking away when you see him staring. 

Johnny doesn’t seem to mind either, and when he notices you looking in the front again and again, he crowds you against the door behind the driver with a huff, half-climbing over you until his knee is pressed against your core, and the only thing in your field of vision is him.

“Johnny,” you try to say, but it’s getting hard to think, with the way you’re being squeezed in a corner, this hunk of a man of pure muscle pressing against you like a weighted blanket, kissing you like you were a drop of water in the desert and he was a parched man drinking you for his salvation. You feel his excitement pressed against your thigh, and it gives you enough lucidity to try again. “Johnny,” you gasp out again, “aren’t we going a little fast?”

He laughs instead, choosing to focus on the side of your mouth, pressing fervent little kisses down your neck before starting to suckle the delicate skin over where your clavicle is. “I can go as slow as you’d like, bun.” He takes the spot an inch next to the previous one into his mouth and sucks again, this time more forcefully, marking you, and oh God you’re going to have to conceal it before work tomorrow, unless you can find a turtleneck to wear–

The cab driver clears his throat, and you notice that the car is stopped in front of a small apartment complex. Johnny says a cordial thanks as he pulls you out of the car and throws another twenty on the backseat, before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and taking all of the thinking out of the equation as he walks you to the entry.

His flat is pretty well furnished, all things considered, but he doesn’t give you enough time to observe the deco as he presses you against the door and slides his hand under your leggings.

“Got me starin’ at that ass the second you walked in, best fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in months, d’ye realize that, bonnie?” he breathes out against your ear as his entire palm cups your sex, and you can only whine as you press your forehead into the crook of his neck. “And by how wet this pussy is, I think you liked starin’ at me, too.”

“You are–” you say, but he curls his middle finger in, spreading your lips and spreading the wetness to your clit, making you choke on your words, “-very nice to stare at.”

“Yeah?” you hear the grin in his voice.

“Mmhm,” you nod, as he keeps the back and forth of his finger, never dipping in too far, just keeping you hungry for more.

“Then how’d ye like to stare down at me as I taste this wet cunt of yours?” he purrs in your ear as he stops moving completely, letting the words process.

Brain.exe has stopped functioning. 

Had you ever had a boyfriend willing to speak filth like that to you when you were down to do the deed, maybe you would’ve gotten enough practice to know what to answer something sensible and intelligible to that, but as it stands, all you can muster is a very dumb-sounding “Huh?” as you stare back at him.

And that, apparently, is the funniest thing in the world to him, because he dips his head down and laughs, almost like a boyish giggle. Not only does that not stop him from kneeling in front of you, but it also somehow gives him more confidence to keep talking like that.

“How about you look down into my eyes as I eat out your pretty little pussy and make you come around my tongue, how’s that sound?” His baby blues bear no trace of maliciousness, no trace of a joke, as his fingers hook around the waistband and trace it around your stomach. You have to make a very conscious effort not to suck it in immediately in preparation for the letdown, but he doesn’t pull them down yet, only moving his hand alongside the edge. Your silence as you try to process what is happening only seems to spur him on instead. “In fact, how about you close your eyes, I close mine, and you hold my head close as I devour you, would you let me do that, pretty girl?”

“I’m not-” you can’t think of any way to properly let him down, not when he looks up with such pleading eyes, so the words stumble out gracelessly. “I’m sweaty, you don’t wanna–”

But he interrupts as he pulls your leg closer by gripping your thigh and squishing it against his cheek “But I do.” He inhales deeply, and your own breath shakes at the sight of how blissed out he already looks. “God, I want it. Let me have this.”

A voice somewhere inside yells at you that this has to be some sort of weird fetish, and that he most certainly won’t be having the same aura of desperation around him tomorrow, when post-coital rationale shows up and he sees your body past the veil of lust, but for now, you think that getting some with Johnny cannot be that bad compared to any one of your past encounters. Might as well enjoy it when you still can.

You wrap your hand around the one he still has around your waistband, and see his face positively light up as you softly caress his cheek.

In the end, you’re the one that pleads.

“Johnny, please.”

Your pants are off you and your leg is over his shoulder before you realize what is happening.

The feel of his warm tongue against your slit makes any thought, any doubt, any fear positively vanish, and the content sigh that he lets out as he licks at you is the same sigh as finally removing a bra at the end of a long day, it’s the sigh of laying down carelessly onto a soft bed after standing up for hours, it’s the sigh of the first bite of the best meal a man has after starving for weeks.

It should be awkward the way his arm wraps around your thigh and sinks into the softness of your stomach, using it to pin you up as he uses his other hand to spread you out enough for him to work his jaw the same way he did when he was making out with you in the car… Yet it’s not. It’s natural, the way his hand squeezes you as he licks, and sucks, and kisses around your pussy, unhurried yet passionate, languidly but firmly, pressing his tongue in, licking around your lips, and maddeningly avoiding the place you wanted him to touch most.

“Johnny,” you moan as he grazes his teeth around your sensitive nub in response. You almost buck out of his hold, but he’s firmly keeping you in place. “Please, don’t tease.”

He hums in response and dives back in, eyes fluttering closed as he ignores your whines. Every time his tongue or lips graze your clit, he works his mouth the opposite way, holding your thigh harder and pressing his palm up as he counters your hip movements with a clever swipe of the tongue. It’s absolutely maddening. “Johnny, please!”

He chuckles as he pulls back, an obscene string of spit lengthening as he pulls back, only breaking when he runs his tongue against his reddened, swollen lips. “Thought ye’ wanted me ta’ go slow, bun.” His eyes sparkle with challenge, but you can also discern a veil of unhidden desperation, of waiting for you to give the go-ahead for him to let loose.

“I’m fine with faster–” you start, but the words dissolve into a barely restrained moan as he hikes your leg up more, getting you closer to him, and immediately singling onto your neglected clit.

His forehead rests onto your belly now, and if you had more than two functioning neurons you’d wonder how he is that he’s breathing, but his hums and moans let you know that he’s perfectly content burrowing his nose in your pussy, nudging at your clit with the tip of it as he licks you with all the dedication you’ve never been shown from a man of his caliber.

He builds it up, and soothes it down, knowing exactly when to put more pressure, or when to teasingly swirl his tongue around your entrance, or to lave broad strokes of his tongue, so much so that the knee that’s not hooked over his shoulder almost gives out on a particularly forceful suck of your clit.

“Easy there,” he groans almost petulantly, as if you’re interrupting him. “Can’t have you fallin’ over when I’m not done wit’ ye.”

“My legs are gonna give out,” you say honestly, trying to catch your breath and avoid having the perfect man at your feet steal it again. “You’re a bit too good at this.” He grins up at you, “Am I?” and you want to give you a playful swat, but instead decide on carding your fingers through his now disheveled mohawk. “Guess the mess on my face speaks for itself… Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

You throw a glance around the apartment, assessing your options. “Couch is closer.” His smile is blinding. “I like how ye’ think.”

It’s now the second time he surprises you by scooping your legs from under you and picking you up like he couldn’t wait any longer and that carrying you bridal-style was the only way he could think of moving you. You yelp out a protest but he swallows it with another hungry kiss, shamelessly smearing your own wetness over your cheek as he walks you both to the couch.

You sink into the cushions where he places you gently without so much as a grunt of effort, and oh God, there they are, the standards are rising.

You reach over to pull him closer as he straightens up, but he only gives you a peck on the lips in return, like he hadn’t been kissing you sloppily the entire time.

“Come back,” you whine, hoping you can get it done before he comes back to his senses, like they all do, but he just smiles and kneels between your feet, hands pressing your thighs apart. The squelch of your lips parting should be embarrassing were he not looking up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes full of adoration, like a child staring up at the full moon on full display on a clear night’s skies. Maybe you are his moon, his goddess, judging by the lust-clouded look directed at you.

“I did say I was gonna make you come on my face,” he says lowly, the gravel in his voice making you squirm as he places a trail of kisses up your thigh. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

With that, he dives in again, using his forearms to pin your legs open on the couch and his fingers to tease around where his tongue can’t reach. You mewl when you feel his tongue at your entrance, circling it around it briefly before delving in as deep as he could, his right hand stroking your clit rhythmically. The fact that he’s so good at somehow playing all your buttons like a maestro directing an orchestra has you thinking that he must be some sort of womanizer, some freak who does this kind of thing every night, but then his lips wrap around your nub and he gives a firm, long suck, and any restriction that you could’ve conjured up simply vanishes. Your thighs want to close around his head, but you can’t move under the iron grip he has on you.

You fist his hair more forcefully than necessary, and he looks up, wet eyelashes framing his beautiful eyes as he hums in response.

