#soap cares about the men he serves with

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[artdcnaldson]

You asked for blurb ideas & that thought here got stuck in my mind since this morning 🌞

Tennis Reader “thanking” Art after their training session in the locker rooms. ;)

Reader sneaks in men’s locker room after training together till evening, surprising (Stanford) Art under the shower + asking for some steamy extra cardio. 👀

And eventually Patrick walks in. Idk abt that but whatever you write is amazing, in every trope 🫶🏻

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (hj, fingering, p in v), throuple dynamics (+1)

A/N: Ok I’m sorry I know you said Stanford but 2019 era Art is ALLLL I can think about 🩷 forgive me for my transgressions pls

Tashi had set the whole thing up, holding his hand through it. Because Tashi and Patrick were off globetrotting for the tour— France, if he remembered correctly. Tashi just wanted to make sure he was taken care of, that his needs were being met. In his career… and otherwise.

You were a player out of… USC? He thought that sounded right. Recently graduated, doing well in the pros, already highly ranked with an excellent record. The perfect first player for Art Donaldson to coach.

She set up the entire thing, met with you to get things organized, and penciled training into his calendar with a tiny note.

Have fun without us -T

You were doing such a good job, even unwittingly— putting on the sweetest little show for him. When you’d miss a serve or a ball went out of bounds, you’d do a peppy little jog then bend over to grab it, completely unaware of the effect it might have had on him.

“I need to see how you play,” he had said as you dropped your bag on the side of the court. You smiled and nodded, and took to the opposite side of the net.

He beat you embarrassingly easily the first set. Sweat was beading on your forehead as you met him at the benches between courts and guzzled down water. When you finally came up for air, a little trail of water went from your plush bottom lip and down your chin.

He watched you lick the moisture from your lips, then wipe at the rest with the back of your hand. He swallowed hard.

“Do you want my advice?” He scratched at the back of his neck as you peered up at him expectantly. “You need to loosen up, you’re too tense.”

Your eyes widened at his direction, but you nodded. “Yeah, okay, Mr. Donaldson.” You drank down another gulp, then jogged back to the other side of the court, eager to please.

He watched you bend over, retrieving a couple of balls that you’d hit into the net, flashing tiny white spandex beneath your tennis skirt.

Jesus Christ, Tashi was evil.

By the afternoon, sweat dripped down your arms, along the line of your throat, dampened the baby hairs framing your face and the back of your neck, tacking them down to sticky skin.

“Why don’t we head to the locker rooms inside, then we can meet upstairs and go through a training plan.”

You smiled, looking so sweet and eager. “Okay.”

He was grateful for the shower— molten against aching, underused muscles. He hadn’t exactly just given up on everything after retiring, but his muscles weren’t being used the way they were used to— the constant strenuous training.

He closed his eyes, letting the spray hit his face and soak into his skin.

He heard a squeak and jumped, eyes flying open to the sight of you naked underneath one of the other shower heads, quickly adjusting the spray from ice cold to steaming hot.

“Turned it to cold on accident,” you said over your shoulder. “Women’s locker rooms are under maintenance. You don’t mind, right?”

He turned, cheeks burning pink as he tried his best to play it cool— act like he wasn’t checking you out. “No, uh, it’s fine.”

Were you in on it with Tashi? It certainly felt like it as he watched you lathering your body up with soap, maybe focusing too much attention to your tits.

You glanced over, caught him looking, and smiled. He turned away quickly with his pulse thrumming in his throat.

Fuck. He was already hard. It wasn’t exactly a surprise— he’d been half-hard just at the sight of you in that fucking outfit on the court.

He heard you laugh and looked back at you. You were looking right at him, amusement evident in your expression. “She said you’d be easy, but, Jesus, I thought you’d put up more of a fight.” 

You shut off the water of your shower and made your way over. Water dripped from your body, rolling down your skin in delicate rivulets. You stopped in front of him and ran a hand down his chest, making him shiver.

“Tashi told you?” His words trailed off into a groan as your hands moved between his legs, stroking the length of him in your delicate grasp.

“She told me to say thank you after every lesson,” you said. With each step forward you made, he took a step back, until you had him pinned against the cold tile. He moaned as your thumb ran over the tip of his cock, and you smile sweetly. “She showed me exactly how I should do it.”

“Showed you?”

You sped your hand up, twisting slightly with each tug upwards. “Mhmm. On Patrick. She went first, then I showed her what I learned.” You laughed softly, lips brushing along his jaw. “I’m a very fast learner. Patrick was very impressed.”

Fuck, he was going to get back at Tashi for not letting him be there for that. The mental image was enough to make his cock pulse in your grip. Maybe he’d just have you recreate it for him the second Tashi and Patrick came home.

Your lips brushed along the like of his jaw as you continued to jerk him off, your hand slick and tight and relentless. Just like Tashi’s would be. God, you really were a fast learner.

It would certainly make being your coach a lot easier.

“Art,” you hummed, breath hot against his ear. He nodded wordlessly, almost afraid that if he spoke, he’d wake up from a fugue state to find out that he’d just imagined it all and was mid-jerk off session.

Your lips moved against his throat, nipping gently at the expanse of soft skin. He tasted like sweat and tap water. Your words came out as a whisper, “You can fuck me now.”

He laughed shakily, flushed red down to his chest. “Now? You don’t want me to go down on you, or—“

He was cut off when you grabbed his hand and moved it between your legs. Dripping wet, silky soft, absolutely aching for him.

You moaned softly, leaning fully onto him for support as he rubbed at your clit. “T-Tashi—“ You stammered, losing that seductive bravado you’d walked in with. “Told me I should make you work for it. But, fuck—”

Art laughed softly. “You’re too needy.”

“Do you know how fucking sexy you sound when you play tennis?” You whined, breath going shaky as he pushed a finger inside of your aching cunt. “Halfway through the second set, I— god— I considered dropping the pretense and fucking you right on the— on the court.”

Tashi wouldn’t have that. When she came home, she’d clock that impatience train it out of you. She’d make you sit and watch, get so desperate you’d beg and cry for it. She had to do it to Patrick before— she would know just how to get you to the point she needed you at.

The tennis would be up to Art.

You were so wet, clenching around his finger, craving more. What the fuck would be the point in denying either of you any longer?

You whined when he moved his hand from you, but he wasn’t going to keep you waiting. He pinned you against the cold tile wall, lifting you up to where he needed. You smiled at him,wrapping your legs around his waist, coaxing him closer.

A shiver ran through you as his cock brushed over your folds— so close to where you needed him. His tip notched against your entrance and he pressed into you slowly, relishing in the way you held your breath, in the way your body opened up for him so eagerly.

He pressed his forehead against yours when he bottomed out, and you panted as you adjusted to him.

You were impatient. So fucking impatient. You rocked your hips against him, begging wordlessly for more. He leaned in, kissing you slowly.

“Art,” you gasped, pulling away from the kiss as he fucked into you, slow and deep. “Patrick told me that I should tell you that you’re supposed to fuck me, not make love to me.”

Of fucking course he did. “Is that what you want?”

You nodded, somehow looking so sweet split open on his cock. His hips met yours in a particularly harsh thrust and you cried out in surprise. You moaned so seeetly, your lips turned up in a smug grin. It was exactly what you wanted.

Your back slid against the slick tile wall as he drove into you again and again and again. Your cunt was so warm, and tight, and so fucking wet if squelched obscenely with each thrust.

Wet kisses were peppered along his jaw and throat along with soft murmured thank yous and praise.

“You’re so deep, Art,” you moaned into his ear. “Feels so good. Thank you, thank you.”

It had been a week since Tashi and Patrick were home. A week of having to find satisfaction with Patrick’s fucking lewd Snapchat videos and his hand.

And here you were— a sweet, tight, Tashi-approved plaything. Your manicured nails rubbing at your clit, your pussy clamping around his cock as you drew closer and closer to the edge.

What better foreplay was there than tennis?

You came first, which was a fucking Godsend. He had no doubt Tashi would’ve flayed him if she found out that he couldn’t even manage to get his new toy off before he did. Loud— not caring if anyone heard.

Tashi would train that out of you too, lest you get them banned from every fucking country club in the state. Or a TMZ article whispering about a tawdry affair.

He shut you up with a hungry, searing kiss. Tongue moving against yours, muffling your cries. He came buried as deep as he could possibly get, with his tongue shoved down your throat and his grip bruising your soft thighs.

The water had gone icy when you both detached from each other, finally taking the actual shower you needed. You happily shared a shower head since you’d wasted enough water as is.

You redressed, tied up your wet hair, and sat on a bench, tapping away at your phone while he did his best to look presentable, and not like he’d just fucked the athlete he was supposed to be coaching.

“Tashi and Patrick say hi,” you said casually, offering a killer smile.

Maybe retirement wasn’t that bad.

NEED to be the toxic triplets’ little plaything im clawing at the padded walls of my enclosure

Anywayssss feel free to send more blurb reqs 🩷

[bunnys-kisses]

hello! i stumbled upon your blog and i must admit i LOVE the bakery theme. can i get a berry trifle and coffee with oscar piastri please? thank you so much!!!

bakery menu

want to submit your own order! check the original post for all the information & prompts! as for this prompt, i am loving that people are into the whole rivals idea. i love writing rivals for f1, it's like the soap opera aspect of f1. it's very funny.

berry trifle ('wrong, try again') + coffee (rivals) served to you by oscar piastri (formula one!)

cw: smut/pwp, (failed) rivals au, driver!reader, driver!oscar, a dash of breeding kink, unprotected sex, references to masturbation, cowgirl position,

okay, oscar didn't hate you. despite what the press had been alluding to after hungary, oscar didn't hate you. in fact, he had respect for you, you were breaking barriers for women in the field.

but by god, did you light a fire in him.

when he first met you, you were in the semi-baggy driver's clothes. the fabric didn't give you much shape. so oscar just thought you were the cute new driver.

that was until you attended an event for ferrari with leclerc, the dress-code did not include the driver's suit. that was when oscar got a good look at your figure. there was a strength to your form that could clearly be seen by the lack of full sleeves on the dress you wore.

oscar didn't know he was attending the gun show!

but that only made his carnal craving for you grow deeper.

"she's turning a lot of heads." charles remarked before he took a sip of his drink, "i told her that if she really worked on it, she could get some hefty sponsors."

"or a date." lando remarked as the three men watched you talk your way through the room. eventually lando said, "i'd smash." before he downed his drink and got up to get another one.

charles looked to oscar and asked, "what are your thoughts on her, piastri?" he was genuinely curious, oscar was quiet about you.

oscar sighed and made a face, "i want to crush her on the track." he turned to the other man and shrugged, "i don't care if she's a woman, i'm here to win."

-

you beat him in belgium. you also beat norris, leclerc, and verstappen. you held that trophy over your head while the national anthem of your home country played. oscar swore that he saw tears in your eyes.

there was a buzz about you over the course of the summer break. oscar took it as an opportunity to invite you to england. all driver's ran in the same circles and oscar was just extending an offer for you to get out of monaco for a week!

"i promise, it does get sunny... sometimes." he said to you over the phone. he didn't admit but when he heard you beautiful voice on the other end of the line, his hand was already around his cock.

he was in anticipation for your visit and was more than happy to pick you up from the airport. you threw yourself at him and laughed.

"you were right, it is hot!" you were wearing a light sweatshirt, "i honestly thought you were fuckin' with me. you must be cold, mister australia!"

he scratched the back of his neck, and his eyes went wide when you hastily took off the sweatshirt, exposing more of your body to him. he didn't know that ferrari made such tight tank tops.

oscar's plans to really cement you as a rival failed upon impact. he thought this trip was going to be really getting to the core of you and cementing himself as you rival. but, instead you were helping him make breakfast because you 'felt bad' that he was doing 'everything'.

it was two eggs in a pain and couple of sausages.

you lingered around him, he noticed by the second day you smelt like his body wash when you got close enough to him. you were all bright smiles, soft gazes and tight little tops.

oscar ended every night with his cock in his hand, idly masturbating until his legs cramped up. the sick little kink he often let his mind wander about was the breeding kink.

his dream was two seasons with you at mclaren (sorry, lando). you in the bright orange across the paddock. then halfway through the second season, you start feeling unwell. you'd be too stubborn to take a pregnancy test, but with the amount of tests drivers have to take, it wouldn't be long before you were confronted by the fact that oscar got you pregnant! then you start a bright new future as mrs. piastri, and lando can come back (yay, lando!).

that was why his plan to make you his rival failed, because his need to get his cock wet overrode everything else.

it took a week before you two started sleeping together. you could only drink, laugh and play so many video games before you led him back to his bedroom like a siren.

it was met with giggles and bad jokes. hands touching skin and finally the clothes were shed.

oscar liked you on top, as did you. you liked having the control of your movements as your pussy was a vice around his leaky cock. you were on birth control (duh), but the other driver didn't need to know.

he honestly thought he was taking you raw.

"tell me who's going to win it all this year?" you asked as you rolled your hips. his cock was snug in you, you had to admit, the other driver was packing some heat between his legs.

and he wasn't afraid to use it.

oscar rubbed his thumb against your hip and said, "yeah, number eighty-eight for mclaren." he smiled cockily.

"wrong, try again." you said as you laughed and tapped him on the nose, which made him groan. you bent over himself as you rocked your hips and kissed at his face. he looked visibly relaxed.

"oh c'mon!" he laughed as he tried to set the pace himself. but you placed your hands on his chest and anchored yourself. you were not letting him take control.

you leaned in to kiss him again. the air conditioning in the room prevented it from getting too hot. but, oscar could see the slight sheen of sweat on your naked body in the afternoon light.

"you don't think i'll beat you?"

you shook your head and continued to move up and down on his cock. you pushed the hair out of your face, "oh, don't be silly, piastri." you playfully slapped his toned chest, "we all know i'm going to beat you." then flashed your press smile.

words like that made him want to breed you even more. but, he kept those thoughts to himself. he didn't want to risk losing such a sweet pussy in his close proximity.

it'd be hard to win championship when you were carrying the other driver's baby!

you rested up against his chest and rolled your hips. you had taken his cock to the root and it nudged against you with each thrust of your hips. you could feel his balls up against your pussy.

"shit, fuck. you feel so good."

"i bet you say that to all the girls you bring back to this place." you laughed as you really worked at riding him. you panted heavily as you moved against him.

he ran his fingers through your hair, "nah, nah. no girl's as pretty as you." oscar's plan slipped through his fingers, he wanted you more as a wife then a rival.

"well, aren't you sweet, oscar."

the two of you continued to fuck in the afternoon light. the pleasure pumped through your body as you rode him. you knew you weren't going to last long, that was one thing you could admit about oscar.

he was a good fuck.

the bed squeaked a little bit under the both of you. oscar's orgasm hit him hard and he finished inside of you in a huff. his nails dug into your hips as you continued to ride him till you found your completion.

he looked in a bit of a daze as you continued to hump against him. you felt the sweat on your back and oscar's strong chest under your nails, your short nails scratching against the skin.

"shit, oscar." you groaned as you reached your climax.

you were both out of breath. you didn't know what to do after you stopped your movements besides just giving him a firm pat on the chest. you panted, "good. good."

he laughed, "excellent. now c'mere."

you soon laid out on his chest and linked your fingers with his. your legs tangled together as you laid there trying to catch your breath. it was almost intimate.

you kissed at the other's collarbones, "so what do you say, piastri? another round and then we can get some dinner?"

-

that evening you called charles up, you were seated on the balcony of the flat with your legs kicked out on the small table.

"leclerc residence, charles speaking." he yawned on the other end.

you replied, "it's barely eight o'clock. you're getting too old." with a hint of laughter in your voice. in all fairness you were a little tired too.

"glad to see you're alive in england. how's oscar?"

"good, good. our little mission is a success." you beamed on the other end, "oscar will be as docile as your little leo."

charles chuckled on the other end, "if he is, he's going to need more training. i don't get why you didn't start with lando? he was into you too."

"yeah, but oscar's accent got me first." you sighed, "i mean, eventually the two will tear each other apart." you shrugged.

"or tear you apart." charles remarked.

"i'm not too worried there, leclerc. you men are quite funny sometimes. i'll tell you everything when i get back."

your teammate replied, "whatever, just don't come crawling back to me when they both catch on and you've got cum coming out of your ears."

formula one was a man's world, but if you could keep a man like oscar piastri on his knees for you. then maybe you had a chance of winning the championship.

[prazinos]

Ghost Metal AU

Warnings ~ Porn with plot, Degradation, Oral {M&F}, face fucking, rough sex, mating press, fingering, piercings {M}, spitting, PiV, aftercare.