“Please,” you moan, and he hums affirmatively again, closing his eyes to focus on licking and suckling harder. He heard you, he simply doesn’t seem to care. “Johnny.”

“What,” he asks, voice muffled and why is this so hot? 

“I need… I need,” you whine, unable to string the words together, and desperately trying to buck your hips under him, for lack of strength to actually close your thighs how you want to.

That seems to get his attention, and he chuckles, before pulling back with a gentle kiss on your mound. “Guess you’ll have to keep tryin’, pet,” he sussurs, a condescending pat on your thighs before he dives in slower than before.

Oh, the absolute asshole. Now he wants you to work for it?

You think that doing the opposite, relaxing your thighs open and letting him go to town however he wanted would help, but he seems hell-bent on riling you up every once in a while, getting you closer and closer with each lave of his tongue over your poor, overstimulated clit, but never enough to actually push you over the edge.

After what seems like an eternity, and almost, almost starting to think that this was a mistake, halfway ready to let him do this thing before your hip starts to cramp up, you feel a finger nudge at your entrance.

“Fucking finally–” you start, ready to curse him out, but he’s faster than you can think in your blissed-out state, and he slides a second finger alongside the first one, immediately zeroing in on that spot that makes you go cross-eyed and buck under his hold.

“Thassit– there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your clit, and oh, okay, maybe you were closer than you thought, because the rhythmic curl of his fingers doesn’t need to last long before you’re off like an arrow, back arching and thighs squeezing, coming harder than you ever thought was possible. If he were any less skilled at making you completely lose the ability to think, you’d maybe notice that you’d managed to close your thighs almost completely around his head, but he wasn’t, so you don’t, twitching helplessly in the aftershocks of the most wonderful orgasm a man had ever given you.

Limbs that somehow still belong to your body hang uselessly off the side of the couch, and you struggle to catch your breath. You blink lazily, noticing him smugly wipe his face with the back of his hand, his half lidded eyes not any less blissed-out than yours. 

You didn’t believe a man like this ever existed, until now. It aches that this might not be something that would last, so you make grabby hands at him, unable to find the will to speak just yet. 

He laughs softly and gently grabs your arms, kissing from your knuckles slowly up your arm, to the crook of your neck. The patience he has is almost inhuman, as he takes the time to let you regather your senses, matching the marks he made earlier on the other side of your neck. You cup your hand around his head in response, and he smiles at you.

“Ye’ with me, bun?”

“Mmhm.”

“That slow enough fer’ ye’?” He holds himself up, an inch fron your face, and you reach up to kiss him.

“I’m gonna kill you dead,” you mutter against his lips, and he chuckles.

“Let me at least fuck you properly, first,” he whispers, and you notice that he’s long since unbuttoned his pants. You barely get a view of the massive size of him over your belly as he holds himself in his hand, large palm not enough to cover the whole length of him as he strokes himself, angled in such way that his tip rubs against your clit on each downstroke. The word “Please,” is not even halfway out of your mouth when he sinks into you in one swift motion, the rest dissolving into a long, drawn-out moan.

“Fuck-” he grunts, “so tight, cannot believe it.”

He guides one of your legs to wrap around him, keeping it flush against his body with his elbow as his palm grips your ass tightly, the other holding him against the backrest, forearm near your head as he pulls you closer for a sloppy kiss as he starts rolling his hips. You moan into his mouth and he swallows them greedily, leveraging each trust of his hips with a pull with his hand, helping you move in tandem with him, readjusting when your thigh threatens to slip out of his hold. The slaps of his pelvis to yours should sound obscene, his hard muscles hitting against your soft, jiggly skin, but his groans into your mouth are like music to your ears, the fact that he’s vocal about it has you almost reaching your peak again in no time, but he seems to sense it, and slows down immediately.

You try to kiss him harder, but he makes a small noise of protest, muttering something that sounds vaguely like “no, let me, let me just–” and you want to ask what he wants to do, to help him, but he instead reaches down both hands to grab your hips and pull you off the backrest. You yelp as your ass suddenly hangs in the air, his cock speared inside you the only secure point as he pulls you halfway off the couch, but he directs you firmly, “Here, around me,” helping you wrap your legs tightly as he starts thrusting again, harder than before.

“Oh, God, oh God,” you flail around, but each thrust in pushes your back into the cushions, and he reaches behind his back to hold your feet in his hand as he presses his palm near your head for support, spewing more filth as he does.

“That’s it, hold me tight, squeeze my cock like ye’ almost squeezed mah heid off earlier, huh, bonnie? Show me what those thighs can do, fuck-”

Your whole body is jiggling with each thrust, and you don’t have it in you to even feel self-conscious with the way each time he fills you, the tip of his cock nudges against the spongey spot inside, making you mewl in tempo with his relentless rhythm.

“Johnny, Johnny,” you moan, and he bends over to kiss you again, swallowing his name like communion while you chant it like a prayer.

“Don’t give up now, bonnie, keep squeezin’, fuck, I can feel ye’, yer so close.”

You try to get some leverage with your upper body, trying to push yourself up the cushions, but his cock suddenly slips out of you as your thighs almost give out, and an apology is already halfway out your mouth when he kneels back down and burrows between your legs, tongue first with a rushed “Need ta’ taste us, fuck, both of us, together-”

One hand wraps around your hip and over your pelvis, reaching up to knead desperately at your stomach, to pull you closer or push you away, you can’t tell, the other pulling your lips apart to settle his entire lower face against your pussy firmly– before letting go as he starts humming.

Your thighs are free to squeeze around his ears, and he nods encouragingly as he keeps licking, and then you hear it: the sounds of wet stroking. You don’t see him fisting his cock, but you hear it, fast and desperate. As your hand tangles in his hair to pull him closer, and another hum– no, another moan vibrates through your core, it’s the last thing you hear before you’re absolutely gone, gasping out a curse as you tense up in his hold, trembling as you come.

It’s even more intense than the first one, and as you buck out of his hold, he stands up shakily, his hand moving faster and faster around his cock, the angry red of his tip at the same level as your face. You gesture for him to sit down, trying to signal to him that you want to reciprocate despite the post-orgasmic haze and exhaustion, but he shakes his head, and, seconds later, you feel warm wetness land on your belly and slowly trickle down as he moans your name when he comes.

You feel like you still have to give something back, and, when he slumps down next to you with a content sigh, you climb over to place a delicate kiss on the tip of his cock, letting out a huff of laughter when it twitches under your touch.

“Ye’ absolute menace,” he whispers fondly as he pulls you up and tips his body to the side to lie down, using his legs to push you up halfway over him, trapping you between his body and the cushions, yet protectively shielding you from falling over. You place another kiss on his stomach, and you see his abs tense under your touch as your warm breath moves his hairs as you hover for a second, before deciding to shift up and use his pectorals as a cushion. He hums softly as his arm wraps around under yours, reaching to pull the plaid off the back of the couch and settle it around you both. Ticklish, eh? That’s a piece of information best stored for later.

You’re still breathless, absolutely done for. God, best decision of your life, going to the gym. “Now what?” you can’t help but ask. It’s the same fear that always creeps up, the fear that he got to try out a fantasy, and now that he was done with it, he had no need to want to continue anything possibly serious. Not that eating a girl out on a first date, if you could even call it a date, was a sign of a one-night stand, you can’t help but feel awkward and insecure now that it’s all done, despite the comforting cuddle.

He chuckles in response, that same chuckle from earlier in the day, a What a silly question chuckle. Like he’d read into your thoughts and insecurities and found them absolutely laughable.

“Same time at the gym, tomorrow? I want you to squeeze my head off next time.”

“Next time, huh?”

He pulls your leg over his pelvis, trapping his still half-mast cock between his belly and the crook of your knee, hand firmly wrapped to shift you up, almost completely on top of him. When both of you are comfortable and you start feeling the tendrils of sleep pull you deeper, he gives a last, playful squeeze to your ass.

“Next time.”

[mikichko]

⛔ this blog is 18+ !! minors and ageless blogs please dni ⛔ blame this tiktok. unedited. soap x fem!reader.

it starts off with shaky footage, the background blurring as the camera moves. a little more shuffling before the phone settles at the ground level focused on your beautiful baby girl bracketed by johnny's thick legs.

he sucks his teeth, pointing a finger accusingly at the camera, "I'll tell ye one thing lass, the stubbornness? not from me"

the girl gurgles, kicking her feet happily at the sound of her father's voice. soap lets out a soft sigh as he strokes her chubby cheek with a single caloused finger, "jus' like yer ma aye birdie?"

another set of kicks and a giggle as she pushes herself into his touch. he looks at the camera again, "been trying to teach this one to crawl, and she's full on refusing." soap sighs, hoisting birdie up onto her socked feet, "loves to bloody stand but won't even take a chance to crawl." birdie begins to bounce, cooing excitedly as she stretches the developing muscles of her knees.