Word Count ~ 3.2k

You stood at the barrier that separates the crowd and the stage, your body practically vibrating with excitement. You spent nearly eight hours outside in order to get a good spot at the barrier. Why? Because 141 was playing.

The 141.

Soap on drums, Gaz on bass, Price on guitar, and your favourite, Ghost on lead guitar and vocals.

When you first heard 141 on your friends playlist, you were immediately obsessed.The way Ghosts voice sounded was incredible. Deep and gravelly, with a clear British accent, a Manchester accent you later figured out after stalking the entire band online.

So, as soon as your friend told you that the band was coming to play in your hometown, you immediately got tickets. They cost a fortune, but if it meant being noticed by Ghost, you’d be more than willing to spend your entire life savings.

You spent all day trying to find the perfect outfit for the concert, something that would stand out but blend in. A little slutty but not too much to make the band think you were just a desperate groupie wanting to get fucked. No, well, yes. You did want to get fucked. But you didn’t want the band to assume you were a groupie. 

You could care less about the opening act. Some up and coming metal band you couldn’t even remember the name of. You just wanted 141 to come out, and while yes you knew the chances of being noticed by the band were miniscule, you still clung to a sliver of hope that sat in the forefront of your mind. 

Finally, after what felt like forever, the stage lights lit up, the crowd filling with screams and shouts, your own scream following along, just as loud, if not, slightly louder.

All of the band except Ghost was on stage, and then you heard loud thudding. Like loud, slow footsteps, the crowd eerily silent in anticipation, before a final stage light lit up, and Ghost was right in fucking front of you. 

He was huge. He had these black thick looking boots that were intimidating but didn’t actually add to his height. He was wearing these leather pants that weren’t skin tight but his thighs were so muscular the pants hugged them deliciously, a chunky belt with spikes on it. His chest was bare, and he had some scars on his chest, served in the military, you remember. The 141 was made entirely up of military friends who all got honourably discharged. When your eyes finally flittered up to Ghost’s face, they widened as you noticed Ghost’s eyes on you, wolfish smirk gracing his lips. Your heart practically lept into your throat, the beat of it quickening drastically.

“How are we doing tonight?” Ghost asked into the microphone in front of him, finally taking his eyes off you. The crowd screamed enthusiastically in response to his question. But then, you heard the telltale sound of Soap hitting his drumsticks together three times, indicating the start of the concert.

Throughout the concert, you kept making eye contact with Ghost, everytime it happened, your stomach twisted in excitement. The first few times it happened, you assumed it was pure coincidence, you convinced yourself of that. But when Ghost looked over at you for the fifth time of the night and winked, you clocked that it was no coincidence. That Ghost had actually taken interest in you. 

As the final song finishes, you can’t help the disappointment that surges within your chest, but it’s quickly extinguished when Ghost looks down at you once more, gesturing his head to backstage, and you feel your skimpy panties become rapidly damp at the anticipation for what would happen when you went backstage. 

Once the crowd had filtered out enough that you could move over to the backstage area, you saw three burly men whom you assumed were bodyguards, and a crowd of mostly women, all in scantily clad clothing.

You managed to push forward to where the bodyguards were standing, and your brows furrow when they don't let you pass. “Um, Ghost asked me to come back here?” you squeaked, to which the bodyguards chuckled mockingly.

“Oh, really?” One of the bodyguards spoke up, opening his mouth to say something mocking.

“Yes, really.” A deep voice spoke from behind the bodyguards, clearly startling them. And a bunch of the women beside you let out screams when Ghost stepped forward, his chest and abs still glistening with sweat. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re coming with me” he spoke, holding a hand out towards you.

Your brain blue screened for a moment, before you took his hand, some of the women and even men beside and behind you were whining and protesting. Begging Ghost to take them backstage instead of you. It lit a fire of confidence within you.

“Holy shit” you whispered as Ghost pulled you through the backstage area, and he chuckled at your awe. 

“You that impressed, swee’eart?” Ghost asked, and you nodded dumbly, too starstruck to utter another word.

When Ghost pulled you into the green room, your eyes filled with further awe. The room smelled distinctly of whatever cologne Ghost used, cigarettes, and slightly of leather. 

“Saw you staring at me, lovie” Ghost rumbled from behind you, and you turned, looking up at him, lashes fluttering a little. 

“Well ‘m sure that there was plenty of people staring at you, kinda the point of a concert. Stare at a bunch of sweaty guys for two and a half hours” you quipped, which seemed to be the right thing to say, because Ghost smiled in amusement down at you. 

“You make a fair point, lovie. But, you were the only one out there staring at me that caught my attention” Ghost hummed. Reaching up and gliding his thumb up your jaw, successfully running a shiver down your spine. 

You knew that Ghost wasn’t one to sleep with groupies, that was more Soap and sometimes Gaz’s area. Price had said something in an interview about Soap and Gaz being younger, him and Ghost being older so they didn’t really need to sleep around a lot.

“Can practically hear you thinking, love. You wondering why I’m choosing to sleep with you, even though I don't normally sleep with groupies?” Ghost asked.

“I’m not a groupie,” you protested stubbornly, crossing your arms. “And…maybe, yeah. I am curious why you chose me to sleep with” you murmured.

“I’m sorry for my assumption, sweet thing. But to answer your question, I picked you because I could tell there was something different about you” Ghost hummed, raising a brow when you burst into giggles. “What’s got you giggling like a madwoman?” He asked. 

“It’s like I’m in some wattpad story, reading a book in the crowd and you notice me because you can tell there's something different about me” you joke, making yourself giggle harder. 

“Watt…pad?” Ghost asked.

“Forget it, can we just get on to the fucking part, now? My panties are soaked” you say, which makes Ghost smile and lean down slightly, sliding his hand up your thigh under your skirt and to the skimpy thong you had on, his fingers gliding against the soaked gusset of your panties, making you whine from the too little stimulation it gave you. Ghost’s lips met yours, sloppy, messy, but utterly brain numbing in the best way possible. There was a slight clack of teeth as you caught up and responded to the kiss. Your tongues meet and the disgustingly wet sounds filled the green room.

“Christ, you are soaked f’me, aren’t you” Ghost growled as he pulled away from the kiss, he trails his fingers back up and grazing the waistband of your thong, before they slide under the waistband and swipe them through your folds, pussy drooling with need. 

“Uh huh” you whine, nodding your head as your hands grasp Ghost’s muscular biceps to stabilise yourself. Your knees slightly shaky, before you look up at him. “C-Can i suck your dick?” You asked hopefully, making Ghost smile smugly, and he nodded, unbuckling the chunky belt that held up his pants, your eyes trained on his rough, calloused fingers. They were so fucking thick that one could probably amount to two of your own. 

You dropped to your knees, you’d regret that move in the morning when you woke up with a bruise on each knee, but at the moment, you blocked out the pain as Ghost finally got the belt open, tugging his black boxer briefs down just enough for his thick and heavy cock to slap up against his pelvis, then it bobs in front of your face a little. Almost hypnotising you.

Ghost’s cock was long, you expected it to be due to his tall stature, it was around eight inches long, relatively thick too, it was the biggest you’ve ever taken, and you were slightly worried for your throat, but that would be tomorrow's worry. Your brain seemed to finally process the silver glinting along his cock, you’d heard about that piercing. Jason’s ladder? No, Jacob’s ladder. 

There were four bars running up his cock, he was cut, with a reddish tip, you assume he must’ve been hard for a while, and the precum that was oozing from his tip made your mouth water. You were also surprised at the neatly groomed dirty blonde pubic hair at the base of his cock. Ghost struck you as an untamed jungle kind of guy.

“You gonna do something or just keep starin’?” Ghost rumbled above you, effectively snapping you out of your thoughts. 

You lean forward, looking up at Ghost through your lashes as you licked his tip in short, repetitive strokes, getting a taste for the pre that was drooling slowly from his slit. It was slightly bitter, you assumed from Ghost smoking. Your eyes land on the veins going up the underside of his cock, and you trace the thickest vein up to the tip, then, you slowly take him deeper and deeper into your mouth. Swallowing around him to suppress a gag.

“Fuck, lovie. You’re a natural, huh? Taking my cock so well” Ghost groaned, his large right hand going to the crown of your head. Encouraging you to take more of him. Your tongue gliding over the cold silver balls, sending a shiver down the guitarist's spine.

You moan around his cock as you take him deeper, which makes Ghost moan, rough and deep. You wanted to hear more, so you suppressed another gag and took him down your throat. Your eyes threaten to flutter shut, but you force them to stay open, your eyes trailing from Ghost’s deliciously thick, dirty blonde happy trail to his pleasure filled face. 

“Good fucking girl” Ghost moaned deeply, “touch yourself for me. Rub that little clit of yours while you take my fat cock down your throat” he demanded, making him whine in need, but you listen. You hastily shove a hand down the front of your skirt, into your panties. You dip your fingers to your hole to wet your fingertips, before dragging them back up to circle your clit. A pathetic whine vibrating around Ghost’s cock. 

“That’s it, just like that. Sucking my cock like you were made for it” Ghost growled, his hips thrusting into your mouth. “Gonna let me fuck your face? Let me use your mouth like you’re nothing but a warm hole for me to use?” he asked, and you pulled off his cock, wiping the drool from your chin. 

“Please” you beg, slightly surprised at how raspy your voice had already become. But you didn’t have time to dwell on it as your mouth was full of cock again. Ghost thrusted his hips repetitively, groaning with almost every thrust. 

You felt saliva drip down your chin, as well as Ghost’s balls hitting the underside of your chin with each thrust forward. Your moans getting more frequent around Ghost’s cock as you get closer to coming. Your fingers rubbing clumsy circles over your clit.

A loud gasp falls from your lips as Ghost suddenly pulls his cock free from your mouth and you get pulled to your feet. Your eyes fill with visible confusion as you take your fingers out of your panties, only for Ghost to grab your wrist and lift your hand to take the digits wet with the evidence of your desire into his mouth.

Your thighs clenched together at the feeling of his tongue laving over your fingers, watching Ghost’s eyes threaten to roll back from the taste of you. Your fingers once wet with your arousal, now wet with his saliva. 

“God, I need to eat your pretty little pussy,” Ghost groaned, lifting you with ease and setting you down on the couch in the green room. He kneels down in front of you, and his thick fingers tug your skirt down, then he grasps the waistband of your thong and moves it upwards. 

You give Ghost a confused look before you moan as the tightened fabric of your thong grinds against your clit. Your hole clenching in need. “Please!” you beg, voice whiny and pathetic to your own ears, although you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

“Please what?” Ghost asked, his eyes having a mischievous glint to them. “You need to be specific with what you’re asking for,” he tells you, causing your cheeks to redden.

“Please…eat my pussy” you murmur, pouting down at him. Your words making Ghost break out into a wolfish grin. 

He lowers his head, the hands holding the waistband of your thong pull it down. They then grab your thighs, spreading them wide. 

Ghost spreads your folds with his index and middle finger, and leans forward, licking a broad stripe up your cunt to get a taste. Tangy, sweet, and slightly salty. It makes his mouth water, so much so that he pulls away for a moment to spit directly on your clit, which makes your thighs twitch, and a guttural groan comes from you. 

Your hands reach down and tangle in his blonde hair, you squeak when Ghost thrusts his tongue into your hole, then drags his tongue up to circle your sensitive and swollen clit. 

“You taste so fucking good, baby” Ghost groaned, burying his face further into your cunt. His mouth sucks on your folds, tongue thrusts inside you, licks his tongue over your clit. It all felt like too much and yet not enough at the same time. 

“G-Ghost, please! Fingers, need y’fingers so bad” you whine, your brain getting desperate and horny “wanna be full of your fingers! Please please please!” You beg, gasping sweetly when Ghost finally pushes two of his thick fingers inside you. 

The burn from the stretch of his stupidly big fingers was there, but the pleasure from his fingers curling up and stroking your g-spot overpowered it immensely. Ghost wasn’t afraid to be rough with his fingers, the wet squelching sounds of your pussy reacting to his touch made you blush, but it also made your clit throb in his mouth and walls clench around his fingers. 

You let out a frustrated whine as Ghost slows his fingers and tongue to a stop, before pulling away fully and standing up, looking down at you. 

“Need to feel you come on my cock, baby” Ghost growled, his hands smoothing up and down your thighs and hips as he spoke. You nodded your head, lips parting. 

“‘M on birth control,” you murmured, desperate to feel the piercings on his cock against your walls. “I promise, I’m on birth control,” you said, noting the suspicion in Ghost’s eyes. He had every reason to be suspicious. People try to baby trap celebrities all the time. 

“I’m gonna trust you, sweet girl, but tomorrow I’m gonna take you out to breakfast and also to get a plan B pill. Just in case” Ghost said softly, moving some of your sweat-damp hair from your forehead. 

You nodded in agreement, trying to brush off the breakfast comment, you weren’t convinced that you were that special.

Ghost lined himself up with your entrance, hooking your legs over his shoulders, making you slouch slightly on the couch. 

“Alright” Ghost whispered, slowly starting to thrust into your cunt “big stretch, baby” he drawled out, relishing in the gasps and whimpers of pleasure you gave him as his fat cock filled you, a deep moan ripping from your chest as his tip kissed your cervix. 

“So fucking big” you gasped, your nails digging into his back, panting a few times before sighing in ecstasy, becoming putty in Ghost’s arms. “Piercings feel so…so good” you whisper, eyes fluttering. The silver balls brushed up against your wall, making you whine, legs twitching on Ghost’s shoulders. 

“Atta girl, taking my cock to the hilt like you were made for it” Ghost groaned, cradling the back of your head with his large hand to make sure you wouldn’t hit your head awkwardly on the firm back of the couch. “You feel so good around me, so fucking tight and wet” he moaned. 

You gasped and clawed at Ghost’s back as he started thrusting. His thrusts getting faster and rougher with each jerk of his hips. Your pussy was sopping wet, every thrust caused a wet sound to emit from your hole.

Your brows furrowed in confusion when Ghost paused for a moment, a squeal coming from you as he practically folded you in half. Your eyes roll back with another gasp, then squeal as Ghosts thrusts get all that more intense. 

“Ghost-I-oh my God!” You cried out, frantically grabbing at his shoulder blades in pleasure. 

“Not Ghost, baby. Simon, use my name. Need to hear you scream my fucking name” Ghost growled, nipping at your neck.

“S-Simon!” You cried out, your eyes rolling back, your hips bucking up, which in turn made sparks of pleasure shoot up your spine. 

“That’s it” Ghost chuckled, thrusting deeply and harshly “you’re doing so well, so fucking well” he groaned, his balls slapping against your ass which each thrust forward. 

“My clit” you beg “please! Please rub my clit. So close, so so close!” you keened.

Ghost reached between you and rubbed your nub in small quick circles with his thumb, your pussy spasming around his cock. “Simon!” You screamed, your orgasm washing over you like a tsunami, starting in your cunt, and spreading like wildfire up your body and even through your fingertips. 

“Fuck!” Ghost cursed, his brows knitting together as his thrusts get desperate and sloppy “gonna fucking come, gonna come, fuck!” he growled, burying his cock to the hilt inside your still sensitive pussy, his seed coating your walls. Ghost thrusted a few times before pulling out, which in turn made you whine from overstimulation, grimacing at the feeling of Ghost’s cum dripping from your pussy.

“Here we go” Ghost murmured, cleaning up your pussy with some tissues he got from the coffee table in the room. His eyes flickering over your naked body, admiration in his eyes.

“Hardest i’ve ever come in my life” you giggled, smiling dumbly up at Ghost, who merely chuckles and shakes his head, kissing you gently.

Once you were tidied up, clit still throbbing a little, Ghost pulls you to lie down on top of him on the couch. his large hand stroking your spine gently, occasionally pressing kisses to your hairline while he praised you, his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

[moondirti]

due to popular demand, a follow up to this featuring: 18+ content, gaz, ballerina!reader, internet stalking, men being gross, another a thinly veiled character study

Kyle is a good man.

Granted, his metric is not attuned to common standards for morality anymore, nor has it been that way since basic. He's sure that if he were to pick any sheltered samaritan off the street to read out his laundry list of transgressions, they'd balk at the fact that their taxes go to keeping him fed. They'd rather their image of the army stay unsullied and ideal. They'd rather keep him at arms length with a thank you for your service and not confront the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

But he can no longer be held to their degree. No longer exists within these spaces. No. Kyle – or Gaz, if one were to go off of what he's called most often nowadays – is a doorstop. A pestle. Something inconspicuous, obscure, that serves the sole function of making life easier for everyone but itself. And he assumes this role with a handful of others who have nothing else to live for, exiled to crowd the back of Foxhounds and kill at a moment's notice. Foul men. Friends.