"i can hear ye now, blaming me, a devoted da, but i swear she's just being outright stubborn." soap picks birdie again, "look I'll show ye, see here I'm going to put her in her crawling position," birdie looks happily at the camera as her dad maneuvers her around, "but look at how she gets if I let her go"

birdie stays for a moment, eyes wide and observant as she looks around from her new vantage point, before inevitably beginning to fall. she falls ever so slowly, her little muscles trying their best to stay up, before you hear the dull thud as her tiny little forehead makes contact on the floor. behind her soap opens his mouth in a silent scream before rubbing both hands at his face.

birdie breathes heavily as he hoists her back to sitting position, "birdie, is nae a plank sesh! we're trying to get ye to crawl! how're you 'sposed to walk if ye cannae crawl yet?"

birdie giggles at her dad, small hand grabbing at his face. soap catches her hand between two fingers and lowers his face so that her tiny hand is holding to the scruffy side of his cheek. she coos at the next texture, hand moving between patting and rubbing. soap nods, "aye aye, I know it's hard but ye got to do hard things to get to the good things. cannae have you givin' up so easily. gots to get you crawling before ma gets home."

birdie pays him no mind, focused solely on the contrast of the smooth skin and the scratchy beard. soap closes his eyes for minute, smiling gently before rubbing his face against her hand. finally his eyes flutter open, looking over at the camera

"miss ya. cannae wait til you're back with us."

[gothghostiie]

something something telling soap he can put a baby in you if he keeps talking to you with his accent, him telling you something along the lines of putting a hundred baby's in you if it means he can keep listening to your pretty voice

[punishereditz]

Hot Topic

Pairing: Drew McIntyre x f!reader

Warnings: 18 plus only! Minors DNI! DO NOT COPY! One use of y/n. Little bit of blood. Mentions of blood. Smut. Scratching (both sexually and non-sexually). Oral. Both F and M receiving. Praise kink. Breast play. Hair pulling. Dirty talk. Marking. Claiming. Drew and the reader fighting over dominance.

AN: Do I have news for you guys. There's another fucking white man. There's another fucking white man of the month.

Word count: 3.3k. (I got carried away. Okay? okay.)

Summary: When Drew interrupts your promo so he can use you to gain his popularity back; he didn't expect the reaction you would give him. And he certainly didn't expect what he found backstage after...

~

Monday night raw. You were trying to cut a promo. Walking back and forth in the ring. Talking into the mic. Telling the WWE universe your plans for your current rival, Zelina Vega.

You were on a roll. You had the crowd in the palm of your hand. Everyone's eyes on you in your tight leather pants and corset top. But you didn't just have the WWE universe's attention. You had Drew McIntyre's attention. You heard the sound of a sword clashing. Interrupting your words. You looked to the ramp to see the huge Scottish warrior slowly making his way to you. It made your heartbeat grow faster and your breath grow unsteady. This wasn't planned. It had you nervous. But you didn't let a bit of that show.

"So, you're the famous Ms. y/n that everyone's been talking about." He walked down to the ring, and he looked into your eyes as he stepped over the rope. He put his mic between his arm, and he reached into his pocket. Pulling out his phone. He held it up and took a photo with you. What the fuck? You thought.

"Don't mind me. Since you're the new "hot stuff" here, I just need to use you to get my status back." He said as he tweeted the photo right then and there. Then he put his phone back. His eyes slowly grazing over your body. Sizing you up. He tried not to let his eyes linger too long on your thighs.

"I got to say. I'm not impressed." He chuckled to himself. "I've been hearing your name all over the lockers room and I've been seeing post after post. Headline after headline and now that I stand in front of 'ya... I think I'm starting to understand why you're the hot topic." He took a step closer. Towering over you. You had to completely lean your head back just to be able to look up into his eyes.

"You're just a pretty face." He said with a devilish smirk. You chuckled and you looked down. Taking a step closer. "Aw. You think I'm pretty?"

Your words caught Drew off guard, but he hid it. Just like how you're still hiding your nerves. "You're nothing more than all the other pretty faces that have had their one night of glory." You hummed and you started to walk around Drew. A crease between his eyebrows grew as he watched you. Not knowing what you were doing.

"So... Scottish Knight-"

"Scottish Warrior." Drew Corrected.

"Same difference." You shrug and your eyes racked up and down his body as you circled around him like a predator with its prey.

"Let me get this straight. And correct me if I'm wrong." You paused. "You come out here... interrupting my promo. Then you insult me?"

Drew's eyes followed you. "Yeah." He nodded. Speaking arrogantly.

You hummed. Placing a hand on his shoulder. Making his breath hitch. You slowly ran your hand down his chest. Over the leather. Your hands feeling the muscles through his jacket. His body tensing and his cock hardened as your hand moved along his back. Up on his shoulder and back to his chest.

"Honey... since you don't want to have any manners..." Your eyes stayed on your hand as you watched it move along Drew's skin. Then stopping right in front of him. Your hand on his chest. "I'm going to have to teach you some."

Drew's cheeks flushed lightly, but his cheeks glowed an even brighter shade of red when you dug your claw rings into his chest. Leaving three perfect long scratch marks on his chest. Blood coming to the surface. "Don't ever interrupt me again." You said coldly and you left the ring.

Drew was frozen there. He couldn't believe it. He looked down at his chest. His hand going to the blood. You just made him bleed! Drew wasn't sure if he should be pissed off or turned on. The cuts weren't bad at all. They were just deep enough for there to be a little bit of blood. Drew's felt plenty of pain in his career, but he couldn't get over this. You scratched him! He stormed out of the ring. Marching past the curtains. Asking crew where you are as he passed by. All of them not knowing until one said that you were in your locker room.

So, Drew made his way over there. He banged on the door; impatiently waiting. When you opened the door, he noticed you were still in that damn corset. He sighed and he pushed past you. Coming into the room rather you liked it or not.

"What was that for, huh?" Drew asked. His tone was firm and his stare intimidating.

"What?" You softly spoke and he walked closer to you. "Don't "what" me. You know damn well what 'ya did."

"I'm sorry. I just thought it would be the icing on the cake for the promo."

Drew noticed that you kept a soft tone and that you would barely look into his eyes. What was this? In the ring you kept a confident, seductive tone and kept your stare on him. It's like you're a different person right now. Like a switch had been flipped.

"You should be sorry." He growled and he tried to give you his meanest stare as he towered over you. When you looked away and you started packing your bag, it confused Drew. He wasn't sure if he did scare you, or if you were just unfazed.

"You okay? The cuts aren't too deep?" That confused Drew even more. You were checking on him? It made Drew smile. It made his heart skip a beat. The fact that you were making sure he was okay.

"I'm just fine princess." His tone was a touch softer, and he crossed his arms. Tilting his head as he watched you. He was starting to piece things together. The soft tone. Avoiding eye contact. Barely talking. You're Shy. Drew wonders how far he could push you.

"In a hurry?" He asked. Leaning against the doorframe that was nearly as tall as him.

"Guess so." Drew rolled his eyes at the dry answer. He wanted more.

"What for?"

"Just ready to be home."

"Hmm." He hummed and he leaned off of the door. Taking the short steps over to you.

"Someone waiting for you at home?" He stood only a few inches from you. Close enough that the smell of your perfume filled his nostrils.

"No." You shook your head and he smiled.

"Oh no? I would've figured there be a lad waiting for his princess to come home." He spoke teasingly and his eyes traveled up and down your body. Walking over to your other side.

Drew tried to think of something that would make you break. He wanted the fierce girl he was with in the ring. But how could he get that? Then it hit him. Sure, it would be mean, but it will work. Well, at least Drew hoped it would.

"Who are you trying to convince?" He suddenly said. Playing with one of your curls before he went over and leaned against your dresser. Giving you a dry look.

"I'm sorry?" You were confused.

"I was just wondering who you're trying to convince." He paused. "You know... that little act you put on out there. Them or yourself."

You didn't know where Drew was going with this. You scoffed and you looked down. Drew knew then he was getting somewhere with this.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You practically whispered.

"Oh. The confidence. I mean, it's clear you don't have it now. Your just an insecure timid girl. So, when you're in the ring and put on that mask of confidence and seduce of yours... are you trying to convince them... or yourself?"

You shook your head and put your things down. He was pissing you off. His plan was working perfectly.