If someone were to line up every operative on a special forces unit, or better yet collect the likes of the 141 and asses each for their moral standing, Gaz can rest knowing he'd come out on top. He's not yet as far gone as they are; can enjoy a night out or a pretty bird writhing underneath him without wanting to choke her out. Only devoted to his captain, or the others, to the extent that their professional relationship calls for (no matter how much it itches at him to watch Ghost take care of Soap, or to reject Price when he offers him a drink).

Sure, he laughs at their jokes. Might pitch in when they're swapping stories of their filthiest catch, Soap rattling on about the lass who'd stuffed her tongue up his arse, or encourage them to shoot on sight if they spot a potential threat, civilian or otherwise. Yet the difference is this: when he goes home, he can stuff that all away.

Knows not to let it infest the boundaries of the real world. Off deployment, his comrades play pretend at the noncombatant lifestyle, but the guise is ill-fitting. They're too big for their skin. They stretch and tear at the conventions holding them in place, like feral dogs made to heel. Kyle doesn't have to be tamed. He's still functional, familiar with the expectations held of him. Can submit to integrity more easily than most.

Kyle is a good man.

And that's what he tells himself as he returns home, train car completely void of anyone but himself. He's good for having given you up. He's good for not have followed you home. There'd been a brief lapse of judgement, but he's good for doing something about it before things passed the point of no return.

You've lived this far without his protection, he reasons. Yet it doesn't change the unreachable itch, closed away in a supposedly locked box. Gaz. Or, his captain's voice, cigar-smoked and advisory.

But why should you continue like that.

It's hard to fall asleep that night.

He's sick with worry wondering if you ever got home, bile broiling and distending up his throat at the thought of having abandoned you. It's pure concern that compels him to find your socials, really. Kyle is only searching for an update, or recent post, indicating that you're alive.

With nothing to go off of but a face, he searches for dance studios in both Acton Town, your area, and the Kensington, the area where you'd boarded the tube from. He makes a shortlist of the most reputable ones (your attire seemed to imply that you were a seasoned ballerina) and cross-checks them as hosts of upcoming recitals. Two renditions of Swan Lake and a production of Giselle turn up, each with their very own cast lists. Thus begins a tireless search of every name credited.

His heart almost leaps out of his nose when you eventually load into view, then plummets at how easy you'd been to find.

Your vulnerability only sets Kyle's conviction in stone. Bloody good thing he's got your best interests in mind.

Locked twitter, a LinkedIn, and a public Instagram page which sends his blood pressure skyrocketing after checking your follower count. Popular. And of course he can see why. Over a hundred posts chronicling bright smiles and flattering outfits. You mainly use the account to promote your practice, though; feed full of skimpy little outfits, leotards and exposed sternums and impossible poses.

Stop it. He's here for something specific.

Kyle sips in a deep breath, scrolls back to the top of your page, clicks on your most recent post. A casual video of your leg raised on a barre while your friend counts how high above your previous record you're able to stretch. Your skin is sweat-slicked. Your mouth is thrown open in a half-laugh, half-pant. He almost forgets why he clicked on it in the first place, before the timestamp catches his eye.

30 minutes ago.

So, you'd gotten home.

He can go to bed now.

Exit your account. Swipe up on Instagram to clear it from his running apps. If he's extra disciplined, he'd block you. Rob himself of the temptation to tug himself over the photo of you in the splits.

Kyle is a good man because he knows his limits.

(But Kyle now also knows the address of your studio. That, even if he blocks you, it'll take up space in his chest. A ticking-time bomb. A knowledge that'll haunt him whenever he's on the District, Circle, or Piccadilly lines, and the train announces Gloucester Road. A force, a stone in his throat, that'll grow so large it'll force him to stand up and disembark, to walk until he's standing right outside and wait on you to wrap up rehearsal.)

It occurs to him that the point of no return has long since passed.

inclusivity note: i felt the need to say that, while reader is a dancer, her profession is not meant to imply anything about her body type. flexibility and agility are not limited to thin builds, and while the ballet industry can be very toxic, i've seen my fair share of spaces where all figures are embraced and success is determined only by ability!

[sethvzekiel]

141 + könig x cold! squadmate

gn! reader. lowkey inspired by widowmaker from overwatch, mostly platonic unless you squint. reader is very close to laswell in a platonic way + set backstory.

reader x price, gaz, ghost, soap, and 141! konig bc bias. messed with the timeline a little in post-mwii but they’re still 141 and recruited konig. 3k words.

part 2 here.

warnings: canon-typical violence mention. strong language.

callsign is azrael but only mentioned once or twice.

  price

Azrael. Angel of death. What the hell did you do to get a callsign like that? Price was almost afraid to ask — if it’s anything like Ghost’s callsign, it can’t be a happy story.

Your file was almost entirely blacked out, but the scant few that he could read was impressive, if not bloody. Laswell always called on you for her most delicate tasks, plenty of it related to human trafficking and stealth operations. You’re not tied to a single company, more a solo merc than a soldier among many, but you’ve served alongside enough armies that your lack of a badge doesn’t matter.

And there’s that feeling again in Price. The dulled rush of anticipation, of knowing that he’s got a good one in his hands, bursting with potential. Laswell recognized it the moment she saw him reading your file for the first time.

“Don’t poach all my good men, Price,” she sighed, but gave him your contact details, regardless.

He wasn’t surprised that you turned him down. Your file was rather explicit in telling him that you’re more a lone wolf than a mainstay. But by the fifth rejected call, he had to play the ‘Laswell’s Christmas drinking buddy’ card and get her to convince you.

It was then that he'd seen you in person for the first time, in the cold light of one of Laswell's safehouses, and it'd be a cold day in hell before Price lets himself get intimidated by anyone, but hell was feeling a little chilly that night.

Still, he'd recruited Ghost. He'd recruited König. Surely, he knew how to handle you.

…right.

Your problem, which Laswell already warned him about, was that while you followed his orders in a professional sense, there was a difference between obedience and genuine respect, the second of which you’d only reserved for Laswell.

Price wasn’t particular about demanding respect from anyone and everyone, but he also had the urge to help you open up, to untangle that knot of bitterness and cold that kept you silent. Yet the distance between your ranks was too wide, with a wall of ice damn near impenetrable for Price. Not that he was the type to give up when faced with such challenges.

If you smoked, he’d easily offer a cigar, but if you didn’t, he’d do most of the talking as you silently stood by him during his smoke breaks just by his office window.

You reminded him a little of Ghost that way, ever the silent shadow with haunted eyes and an icy composure. You also insisted on calling him Captain, which wouldn’t have been an issue if not for how robotic you sounded, even in small talk.

When it got around that Gaz managed to get you to warm up, Price felt half relieved, and half like he'd just been upstaged. That was his job as captain, damn it. He watched you grow from the sidelines, slowly defrosting as you spent more time with the others. 

The day after your first leave together out to the pub, he wanted to shut Soap up because of how much he bragged about you taking care of him. Something about you giving him hangover cures and making him food. But he couldn’t have been prouder when he told Laswell the same story.

During your smoke break chats by the window, Price always gave you advice through his stories and musings.

It was only on the last day of your contract that you said anything yourself.

“Kate trusts you.” You spoke suddenly, under the moon of a quiet night.

Price didn’t respond immediately, afraid to break the sudden fragile atmosphere between you two, and silently urged you to continue.

“...she was captured on your watch.” The accusatory sting in your tone was like a knife in the dark.

Price dipped his head low. “And we fought like hell to get her back. We don’t leave our men behind.”

“I know.”

A long silence followed. You were assessing him. Mulling over whether this task force was worth your time or Laswell’s trust. Price could see it in your eyes, and as much as he’d want to convince you to stay right there, that olive branch was already extended a long time ago by Gaz, Soap, Ghost, and even König. As captain, it was his duty to keep you in line. As Price, he wanted to earn your trust. To trust you himself to make that decision.

When his last cigar for the night burned low, the sliver of smoke joining the creeping sunrise, you hummed.

“See you later, Price.”

You retreated back into his office, and from behind him, Price heard the rustle of paper. You left without another word.

He might have rushed to his desk to see what you’d done to his paperwork, and a low, rough chuckle bubbled from within his chest.

You signed his offer.

ghost

‘Laswell’s attack dog.’ That was the cruel summary of your file.

Ghost was the first person Price consulted with on getting you in the team. From how Price and Laswell described you, it slowly dawned on Ghost just how much Laswell trusted you.