"Who do you think you are coming into my locker room and aggravating me?" Drew had to bite back a smile.

"I'm just curious about you Princess." He walked over to you. Looking down at you with a smirk.

"Well, you got my apologizes for your chest. So, you can leave now." You said annoyed and turned back to your bag. Drew didn't move. He stayed in the same spot. Crossing his arms with a sigh. Staring at you.

"It wasn't a request." You turned back to him. His smirk growing. He took a step closer. The smell of your perfume driving him mad.

"I'm not going anywhere. At least, not until you answer me."

"Neither."

"Bullshit." You sighed, frustrated at his words. Drew knew he almost had you.

"Go on. Let that frustration out. Use those claws on me." He challenged and you furrowed your eyebrows. Looking up at him. You figured out what he wanted. He wanted it again. He liked it.

"No." You challenged back and Drew looked taken aback for a moment. But he quickly replaced it with a mean stare.

"No? No, you're not frustrated?" He didn't want to let you know that he knew you figured him out.

"No. I'm not going to sink my claws into you." You took a step back. "You can leave now." You turned your back to him to walk away, but he grabbed your wrist. Pulling you back.

"Are you going to show me what you're capable of... or are you going to keep being shy princess?"

You were torn. You were truly this shy person. The person you are in ring is who you wish you were. That person in the ring is the person that lives in your mind. Your mind filled with thoughts of leaving marks and claiming the big Scottish warrior that was Drew McIntyre. You just didn't know if you had the strength to do it. To do all the filthy things you wanted to do to him.

Oh fuck it! You grabbed his hair and pulled him down so that you would be able to reach him. Crashing your lips onto his. His body immediately following the action of yours. His large hands going to your waist. Lifting you up. Your legs wrapping around him. His hands gripping your ass. Your hands laced through his hair. Gripping his hair. He groaned into your mouth. Then he pulled away from the tense kiss.

"I knew you had it in 'ya princess." He huffed and you smiled up at him. You jumped down from his hold and started pushing his jacket off of him. He quickly got it and he started to untie your top. Pulling it down. He bent over and he took your breast into his mouth. Sucking on it. Whirling his tongue around your nipple. The he pulled his kilt off and he tossed you up on his shoulder. Carrying you over to the couch. He yanked your leather pants down. Groaning at the sight of your beautiful naked body in front of him.

Then he sat you down on the couch. He held eye contact with you until he was down on his knees in front of you. Grabbing your knees, he made you spread your legs. Pulling you to the edge of couch and placing both of your legs on the tops of his shoulders. He slowly ran a finger in your folds. Making you gasp. He used his middle finger to rub circles on your clit. Causing you to moan and close your eyes in pleasure. He chuckled when your body jerked as his movements got a little bit faster on your clit.

If you were this sensitive now, then he couldn't wait for what he was about to do. He moved his finger down. Rubbing your entrance before he slowly pushed his finger in. A louder moan coming from you. He curled his finger up. Smiling at the sight of your chest rising and falling. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Oh, he couldn't wait! He wanted to take his time though. He wanted to savor every little breath and moan.

"You're doing so good for me princess." He praised before he lowered his head, and he gently kissed your clit. Then he wrapped his lips around it, and he ran his tongue up and down. Lightly sucking. Your back arching and your hand moving down to grip his hair. Turning him on even more. His cock throbbing in his gear. The taste of your sweet cunt and the sound of your beautiful voice moaning his name was becoming too much for him. He was loving this. He couldn't decide if he wanted to stay between your thighs for the rest of the night or be fucking you right now. "So sweet." He raised up. His hands going to your hips. But you sat up. Moving back. Your eyes following him as he stood up and you grinned. He wants dominance? You think you can manage that. You looked into his eyes as you gripped his gear. Pulling it down. His cock bouncing out. You had to hide your surprise. No wonder he's so cocky.

"So hard for me..." You whisper and he swallowed hard. Trying not to let you see how badly your words affected him. But his cock gave him away as it twitched. You wrapped your hand around his cock. Slowly stroking him. A groan leaving his lips as he watched you, but then he moaned a little louder when you licked the pre-cum off of his cock. He wanted you so badly, but you were going to drag it out for as long as possible. You can't give him what he wants. Not yet.

So, you keep slowly stroking him. But you decide to take it just a step further. Gently kissing the tip of it. Then you kissed down the side. Then kissed down the other side. But as you came back up, you stuck your tongue out. Running your tongue up his cock. It twitching in your hand and against your mouth. You softly chuckled and you ran your tongue all the way from his balls up to the tip. Licking it. You finally put the tip of his cock in your mouth, and he moaned in pleasure. His eyes slowly closing. His head falling back. But he quickly looked down. Wanting to watch.

Watching as you suck on the tip of it. Your hand still working. It was the prettiest sight he had ever seen. Your lips wrapped around him and your eyes looking up at him. He had to look away to control himself and you had to hold back your smile as you pulled your mouth up until his cock wasn't in your mouth. Your hand still slowly stroking him. You knew you had him right where you wanted him. You could see the effect you were having on him, even though he was using all of his strength to hide it. It didn't matter how hard he tried to be strong, you knew you had him wrapped around your finger. You had him on a leash... and that leash was about to get tighter.

You took his cock in your mouth one last time. Taking it in as deep as you could. The tip of it in the back of your throat. A strangled groan leaving his lips. Then you stood up. Moving your mouth and hand away. Leaving him with nothing; and right when he thought you really were going to give him nothing, you pushed him down on the couch. Smiling devilishly down at him. He took a deep breath. Looking up at you with innocence. His hands going out to your thighs and his eyes going down to your breast. He was so flustered.

"What's the matter honey?" You gently grabbed his chin and tilted his head up, so he looked you in the eyes. His cheeks flushing a brighter red.

"Cat got your tongue?" You narrowed your eyes at him and smiled as his breath hitched when you placed the tip of your rings under his chin. "Go on.... Speak up."

He went to speak, but nothing came out at first. Struggling to find his words. "P-please." He stuttered. His words almost unnoticeable because they were so quiet.

"Please what? You're going to have to tell me." You moved so that you were straddling his lap now. His hands going to your hips and tightly gripping them. His eyes slowly racking up and down your body. This was getting too much to bear for him.

"Please... give me your pussy. I want it. I need it. I need to be inside of you." He begged. Looking up at you through his eyelashes. Giving you a pleading look on top of the begging words. God, it was so cute.

You placed your hands on the wall and leaned closer to him. Tilting your head down to his ear. "Good boy." You whispered. Your words becoming the fuel to Drew's fire. He couldn't take it anymore. He gripped your breast in his hands, and he brought his mouth down. Sucking on your nipple. Moaning in pleasure into your breast as you slowly lowered yourself on his cock. Taking the tip of him in you. Letting out a soft gasp as you try to adjust to him. Slowly bringing yourself lower until you were completely sat on his lap. Your walls clenching around him. Making him gently nibble at your nipple.

His hands gripping your breast tighter before they traveled down your sides. Finding a home on your ass. Your hands finding a home in his hair. Gently gripping it as your eyes closed, your head falling back as the pleasure took over. His cock twitching as you bounced on his cock. Sliding your hips up and down. A louder moan leaving your lips as the pleasure grew stronger. Slowly building up more. The knot in your stomach twisting further. Your breath getting heavier. Your hand pulling at Drew's hair. His cock hitting that spot deep in you that makes your head feels like it's spinning.

Your walls clenching tighter around him with each time his cock hits your g-spot. Making his cock throb. He couldn't stand it anymore. He wrapped his arm around your waist and with one swift move, he moved you down on the couch. Getting on top of you. Thrusting his cock deep in you. Taking your breath away. Your rings digging into his shoulders to keep yourself from screaming. "Oh fuck." He growled as he felt your fingers pressing into his skin. Causing him more pleasure. His slow pounds starting to speed up.

"You like that, huh?" You questioned teasingly through moans. "You weren't kidding when you said you wanted me to use my claws on you-" You let out a sharp moan as he thrusted deep in you. Barely being able to get your words out. His thrust making you scratch down his back. Your rings pulling down in his skin driving him absolutely crazy.

"Fuck. You're so tight. Feel so good." Drew said through grunts. His eyes closing for a moment before he looked down at you. "This is for me. Me only. I'm the only one that gets to see you like this. I'm the one that gets this cunt." He growled. His grip on the couch tightening until his knuckles flushed a ghost white. Trying to make this last for as long as possible.

"That's right." You moaned. "I'm yours." That was Drew's breaking point. He moaned your name as his climax crashed over him. His cock throbbing and twitching as he released his cum into you. His climax driving you into yours. Your hands scratching down his back as you came on his cock. Yours and his breath starting to slow as you both came down from the intense orgasms.