If the 141 fails, Laswell will send you.

Naturally, that made Ghost a little wary of you. He trusted Price, he trusted Laswell, but he didn't trust this outlier. You're another sniper, too. Just what he needed after König joined up. Wonderful.

He wasn’t subtle in his caution against you, but it wasn’t supposed to be subtle. It was a warning.

You didn’t cause trouble. Quite the opposite, in fact: you were quiet. Too quiet. Always tending your gear or spending hours at the range, seeming to only have the next battle in mind. He had to check the security feed to make sure that you were going to your room at night and getting food instead of living at the range 24/7.

By that point he’d decided to go to the range and see you for himself.

“Where’d you learn?”

He couldn’t help but ask as you perfected a whole round of targets. You weren’t startled by his presence, already having heard his quiet steps long before he saw you.

“Picked it up as a habit,” was your frosty reply. “Then did it for money.”

“How old were you?”

“Ask Kate.”

There it was. He had his suspicions about how you came to be so attached to Laswell. If you’d served in enough missions, or if there was something deeper than that, with how you would kill for her without question or how Laswell trusted your strength, yet still discreetly asked Price to keep an eye on your well-being.

“Suppose I won’t,” he said, and that was enough for your to pause and turn back to him.

“Thought you were grilling me for info, LT.”

“I know when not to pry. You better not bring old enemies to us.”

“The dead can’t walk.”

Were you cold? Distant? A bit mean? Yes, yes, and yes. But Ghost was patient. So long as you weren’t a threat or nuisance to the team, you could stay. You were even one of the more obedient ones, so he wasn’t complaining.

That changed when he partnered with you on the field for the first time. It was also your first mission with the others, as you were usually the sniper from the far back instead of charging in with them.

Amid the sands and gunpowder, you were a machine. No enemy slipped past your combined strength, and you complemented each other’s combat styles perfectly. He goes in with the heavy fire while you shot down snipers like you already knew exactly where they were.

“Fuckin’ splendid, soldier,” he said on the way back, when everyone else was asleep.

“I try, sir.” 

He looked forward to training with you from then on, silently one-upping each other’s skills from shooting to sparring in an endless chase to the top. The competition grew notorious enough that other soldiers began approaching you for advice on how to improve themselves or to compliment your skills, garnering a reaction from you that only Ghost could tell was embarrassment.

Despite not being as close to you as the rest, your standoffishness and frigid personality were things that Ghost was familiar enough with that he could see right through you. 

“Aw no, another Ghost?” Soap once complained when Price sent them your file. Ghost had only scoffed then at the ridiculous notion.

Now, though, as you silently fussed over your teammates while insisting that you weren’t at all concerned, it made him feel a little warm inside.

Nothing wrong with a second Ghost if it meant more people looking out for his comrades.

And with how you seemed to have König wrapped around your little finger, Ghost could at least trust you with keeping him in line.

  gaz

He can’t explain why, but there’s something about you that reminded him of his old anger; the frustration he had with how much injustice the world let slip between the cracks, the helplessness he’d felt before he met Price.

Your relationship with Laswell… it’s a little like his own with Price, but in the place of brotherhood or mentorship is something quiet and mournful, the kind of loyalty forged out of a dark place. It’s clear that you view Laswell as a kind of savior, the type you’d owe your life to. It’s the only way to explain why you only come back to her.

Gaz kept his distance, unlike Soap. He could tell when you needed space and respected it — unlike Soap. Or Price. Or — he couldn’t believe it — Ghost. It’s just Gaz being respectful, definitely not related to feelings of intimidation or fear. Maybe.

Funnily enough, it’s that wordless consideration of your alone time that made Gaz the first person you warmed up to. It was only a brief chat about when the next resupply for ammo comes in. You’d been running low for a while and your kit is rather specialized, but Gaz was the first you’d spoken to without hostility or work in mind.

With that ice broken, the next conversations were slow-going, but easier. Shared watch duty where Gaz babbled mindlessly about everything he'd been thinking about, just to keep himself awake, while you listened silently, but intently.

Gaz didn't know that you were actually paying attention until you started setting out his favorite tea in the morning without a word or clearing your throat before entering a room because he hated getting startled. Those were things he'd only told you at night, when he thought you were barely tolerating him.

Instead of a terrifying shadow, he started to see the human side of you. The considerate side that you tried to hide with a bitter scowl when he brought it up. Dare he say it, it was a little endearing, like the grumpy stray cat he used to feed as a kid.

When the rest of the 141 noticed, he'd automatically been designated as your unofficial 'translator.' He could decode any of your blank (and sometimes terrifying) expressions to the letter.

"Quit it, Soap, they need a nap."

"Captain, you're bumping into their injured shoulder, sir."

"LT, might want to hide your tea stash, think they saw your cup."

"König, come back! We just wanted to compare gear!... Eh, sorry mate, he's gone."

"What d'you want, black coffee or... latte? Huh. Two lattes, please."

Usually, when you'd be paired up with Gaz, you're the sniper supporting him from far away. Your quiet murmur over the comms, even in a firefight, instantly calmed him down and Gaz swore that he worked better when he knew you were watching him.

Post-mission naps on your shoulder didn’t sound too bad, either. That was a privilege he wasn’t going to give up to anyone. No matter how annoying about it Soap got.

soap

We know Ghost's attitude didn't stop Soap from getting all buddy-buddy with him.

But even then, your demeanor, as sharp as a coldsnap and twice as biting, gave him pause. He's spoiled with reactions from other people to his presence, whether it's reciprocated friendliness or annoyance at his energetic personality. Total apathy, with a tinge of hostility, only came from Ghost and you. And Ghost warmed up to the guy already, so your silence bothered him a little.

Not that he hated you, but it stirred a competitive urge to challenge your coldness and finally get you to crack.

Mercifully, he somehow didn't end up getting killed in the process of fighting for your attention. He's not subtle about it, though: other people on base always referred to him as your 'pet dog' when he's looking for you.

"Hey, your Scottish Terrier came by, was yowling for your attention."

"Put your dog on a leash, would you? He won't stop interrupting R&D to ask where you are."

"Feed your pup, sergeant, he looks pitiful from over here."

But you didn’t look down on him the way others do. You didn’t see some kid trying to play hero, who got lucky because Price took a shine to him and had no other skills to speak of. You looked down on him the same way you did at everyone else: a detached gaze from your metaphorical ice castle, nothing more. And in a twisted way, it’s refreshing.

When he found out that you'd gotten close with Gaz before anyone else, he was ready to whine. Ghost certainly got the worse end of his complaints. Since then, he'd butt into yours and Gaz's conversations, especially when you started joining the boys for lunch instead of eating alone.

It was only on your first leave together, your first civilian outing, that Soap realized that you were closer than he'd thought.

While he was drinking at the pub, you carefully watched him, silently looking out for signs of him getting too drunk, at which point you'd begun secretly ordering watered-down versions of his drink until it was practically juice. 

Even with how wasted he was, he saw through your trick, but all was forgiven by the next morning when you'd cared for him through his hangover in your own, grumpy way. You even cooked breakfast for him, but he wouldn’t tell you that it was practically tasteless and mostly hangover cures. The thought counts, right?

And wow, he would not stop rubbing the fact that you took care of him all over 141’s faces.

“Watch your back, Gaz. I’ll be takin’ your spot soon!”

“Johnny, it’s two in the fucking morning.”

“You can’t be their favorite and Price’s at the same time. Pick one!”

“No. Besides, think König is second to me, not you.”

“The fuck?”

könig

You reminded him of the deep winters of his deployments in the north. Cold, cruel, yet beautiful. Sorrowful. Lonely. Silent. Calming.

Make no mistake, the first few months with you around, König was sure he was going to have a breakdown. Your lightless stare bored holes into him, no matter how hard he tried to hide from your field of view. It took enough of his energy to resist the urge to hide behind any of his new 141 teammates. Seriously, how did he get along better with Ghost than with you when you didn't even have a mask?

It didn't matter if you’re built like Ghost or the scrappiest operator around: your chilling aura always left König with his hands clammy and breaths a little short.

If Gaz pre-friendship was giving you space, König was running from you at first sight.

But when König watched you grow close with the rest of the 141, his sharp eyes catching that lightning-fast flicker of tenderness on your face, it was over for him. He had to see it again, like sunlight glancing off fresh ice.

Cue the big guy trailing after you helplessly, like a fidgety shadow, that the other 141 members politely pretended to ignore. Not that he's any good at hiding.