"Come on princess. Let's get you home. Then I'll show you what all I really want to do to you."

[meazalykov]

wrong number

bayern munich frauen x lena oberdorf x reader

1/6, 2/6, 3/6, 4/6, 5/6, 6/6

summary: you're the honorary bayern munich teammate.

the excitement fills your veins as you land in lisbon. 

you’re finally here, and it’s hard to believe. lena doesn't even know yet—you wanted to surprise her, to be there in person for the match of her life. it’s been a long journey from buying the ticket, keeping it quiet, and making your way to portugal, but every step felt worth it because nothing, absolutely nothing, would have kept you from being here to support lena in the champions league final.

hours later, you’re waiting anxiously in your hotel room when a knock finally comes. you open the door to find lena, looking tired but smiling, and her face lights up as she sees you.

"you made it," she says, stepping forward to hug you tightly. she lets out a deep breath, and you feel some of the tension melt from her shoulders.

"of course i did," you say, hugging her back, brushing a hand over her back. 

"how could i miss this? tomorrow’s the match of your life. are you nervous?"

she pulls back slightly, her smile fading as she flops onto the bed beside you. 

"yeah… a little," she admits, looking away. 

"it’s more than that, though. i keep thinking about the final in 2023… it’s like this shadow hanging over everything. it won’t go away." her voice goes quieter, and you see just how much she’s carrying from that day that you’re unfamiliar with.

you sit beside her, reaching out to take her hand. 

"do you want to talk about it? what happened in 2023?"

she nods, her gaze fixed on a spot across the room. 

"it was against barcelona, with wolfsburg. we were up 2-0, and then everything just… fell apart. they scored three goals in, like, eight minutes. i felt so helpless. all those months of training, just to lose like that. sometimes it feels like i haven’t shaken it off."

you squeeze her hand gently. 

"i can’t imagine how tough that must’ve been. losing on that stage, with everyone watching… it’s okay that it still hurts. a lot of people would feel the same. i also know that you’re stronger now."

she looks over at you, a small smile finally breaking through before giving you a light kiss. 

"thanks. i don’t know… i’ve tried to push it out of my head, but tomorrow feels like a chance to finally put it behind me. i want to prove to myself that i’m not that same person who let it slip away." she whispers against you.

you run your thumb across her knuckles, trying to pour all your reassurance into that small touch. 

"and you’re not. you’re here, stronger and smarter, and you’ve learned so much. but whatever happens tomorrow, you’re still amazing. i’m just so proud of you."

a soft blush colors her cheeks as she squeezes your hand back, her gaze meeting yours as her forehead rests against yours. 

"thank you. it really helps, having you here. more than you know."

after a while, she heads back to her hotel room for a good night's sleep, leaving you with a warm, happy feeling that stays with you until morning. 

it’s surreal, thinking back to a year ago when this whole thing started with a wrong number. now you’re here, in lisbon, to watch the woman you love play in one of the biggest games of her life.

the next day, you find yasmeen at the stadium entrance, her face lighting up when she spots you. she flew in from america just to keep you company, and you feel a rush of gratitude as you hug her.

"ready for the match of your life?" she grins, eyes sparkling.

"more ready than i’ve ever been," you laugh, feeling your own excitement build up. you’re both practically vibrating as you take your seats, and when the game kicks off, it’s all you can focus on. 

seeing lena on the bench doesn’t dim your excitement—she’ll get her moment, and you know it.

the game starts off tense. city’s vivianne scores in the 20th minute, and the bayern fans around you groan. you try to keep your spirits up, leaning forward and clapping.

"come on, girls!" you shout in german, even though your voice is quickly swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

yasmeen chuckles beside you, giving you a supportive pat. 

"you’re so into it already."

you grin. 

"it’s impossible not to be. they’re incredible."

just before halftime, bayern’s perseverance pays off. in the 45th minute, klara sets up a perfect cross, and pernille rises up to head it in, tying the score. 

you leap out of your seat, clapping wildly as yasmeen cheers beside you.

"yes! let’s go, harder!" you yell, grinning from ear to ear.

at halftime, a fan behind you taps your shoulder and asks for a photo. she’s wearing a lena jersey, and you assume she just wants a picture with "lena’s girlfriend." 

you’re hesitant but smile and take the photo with her. when yasmeen teases you, you roll your eyes and laugh it off, though you can’t deny you’re a little flattered.

"look at you, getting famous," yasmeen nudges you. 

"you’re practically the team’s mascot at this point."

"shut up," you laugh, feeling your cheeks warm. 

"all i am is lena’s slightly anxious but very supportive girlfriend."

the second half starts off rough. city’s bunny shaw scores twice in under nine minutes, and the atmosphere in the bayern section gets tense. you bite your lip, glancing at yasmeen for reassurance as the clock ticks on.

bayern doesn’t let up. lea schüller scores in the 55th minute just one minute after shaw scored city’s third goal, and it feels like a breath of fresh air. 

one more goal, and they’ll be even again. you clap, your hands sore but determined, and yell encouragement, hoping somehow the team can hear you all the way on the bench.

then, in the 68th minute, pernille gets her second goal, equalizing. the stadium erupts, and you jump out of your seat, pulling yasmeen into a hug. 

this match has you on the edge of your seat, your heart racing with every pass, every tackle.

a commotion catches your attention near the right side of the pitch, and you see sydney in a heated exchange with alex greenwood. sydney is keeping the ball away from greenwood as the ref tries to intervene. you can’t help but chuckle as yasmeen leans over. 

"what’s going on with them?"

"just sydney being sydney," you say, grinning. 

"kidding. i’m not sure, maybe sydney just wants to give her team a breather.” 

minutes later, in the 79th minute, lena stands at the sideline, preparing to sub in. your heart skips a beat as you slip off your light blue button-up longsleeve to reveal your oberdorf jersey underneath. yasmeen catches sight of it and snickers.

"i wonder if she’ll get a yellow card within the first five minutes."

"probably," you mutter with the pride in your voice. you’re just thrilled to see her out there, part of the game she’s worked so hard to return to.

she’s barely on the pitch when, in the 81st minute, she makes a classic side tackle on mary fowler, and you and yasmeen exchange a look. 

lena gets a warning, but she’s unfazed, her focus sharp.

the clock’s ticking, and tension fills the air. then, in the 88th minute, lena sets up an assist to sydney, who powers the ball into the net, bringing the score to 3-3. 

you jump up, screaming as loud as you can, caught up in the joy of the moment.

at this point, your mind starts to wander, reflecting on how far you’ve come. a year ago, you were just a student in virginia, living a quiet life. now, you’re in lisbon, watching the woman you love play in a champions league final, surrounded by friends and fans. it feels surreal.

yasmeen nudges you, drawing you back to the game. 

"imagine if lena scores the winning goal."

"i hope," you murmur, watching her with bated breath as she passes the ball to tuva, who then lightly passes it to ana. 

ana crosses up to klara, who leaps up for a perfect header. the ball sails into the net, and the stadium explodes in cheers. the scoreboard lights up,

4-3.

klara runs to the corner, celebrating, and you watch in awe as the team surrounds her. then she turns and sends a heart your way, her hands forming the shape in the air. you send one back, beaming as yasmeen chuckles beside you.

the final whistle blows, and it’s like the whole stadium erupts at once. the scoreboard is locked at 4-3, with bayern’s victory glowing bright, but it’s hard to believe until you see the girls flood the pitch, their faces breaking into elated, disbelieving smiles. 

yasmeen nudges you, and you turn to see her beaming.

“they really did it,” she says, a little in awe herself. 

“and they really love you, huh?” you laugh, heart swelling as you watch the team embrace, overcome by what they've achieved.

“guess i just got lucky,” you murmur, and you mean it.

after the immediate celebration dies down a bit, the trophy ceremony begins, the crowd cheering louder as each player receives their medal, eyes glistening with the weight of the win. confetti rains down, golden and shimmering in the stadium lights, and you feel a lump in your throat. they’ve worked so hard for this.

suddenly, you hear a voice calling your name. you turn to see sydney and tuva waving, beckoning you over. before you can process it, they’re running up, reaching over the barricade to pull you across it.

“you’re coming with us,” sydney insists, her grip firm, and tuva laughs, nodding in agreement. they drag you toward the heart of the celebration, and you glance back at yasmeen, who waves you off with a smile.

“go have fun!” she calls, and you smile back gratefully.

you barely have a second to catch your breath before you spot lena jogging toward you, her face flushed with happiness, eyes bright under the stadium lights. she wraps you in her arms, lifting you slightly, and you cling to her, laughing as she swings you back and forth.