König may have done a good job at absolutely shattering his terrifying image with his actions at base, but when you're on the field, he's an entirely different person.

A beast. A hunter. A king of the battlefield. He's covered in blood from head to toe, glee rushing through his veins as he bludgeoned two men with his bare hands. For a moment, he wondered if you would be impressed with his kill count. You must be. Then he thought for another moment. Then another.

And he remembered that you were his partner for this mission, and that no, this was not a good look for him.

Slowly, horrified, he turned back to you. You looked over the aftermath: a warehouse filled with bodies, not all of them slain with bullets, and broken weapons. König barely heard you convey your victory to Captain Price over the comms, even if you were right in front of him.

It was only when you clapped him on the arm that he snapped to attention: both from your touch and the miniscule smirk on your lips.

"Don't forget to watch your six."

"You... are not... afraid?"

"Just glad I'm not on your bad side. Let's go."

On the next missions, König would restrain his bloodlust a little, if only to see you in action himself. You moved smoothly and quietly, just like a shadow leaving death in your wake. He watched you snuff out an entire enemy safehouse without anyone noticing. 

You truly were the Angel of Death, going from door to door, taking lives like it was divine decree. There was never a more beautiful sight.

König was... stuck to you like glue, to say the least. He'd slowly begun joining you at target practice, or sparring, or running into you around the base and coincidentally offering his help with the reports you meant to file.

Whether you noticed or not, he didn’t care. Actually, he wouldn’t mind if you noticed how helpful he’d been. The more you saw him as reliable, the more you’d be willing to be his buddy on the field, yes? And the more he’d get to see you in action, no?

Now, if only the others would stop hogging you for a second… he could interrupt that conversation you were having with Ghost… if Ghost wasn’t looking… any time now…

[rainybubbles]

I need a whole story with Ghost and arranged marriage.

(and hybrids, I love the AU of the fandom about hybrids 141)

Something slow burn, angst where the reader is confident, but with social anxiety, maybe a f!reader?

She's a sacrifice, about to be married to another duke. But here comes a duchy long forgotten, tucked away in the shadow of the mountains, ruled by a mysterious Duke no one had seen in years.

A Ghost.

His name was Simon Riley, a widower, burdened with loss and cloaked in rumors. They said his heart was as dead as his wife, that a curse had taken not only her but every bit of warmth that could ever live in him. And so, when the black carriage came for you, no one in your village dared to offer you comfort.

You were the sacrifice—the black sheep sent to marry the Duke, an arranged match born out of fear, not love. Your family had seen you as expendable, a lamb to slaughter to secure their own futures.

You were confident in your spirit but burdened with the knowledge that your body didn’t fit the delicate mold others expected. (no one had courted you)

You never thought yourself beautiful, never thought you could inspire anything but pity or rejection. But it didn’t matter, did it? You weren’t meant for love. You were meant to survive.

When you arrived at the Duke’s castle, the silence that greeted you felt heavy, as if the very stones were holding their breath.

Simon Riley stood before you, a towering figure wrapped in shadows, with eyes that seemed carved from stone—cold, distant, and full of secrets.

He did not look at you the way men often did; there was no curiosity, no warmth, no appraisal. Instead, he seemed to be waiting, as if bracing for some inevitable end.

He didn't marry you for love, but because of his curse. Simon was fated to die within a year, and he needed someone to care for his kingdom and use their connections to maintain peace with other realms.

His people were not human, at least not fully. The hybrids, part-beast, part-man, served him with loyalty forged from some unspoken bond. There was Soap, whose wolf-like nature caused him to prowl the castle grounds in restless energy. Gaz, whose wings glinted like silver in the moonlight, was ever watchful, guarding the castle’s gates. And Price, the fiercest of them all, his dragon wings scorched from endless battles, often returned to you for healing.

You became their caretaker, stitching their wounds, reading old texts on werewolves to understand Soap’s habits, and joking with Gaz’s children when they visited.

Slowly, you found your place in this strange, otherworldly family.

And yet, Simon remained distant, an enigma wrapped in silence and sorrow.

He never sought your company, never looked for you, never asked for more than the duty of your presence.

He was a Duke, cursed and broken, and you were his sacrifice, meant to ensure his survival, not his happiness.

Days turned into months, and the weight of your loneliness pressed into your chest like a slow, relentless ache. You gave and gave—your time, your care, your heart—until you had little left for yourself. And one night, it became too much.

The walls of your room, once a sanctuary, closed in on you, and you cried. The sobs came softly at first, but then they grew louder, filling the quiet darkness with your grief, your exhaustion, your sense of never being enough.

Simon heard you.

He came to you in the dead of night, silent as a shadow, and found you curled up in the corner, tears staining your cheeks. He knelt beside you, his hand trembling as he reached for you, as if he wasn’t sure how to touch something so fragile. When his fingers brushed your skin, it was like a shiver of warmth had broken through the icy armor he wore.

“It means nothing,” he whispered, his voice rough and deep. He was speaking to himself as much as to you. “Comforting you means nothing.”

But his hands told a different story. He cradled you gently, pulling you into his chest, and for the first time, you felt his heart beating against yours. He held you, whispering words you couldn’t fully understand, telling himself that this was just duty, that you were just another sacrifice for his throne. But you both knew the truth.

He had fallen.

Bit by bit, Simon let you in, let you see the man behind the Duke, the man who had lost so much. He had never hoped for love—not after losing his wife, not after the curse had taken everything from him. But there you were, taking care of his people, offering comfort without expecting anything in return. And in the quiet moments, when you would tend to Price’s wings or read to Soap, Simon would watch you, a strange ache building in his chest.

He had fallen, and it was too late.

But Simon’s curse was not the only one. Another hybrid, König, appeared at the castle one day, his presence unsettling. He was larger, more menacing than the others, and his eyes lingered on you in a way that made your skin crawl. There was something in his gaze, something dark and possessive, that told you he was not just another visitor.

And then, you were gone.

On the day Simon was to meet his death—a death foretold by the curse—you were not there. He searched for you, frantic, the coldness of his impending doom creeping up his spine. But you were nowhere to be found.

König had taken you, hoping to break the curse for himself, hoping to claim you as his own. But what König didn’t know, what no one knew, was that you had the power to break the curse—not just for Simon, but for another. You were the key, the sacrifice whose heart could unlock the chains binding these cursed men.

But Simon… Simon had already decided.

He would not let you sacrifice yourself again. He had watched you give and give until there was nothing left for yourself. He had heard your cries in the dead of night, felt the weight of your despair. And now, he was ready to curse himself—for you. He was ready to bind his heart to yours, to live an eternity of torment, meeting you again and again across lifetimes if that’s what it took. He would endure the curse, relive the pain, as long as it meant you would be free.

And as Simon drew his last breath, his heart shattered—not from the curse, but from love. His love for you, the woman who had given so much, the woman he had fallen for too late.

And in the distance, far from the castle, you felt it. The weight of his sacrifice. The bittersweet ache of love lost, of a heart cursed not by magic but by fate.

You wept, not for yourself, but for him—for the man who had loved you in silence, in shadows, and in sacrifice. And as the winds whispered through the mountains, carrying his name on the air, you knew he was gone.

But Simon… Simon would return.

Again and again, across lifetimes. Searching for you. Loving you.

Even if it was too late.

Centuries later, he stood frozen, eyes locked on the new translator stepping onto the base. Your smile was polite, a stranger's greeting, but his heart ached as the weight of lifetimes crashed over him.

"You're back," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

Yet, your eyes held no recognition—you didn’t remember him.

Yeah, I need a fic like that. 10 chapters, where I cry because damn, this man deserves happiness and so does the reader...

And bonus if the reader is on the fat, chubby side , because I need to see more of that.

[duskier]

Is Soap the crazy ex that's stealing your stuff and Ghost won't do anything about it?

cw toxic relationship, stalking, pillow humping, panty sniffing/licking

The sheer AMOUNT of asks and comments and tags I got begging for it to be fem Soap... TBH I hadn't originally Thought that but yall convinced my ass so easy!! (As if toxic lesbianism isn't my bread and fucking butter)

Soap being sooo obsessed with you- Ghost dumped her because he loves loves LOVES seeing Soap emotionally distraught but got distracted with you soon after, he forgot to take Soap back before her last bits of sanity fled her.