“we did it,” she breathes, her voice full of amazement.

“you did it,” you correct, pulling back just enough to look at her. her eyes search yours, and you can see that same mixture of pride and disbelief.

“i still can’t believe it,” she whispers, her hands resting on your shoulders. 

“it feels… surreal.”

you smile, brushing a strand of confetti from her hair. 

“it’s real. and you deserve every bit of it, obi!”

lena smiles, a little teary-eyed, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering there as if she wants to soak up the moment. 

“thank you for being here,” she says quietly, and you can hear the depth of her gratitude, her voice soft and genuine.

“i wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” you whisper back, feeling your own emotions rise.

nearby, klara is holding the trophy, posing for pictures, her grin as wide as you’ve ever seen. when she spots you, she waves you over, gesturing for you to come closer. you hesitate, feeling a rush of self-consciousness. 

you’re not a player, after all—you didn’t sweat and fight for this trophy like they did.

“come on!” klara calls, laughing at your reluctance. 

“get in here!”

you make your way over, feeling a bit out of place, and she hands you the trophy, the massive silver and blue prize weighing heavy in your hands. 

the moment feels surreal, and you look at klara, a little overwhelmed.

“are you sure?” you ask, voice soft.

she grins. 

“absolutely. you’re part of this team, too, you know.”

lena’s hand slips into the side of your waist as she steps closer, nodding with a warm smile. 

“she’s right, you know,” lena says, giving your hand a squeeze. 

“you’re like our honorary teammate.”

you smile, heart racing, and glance around at the team gathered around you. it’s a strange feeling—this sense of belonging among these women who have worked and sacrificed so much. 

they’re looking at you with genuine affection, the bond you’ve built with them over time stronger than you’d ever realized.

“alright,” you say, laughing, feeling a bit more relaxed as they crowd in around you. 

“but only because you all insisted.”

they cheer, pulling you into the picture, arms wrapped around one another, laughing and shouting in excitement as the photographer snaps photo after photo. you can feel the joy radiating from each of them, the weight of this accomplishment shared and celebrated together. 

when klara makes a heart with her hands, aiming it at you, your chest tightens with warmth.

yasmeen, watching from the stands, raises her thumbs up and laughs, mouthing “so popular!” and you give her a teasing eye-roll, smiling at her playfully.

finally, as the photos wrap up and the team disperses to greet more of their friends and family, lena pulls you aside to meet her parents, holding you close as you both take in the night. 

the lights of the stadium are soft now, the crowd gradually fading, and it’s just you two talking to her family, standing side by side in the quiet after the storm of victory.

“i’m so proud of you,” you say to lena after her family leaves the stadium, voice thick with emotion. 

“watching you play, seeing you out there after everything you’ve been through… it’s incredible.”

lena’s eyes soften, her fingers tracing the outline of your hand. 

“i couldn’t have done it without you,” she murmurs.

“you’ve been here every step, even when i was sidelined and frustrated. you kept me going.”

you smile, your heart swelling with pride and love. 

“that’s what teammates are for, right?”

she laughs softly, her gaze tender. 

“then it’s settled,” she says, her smile widening. 

“you are officially our honorary bayern teammate.”

the words echo in your mind, wrapping around you like a warm embrace, and you know that this night, this moment, will stay with you forever.

masterlist

authors note: I hope you enjoyed this six parts series :) I started it 10/1 and finished this part last night before a halloween party I had to attend lol

[devil-in-hiding]

the thought of hardened convicts struggling to do farm chores tickles me to death

i just thought of Soap being chased by chickens across the land and i am just giggling

[charliemwrites]

Chapter 4

Content: Threats/Expectation of Torture, Dub-Con, Consensual Non-Consent Elements, Hurt/Comfort

The lines are getting thinner. Day by day, touch by touch. The parts of you that buck and bray against captivity begin to settle into the dangerous clutches of this isn’t so bad.

It’s exhausting to resist, especially when every part of you isn’t unilaterally aligned. The boundary between deep, dark desire and actual circumstance is narrowing into something you can’t discern anymore. Blurring into a strange delirium. Mornings with Ghost’s fingers inside you and afternoons warming Johnny’s cock. Meals prepared by hands that have snuffed as many lives as your own. A voice that once menaced you now lulls you to sleep.

Every interaction is a double-edged blade of seduction and condemnation. You moan at the tug of a collar you’re not free to remove. Johnny leans into the same hand that just bruised his wrist. A dozen scenarios that walk the line, never tipping either of you towards or away from Ghost.

It's things like Johnny waking in the dead of night, screaming. You know what’s going on even half-asleep; the same dream-memories lock you into burning paralysis. He’s clutching at his shoulder, fingers of the same arm spasming. Coughing on phantom smoke, seeing a night sky polluted by columns of flame instead of the ceiling.

“Kit! Kit!” he rasps, painful and terrified.

“Johnny, I’m here,” you call back, heart pounding. “Johnny, wake up! It’s over, we’re okay!”

You tug fruitlessly at the collar, at the chain. It’s useless, you know it is, but you can’t just sit there and watch him suffer again. Hate Ghost and this house and your own compliance with the same fire that nearly engulfed you and Johnny.

A shadow moves at the edge of your vision. Ghost.

You beg him to let you go to Johnny, to let you help. He ignores you for the moment, kneeling at Johnny’s side and rolling him onto his back. Speaks him back to reality, voice low and gravelly, reminding of details he has no right to know – how long you both spent in the hospital, the day of your mutual discharge, the months you two spent in physical therapy.

You want to cry, want to scream, want to be there with them. But Johnny’s finally calming down and you won’t ruin it all by losing your threadbare composure.

The first thing he asks when he’s got his breath, mumbling and fuzzy, “Where’s Kit?”

Ghost crosses back to you, unlocks the chain. You scramble to Johnny’s side in an instant, practically crashing into his chest as he reaches for you. He breathes deep when you gather him in, pressing his wet face to your neck.

“I’m here, I’m okay,” you whisper, shaky hands squeezing at his sore shoulder.

His own trembling, clammy hands paw your shirt up, press to the scarring on your hip. Assuring himself it’s healed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, “I never should have gone in—”

“You were doing your job,” you interrupt. Unwilling to relive the memory again or let him torture himself with it. “And I did mine.”

The cushion shifts behind you. Thick arms circle you and Johnny, guide you back against a sturdy body. Like this, Ghost feels more solid than the ground. You want to hate him. Could – should – blame him for Johnny suffering alone and resent that he comforted him first. You find yourself leaning into his strength and warmth instead.

“Not your fault the intel was bad, pup,” Ghost murmurs, carding fingers through Johnny’s sweaty mohawk.

Eventually, you and Johnny start to doze. Snuggling in with sleepy sighs and the reassurance of the other’s presence. You (or maybe Johnny) might even whine a bit when Ghost shifts as if to leave, clinging onto his sleeve. Either way, you wake the next morning to Johnny sandwiched between you two. For a man who doesn’t even let you see his face, it’s unexpectedly… intimate.

Johnny spends most of the next day in a mood about it – ends up forced to cum scraping his cock against the laces of Ghost’s boots by lunchtime.

And that should be the tipping point, right? Or at least one of them. The awful decadent violating addictive things he does to you two.

You stray too far one morning, thought you heard something in the basement, and he puts you on your knees in the living room. Forces your thighs apart with his boots imprinting the tender skin of your thighs. Grinds the tread against your crotch until you’re squirming and teary. It’s uncomfortable… but also makes you whimper for more, body on fire and apologizing into his thigh just for a bit of relief.

Johnny mouths off for the third time in an hour – was already warned twice. Ghost makes you edge Johnny for two hours, fingers in his hole and tongue flicking over his cock.

“Been gagging for the kitten to do this to you for a while, eh, mutt?” Ghost coos, pinning Johnny’s wrists above his head. “I know it’s one of your favorite fantasies.”

And then when Johnny seems like he’s at the breaking point, Ghost makes you milk his prostate until he loses his voice entirely.

And that’s just when Ghost is in a good mood.

He comes down one morning visibly irritable. Eyes dark, shoulders tense. All his movements are short and quick, almost aggressive. When you try to ask him if something is wrong at breakfast, he grunts at you to shut up and eat. And when Johnny makes a snippy comment about “bad manners,” Ghost forces his jaw open and lifts his mask just enough to spit in his mouth.

Then he storms out the door without another word. Johnny’s left flushed, awkwardly pressing the heel of his hand against the bulge in his joggers.

Ghost returns hours later and doesn’t seem any less moody. In fact, he seems worse now. You and Johnny exchange glances. He’s already cooking up mischief, you can see it from across the room. Never did learn when to leave well enough alone. All it takes is for you to subtly shake your head at his little smirk. That might as well be a greenlight.

“Well then, Ghost?” he drawls.

Ghost, who’s been aimlessly (peacefully) flipping through channels, stops. Not that he was fidgety before, but at the smarmy note in Johnny’s voice, he gets stony. You grimace and shoot Johnny another staying look. Mouthy little bastard you may be, you’ve always had a good sense for when to shut your stupid mouth. Your serial killer kidnapper being in a shit mood is one of those times.

“Ya done sulking yet? Gonna tell us who pissed in yer cornflakes?” Johnny continues, lounging against the wall with his first arms folded behind his head. “You gonna pack your shit in or keep being a bellend?”

You feel the exact moment that Ghost’s patience snaps. The room goes cold.

He drops the tv remote onto the cushion next to him, cracks his neck, and exhales deeply. Then stands and lopes across the room. Not to Johnny.

To you.

“Ghost—” you yelp, scrambling back. Don’t get far. He snags two thick fingers around the collar and jerks you away from the wall.

“Hey!” Johnny shouts. “Hey, yeah radge bastard! I’m the one that pissed you off.”

Struggling is no use, you know that. Still, you jerk and squirm, heart pounding. Draw your fist back, only to have it caught in an iron grip. It’s going to bruise, your bones ache.

“Fucking do it,” Ghost growls, lower and rougher than you’ve ever heard. Beyond the balaclava, his gaze is burning coal. “See what happens, kitten.”

When he releases your arm, you can’t bring yourself to follow through. All your strength is just in keeping your spine straight. The unspoken threat – his sharp-toothed, blood-hungry encouragement – leeches all but survival from your body.

No praise comes for choosing the wise path this time. You tremble in its absence.

The chain slithers away. Even if you thought running would do any good, you can’t collect your legs to try. Ghost doesn’t ask (or demand) that you do. Hand still hooked in your collar, he starts dragging you along, crawling on hands and knees at his side.

Johnny is still protesting, volume and desperation rising like a tide, flooding the room with impotent panic. You can’t make out individual pleas, the crashing waves of your own fear too loud in your ears. Ghost’s silence is roiling, violent.

You get halfway down the hall before realizing your destination. The inconspicuous white door looms ahead, sinister. You can’t swallow the scream that tears from your throat.

“No, no, Ghost you promised!” you cry, bucking and thrashing.

You manage to slip his hold and fall back, twisting and scrambling to escape. Just stumble halfway to your feet, about to cross the threshold back to the den. See Johnny’s huge, regretful eyes and blanched face, mouth parted as he strains towards you.

Then cruel arms circle your waist and yank.

“No!” you shriek, kicking at air. Ghost doesn’t even grunt with the effort of hauling you down the hall. “No, Ghost, please!”

The locks are open you realize as cool air rushes past. Your efforts double, but he easily drags you down a set of wooden stairs. All you do is earn a threatening hand around your hitching throat. You sob as shadows swarm, hiccupping that he promised over and over.

Your feet brush cold, flat concrete.

The basement.

He drops you onto something hard, flat, and wooden a few feet above the ground. Your legs hang over the edge, feet swinging. A table. Ghost’s black silhouette blots out the meager light daring to peek in from the hallway.

“G-Ghost,” you choke out.

You expect to be shoved down, tied prone and helpless. Wait for the bite of a blade, the prick of a needle, the cold kiss of a gun. Brace yourself for it, scrabbling for any of the stoic demeanor you once armed yourself in.

You nearly scream again at the touch of warm hands. Not a tight grip around your throat, or a brutal fist to your face, or even strong fingers breaking yours. It’s the firm (but not painful) press of a palm over your mouth and its twin spanning your hip.

“Take a deep breath.”

You peer through watery eyes, trying to find his. With the light behind him, even his gaze is obscured. All you have his voice. Low as it is, he seems… calmer than you expect.

You obey.

“Another.”

You breathe in slowly, exhale evenly.

“Good.” Relief makes you so dizzy that your eyes flutter. Ghost shakes you a bit. “Listen, little one.”

You blink up at him, take another breath, and nod for him to continue.

“I need to get some frustration out and the pup needs to learn a lesson.” He sweeps his thumb over the curve of your hip. You shiver, confused and still frightened, but still trained to react to his touch. “You just need to put on a good show, yeah?”

You try to speak, but his hand doesn’t move, so you settle for making a questioning noise.

“I’m going to torture you,” he explains, as casual as telling you what’s for dinner. “And you’re going to convince the mutt that you hate it.”

His hand slips from your hip to your groin, rocking meaningfully. Tentative understanding dawns with a golden ray of hope.

“The alternative is that Soap takes your place,” Ghost muses in your silence, mistaking it for reluctance. “I won’t be nearly as… humane with him.”

You protest wordlessly, shaking your head.

“No?” he mocks. “You’ll be good for me, then? Let me use you to teach that brat a lesson?”

You nod. Guilt gnaws at you for getting off (literally) so easy when Johnny is up there out of his mind on fear and his own guilt.

That sentiment doesn’t last long.

Ghost rips your clothes away with a growl, leaving them in tatters beneath you. You yelp, genuinely shocked. He moved so fast. There’s nothing teasing or seductive about him, not this time. None of the patience or measure from every previous encounter.

Sharp teeth scrape your jaw, beneath your ear, over your collarbones. Harsh fingers pinch and twist your pebbled nipples until you arch with a shout. He forces his big body between your thighs, grinding your quickly warming groin against unforgiving denim and the bulge hidden beneath.

“Stop, stop!” you cry, half-meaning it, head spinning. “Ghost, please!”

He doesn’t. If anything, your pathetic pleas spur him on.

Your underwear is discarded with another tear of fabric, exposing you to cool air and a mean man.

Ghost’s mouth closes around you, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You scream. High-pitched, wounded. Would jackknife right off the table if not for the merciless pin of your hips. Sounds claw up your throat and leap from your parted lips. You’re not in control of them, not with the way he’s slurping, growling, just the faintest hint of teeth to keep your voice octaves too high.

“No, no, please stop!” you keen.

He shoves two fingers in your gaping mouth, gags you on them until you’re coughing and gasping wetly. Awful, desperate sounds. You throb.

Those fingers circle your hole.

“Don’t!” you wail. “Please, Ghost, not that. I can’t—”

You shriek as one finger pushes inside. Nothing slow or gentle about it, a firm and unrelenting push. He doesn’t wait for you to recover or catch your breath. That single finger pumps in and out of your uncertain body, mechanical. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels dangerous. You squeeze your eyes shut and beg again for him to stop.

In answer, he pulls away long enough to spit directly on your twitching, sensitive hole. Then wedges the second finger alongside the first. This time your scream ends on a sob as his fingers pet your walls. It’s not quite painful, but it feels like it should be. It’s too much. Your body doesn’t sing, it screams for him.

Ghost has already mapped out all the places that make you shake and cry and beg. He seals his mouth around you again, and you’re gone. Bawling and kicking at air, he forces you over the edge faster than anyone ever as.

He works you through it, sticky wetness dripping down to ease the stretch of a third thick finger. Worse still, he doesn’t even slow, keeps going like you haven’t cum at all.

“It hurts!” you sob. “Please, it hurts, I can’t!”

He uses his free hand to toy with your nipples again, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation that melts your brain. The overstimulation almost burns, you can’t tell if it’s ice-cold or white-hot. Just know that your nerves are shot, and yet you’re still rocking into his touch just that slightest damning bit. Because it’s not just too much, it’s not enough. You’re stuffed with his fingers, but you ache for more, for…

“Please, Ghost,” you breathe, hushed and desperate. “Please, fuck me.”

He pulls away with a filthy pop. “Fuck you?” he repeats. There’s a malicious smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you confirm, “please, I want it. D-don’t you want to…?”

He doesn’t answer – not with words. A noise thunders from his chest that raises goosebumps, freezes your blood, and burns through you like wildfire. You don’t know if you’re afraid or aroused, can’t tell if you want to run or bare your throat. It wouldn’t matter regardless. Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

You yelp as Ghost slides his fingers out agonizingly slow, pressing against your walls the entire way. His shifts, tugging your ass to the edge of the table and bowing up over you. Sharp teeth nip at the edge of your collar as the blunt head of his cock rubs against your aching entrance. Anticipation and trepidation chase each other through your veins, leave you shaking so hard you’re surprised the table isn’t rattling.

“Relax,” Ghost rumbles in your ear, “or don’t. Won’t make a difference to me.”

There’s nothing gentle or gradual about it, no consideration for his own size or your body’s limits. Just a hot, unrelenting press. You keen as your poor, oversensitive hole yields beneath the onslaught. It burns, you can’t breathe, he doesn’t let you adjust even once the flared head is tucked snuggly inside. Just keeps cramming his fat cock deeper and deeper.

You’re lightheaded when he bottoms out an eternity later. It feels like all the air has been forced from your lungs, like there isn’t room for anything but Ghost. And then he rocks back and slams home again.

This time, the table does rattle.

You grip desperately at the sides, nails scraping. He fucks into you viciously, teeth glinting in a half-feral snarl. There’s no consideration for your pleasure, but he still sends your eyes rolling back with every thrust. You’re too gone, dumb on ecstasy, probably drooling.

A rough hand shoves your thigh back, bending your knee to your chest. His cock rams into your g-spot and your voice breaks on the wail that follows. He shortens his thrusts, half pulling out before plunging back inside, ruthlessly abusing that bundle of nerves, snarling as your walls flutter and spasm.

“No, no, no, not again,” you babble but it’s too late.

The pleasure rapidly overflows into a mind-numbing orgasm, whiting out everything but the exquisite torture of Ghost pounding you through it. This time you can’t even muster the ability to plead or squirm. Even your body seems to surrender to his will, going limp and pliant through waves of overstimulation.

“Not yet,” he growls. “One more, and then you can pass out.”

He snakes his free hand down between your bodies. Tears stream down your temples. Helpless, wordless cries spill from your raw throat, high and sharp. Another orgasm builds frighteningly fast, crackling along your shot nerves until you blow like fuse. Blinding ecstasy cracks up your spine, envelopes your mind, and leaves everything dark.

You wake in the bathtub.

It’s a slow, reluctant crawl back to consciousness. The lights have been dimmed to something soft and warm, filtering through a curtain of curling steam. Like this, the bathroom is a dreamlike blur, all hazy lines and twilight shadow. Water laps at your collarbones, not quite scalding, just the way you like. It’s quiet save for the gentle swish of movement along the surface, and slow breathing by your head. Someone is drawing a cloth gently along your heavy body.

A low, gravelly voice coos, “Back with us, kitten?”

You roll your head, blink syrupy slow at the dark specter of Ghost knelt at your side. His sleeves have been drawn up past his elbows.  One arm supports your neck and head, protecting you from the cold, harsh side of the tub. The other disappears beneath the surface of the water, working slowly back and forth. A reaper paying dues.

“Maybe,” you hum.

He makes an amused noise. Not quite a chuckle, but close.

“You can sleep again soon,” he replies. “I think the pup has suffered for long enough, though.”

You jolt, the cotton candy haze dissolving into bitter ash.

Poor Johnny, thinking Ghost was doing something awful to you. Hearing your screams and cries and begging, only for Ghost to bring you up some indeterminate time later, unconscious. Guilt threatens to swallow you whole.

“Easy now, precious,” Ghost soothes, a hand between your shoulders as you sit up. “Take it slow. I wasn’t gentle with you.”

That becomes evident as you abandon the weightless solace of the hot water. Aches immediately bloom throughout your body, concentrated around your hips and thighs. Your lower spine is sore, a muscle in your thigh feels strained, and your hole…

“Christ,” you whimper, nearly slipping.

Ghost catches you, scoops you out of the tub altogether, and waits for you to steady your fawn-weak legs on the bathmat. You lean into him heavily, soaking wet patches like blood into his sweatshirt. You’ve paid your way like this – imaginary cuts at Johnny’s expense.

You can’t look at Ghost’s egregiously fond gaze without nausea bubbling in your empty stomach. A yawning pit grows there, hollowing you out. You can’t face the mirror either.

Ghost doesn’t interrupt your flagellation. Buffs you down with a towel in silence, polishing the monument he’s built to his own deprivation. Couldn’t have shaped it without the raw material there though, could he? Statues don’t form without a block of unformed marble, can’t make granite of limestone.

He dresses you in one of his hoodies and fresh underwear before returning you downstairs.

The state you find Johnny in breaks your heart. Tear-streaked, puffy-eyed, lips bitten bloody. His hair is tangled and disarrayed, bruised hands limp in his thighs. Though his head is leaned back against the wall, there’s no ease in his body. His jaw is so tight you worry for his teeth, brows furrowed tight. A crumpled ball of tension and regret.

“Johnny,” you say, voice splintering. The shards rain down, popping the bubble of bleak silence suffocating the den.

His eyes fly open. You dart to him, throwing yourself into his arms before he can process what he’s seeing. Press yourself close and tight, eyes stinging at the exhausted tremble in his body. Johnny’s never been anything but fire and stone to you. Warmth and heat and energy, strength and support even with the cracks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you warble. “I’m so sorry.”

He nudges you back to scan you with glassy eyes, like he’s seeing a miracle right in front of him.

“You… you’re okay,” he rasps, voice shredded to wisps.

You nod, bowing your head in shame. “He – we…” You can’t find the words to explain, don’t even know how to begin. His hands keep drifting over your arms and hands, eyes flicking from your face to your neck to your bare legs.

Ghost chimes in. “Told the kitten to put on a show or you would suffer.”

You want to wipe away Johnny’s half-dry tears, offer the comfort he’s been deprived of. Cowardice grips your arm, suspends it in midair, whispers poisonous doubts about your welcome.

But Johnny presses his cry-flushed cheek into your palm, shuddering through a dry sob. He leans his weight into you, and despite the fatigue, you stay the pillar you’ve always tried to be for him.

“You both need water,” Ghost rumbles, and turns for the kitchen.

Left alone, Johnny doesn’t emerge from the safety he’s found in the hollow of your throat. You cradle him with all the tenderness you can muster, sifting gentle hands through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” you whisper finally.

He lets out a sigh and hugs you closer. “Nothin’ to apologize for, Kit. Not mad at ya for protectin’ me. ‘Specially when I put you down there in the first place.”

“I don’t blame you for anything. I wouldn’t have blamed you even if he had…” You shake your head. “Well, regardless, it’s on Ghost for losing his temper.”

He doesn’t respond. You’re not surprised, but your chest squeezes. Johnny’s a proud man, but he’s got a guilt complex a kilometer wide – especially for people he cares deeply for. He’ll be haunted by this for a while.

“I’m just glad you’re alright, luv. Don’t care about a damn other thing.”

You tilt your chin to press kisses to the crown of his head – until he finally peeks out for you to trail more down his ruined face. The kiss starts gentle, warmth and love and reassurance pouring into him from your mouth. Johnny shudders in a breath, cups your jaw. His control slips, mouth parting on desperation and relief, lapping comfort from the edges of your teeth and curl of your tongue.

You only part when Ghost returns, nudging the two of you with his knee. He doesn’t insist on separating you far, though. Just enough to bestow you and Johnny with full glasses of water. You sip in measured doses while Johnny chugs to the bottom in a few noisy mouthfuls.

As he does, you note the awful marks on his hands. Bruised and bloodied knuckles, blisters forming on his palms. Your eyes dart to the wall – sure enough, red stamps like smashed grapes, centered around the wall anchor for the chain. You follow the trail back to his collar, spot the angry skin peaking past. At least there isn’t blood.

Ghost notices too.

“We’ll have to take it off for the night.”

To your surprise, something like reluctance flickers across Johnny’s face. There and gone again, but definitely there. You say nothing; you’d have the same reaction.

Ghost disappears again – this time you hear him rummaging in one of the cabinets. While you and Johnny wait, you exchange chaste, gentle kisses while you burrow into his side.

He returns with a first-aid kit. You’re surprised when offers you a roll of bandages. “A hand for each of us.”

You hum in agreement, get to work dabbing the split skin with antibacterial.

“Can I jus’ ask why, Ghost?”

Ghost doesn’t even glance up. “Why what, pup?”

“Why take it out on Kit? Why not just give me a thrashing and call it a day?”

You frown. Don’t like this line of questioning, or the guilt still staining his words. But Ghost answers without hesitation.

“Because you told me, yeah? Your worst fear is the kitty suffering for you again,” he explains. “No better way to punish you.”

That’s no shock to you; the sentiment is mutual. It’s been damn near written on both your faces since you woke up here, and Ghost isn’t a stupid man. He had you made long before then, you’re sure.

But Johnny’s sudden silence strikes you like a cord out of key. No mutters of annoyance or even snarky comebacks this time. Just a silence that drags your gaze from the careful winding of gauze.

He’s not looking at you, though. He’s staring at Ghost, abject horror graying his skin.

“Riley?”

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