She starts by finding all your social media, she swears that you're posting soft launch photos of Ghost’s hand on your thigh specifically to taunt her. Of course, all that does is rile her up more, and the logical conclusion to cope with that, of course, is to break into your flat while you're away on vacation with Ghost. Serves you right for flying to the fucking Caribbean with her man.

She considers smashing everything she can get her claws on while draped on your bed, your cat purring against Soap while she pets it mindlessly. Spares herself a little maniacal smile at the idea burning your whole fucking place down- she'd wait around a corner as you'd come home and fall to your knees in agony having lost it all.

Scratching just beneath the cats chin and cooing, "Don't worry love, I'd be sure to take good care of ye. Probably better than yer mum thas' for sure."

Ultimately, she does something stranger. She spends the entirety of your remaining vacation (two weeks, one day, and seventeen hours-- bleeding Christ, Ghost never spent more than two nights at Soap’s flat) living as you. The sweet old woman across from you that you asked to check in on your cat while you were gone? Why, she's so old her eyesight is going out. She doesn't trust her memory that much either. So when she squints up at Soap, she doesn't question anything as she passes the fraud your house key.

"Back early, eh pet?"

"Ah, no, but time does fly, doesnae?"

She wakes up every morning in your perfumed, satin sheets. She brushes her teeth with your brush, your paste- licking the bristles like a sweet until all the mint flavor was gone. Showers with all your soaps and slathers herself with your expensive oils after. Looks herself in the eyes in the mirror as she puts your lipstick on. Finds any set of clothes in your closet that fit her, unafraid to play tailor to make especially pretty items fit. Doesn't care if your shoes don't fit her, she makes them fit one way or another. Eats your oats, drinks your coffee from your unwashed mug as she looks down fondly as the cat eats the breakfast Soap put out for it. When she orders out, she puts your name down. Gets a little thrill in the cafes when they call out her tea but your name, gleefully smiling as she takes the paper cup.

Takes strange men home, and by home that still means yours, so they can fuck her like a worthless whore while spitting your name. It's pornographic when Soap throws her head back and cums with a cry when a man won't stop whining your name. She can't escape the sweet smell of your perfume.

Living as you, Soap has never felt so beautiful or put together in her life. It comes as a horrible, dizzying conclusion to Soap in the dead of night: she's not mad at you anymore. She's in love with you. It has her staggering out of bed, nearly collapsing at your hamper when she finds what she was hoping for. Falling over herself back onto your bed and mounting one of your pillows, muscular hips jerking as she rubs her bare, sopping cunt against the fabric. One hand gripping the corner of the pillow, keeping it in place and imagining it was your hair in her fist. The other hand holding a pair of your underwear to her nose. She takes a grotesquely deep sniff, eyes rolling back in her head with a guttural moan. She doesn't stop even as her hips start to buck faster, more desperate. It was then Soap’s turn to whine out your name like it were a last prayer, again and again. Strong thighs flexing as her rhythym became more erratic, her body bowing forward as she chased her orgasm. Tongue daring to dart out and tasting salt, tasting you, the new love of her life, this was the straw that finally broke Soap for good.

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 6 Ghost

Warning: Non-con voyeurism, non-con touching, breaking and entering

You move around your apartment, ignoring Johnny’s whining and grabby hands. He’s trails behind you as you throw out the paper plate you used for breakfast, pouting at you as you try to make the apartment viewable for the man’s friend.

“Listen, I’m not letting the first impression your Lieutenant have of me is as a trash gremlin,” you remind the man.

“But, booooniiieee,” he whines, trying to grab you, “Ah jes wan’ a kiss.”

“Absolutely not,” you declare, spinning around to point at him with narrowed eyes, “If I let you kiss me, I know exactly how that situation will escalate. We don’t have time for that.”

“LT won’ min’,” Johnny states, causing you to sputter and flail at him.

“Absolutely not!” you repeat with a shriek, feeling your face burn as you scurry into the bathroom. Soap cackles, following behind you as you start the shower.

“Then, how aboot we have a lil’ fun?” he purrs, wiggling his eyebrows. You scowl and toss a spare towel at his face, ignoring his laughter as you start up a quick shower. You feel filthy after only two hours of sleep due to stress and nerves about work and this visit. The email you got from the Lieutenant only made it worse.

“Yeh sure Ah cannae help yeh in there?” Johnny asks, peeking his head through the curtains.

“Out,” you intone, grabbing your shaving kit and carefully start shaving.

“Och, tha’s right, bonnie,” he purrs, “Git proper smooth fer LT an’ Ah.”

“I will get the salt, you horny fuck,” you threaten, which only makes him pout and finally disappear. You’re pretty sure he’s still watching, but when Johnny turns invisible, he can’t talk to or touch you.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a week after you moved into your new apartment when weird shit started happening. Nothing malicious, but still, weird shit. Your keys moving around when you know you’ve set them in a certain spot, your water bottle filling and emptying at random times, the music suddenly cutting on or off (luckily at reasonable levels of volume). You went and got one of your friends, one who’s always been sensitive to medium bullshit, to show up.

“Oh, this is rancid,” they said and immediately stepped back out of your apartment, refusing to go back in. They explained that your apartment is haunted by the last owner, a soldier who was killed. The spirit wouldn’t leave, there was still too much energy for them to just disappear into the ether. So, you now have a roommate who doesn’t pay rent. Fucker.

Of course, having grown up watching horror movies way too early, you know the best thing to do is research. Low and behold, you got a lot of information with a few careful questions and searches. One Sargeant John “Soap” MacTavish, also called Johnny due to serving under Captain John Price, was killed on a classified mission, leaving his apartment for sale once everything was processed with the family. It took a little longer, but you managed to email someone who knew the spirit. A Lieutenant Ghost, who was initially dismissive, at least, until Johnny started talking to you and demanded you type something only he’d type with a reference to a mission with a moment that didn’t make it anywhere near the report. Then, the Lieutenant started to ask questions, ones that you could answer and Johnny eagerly answered. From how the two men would converse with only each other, you’re pretty sure they were together together. Which makes Johnny’s obvious flirting and the few lines that the Lieutenant typed specifically for you all the more awkward.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh, yeh shoul’ wear that!” Johnny chirps, pointing at a particularly short pair of shorts, “LT’s always liked a pair o’ legs.”

“Absolutely not,” you declare once more, trying to dry your hair before giving up and stomping over to your clothes. Pulling out a sweatshirt and sweatpants, you pull them on before sticking your tongue out at Johnny childishly. The ghost whines as you head into the living room, only to freeze. Standing in the middle of your room is a mammoth of a man, wearing a skull balaclava and dressed all in black. He turns his head, dark eyes taking you in before humming.

“Yer a looker,” he rumbles, taking a step toward you.

“Oi, LT! Boots off! Bonnie thing likes th’ flat clean!” Johnny calls, perching his chin on your shoulder. The man, the Lieutenant you think, looks at your shoulder and his eyes widen a bit.

“Well,” he huffs, “Bett’r listen t’ their rules, yeah?” He bends down and pulls off the giant boots he’s wearing as Johnny shoves you toward the giant. You swallow around a bundle of nerves as Johnny’s hands trace over your sides.

“Um,” you choke out, “How did you get in?” The behemoth pauses and looks at you, pulling out a key from his pocket.

“Was Johnny’s,” is all he says as explanation, before grabbing you by your hips and shoving you onto the couch. He clamors on top of you and pulls his balaclava up enough for you to see his mouth, “Now, yer gunna be good and let us have a little fun.”

“Donnae worry, bonnie,” Johnny coos, his blue eyes glowing ominously above you, “We’ll make sure yer havin’ a good time.”

[xo-cod]

Holy Hell! Don’t leave us on a cliffhanger please?!

How did the 141 boys react when they got the call that she had been shot? How did they catch the guy who did it? And what are they going to do to him? 😈

continued from here

disclaimer: because they are what they are (highly trained assassins 🫣), heavy mentions of stabbings and beatings, proceed with caution lmfao ‼️ rushed/ooc

"we can go all night, when you give out from exhaustion and pain. when you're begging us to kill you, when you're cryin to end your life, we're gonna be here" pulling off the bag from his face, ghost examined his features. the man winced and grimaced, gasping a little as the light flooded his vision and finally looking at his captor. standing tall at 6'4, bigger than most men ghost was certainly not someone to be trifled with. his brown eyes hardened behind his skull balaclava, twirled a knife expertly between his fingers

ghost had no sympathy for the person in front of him, he had been hunting you down for days and very nearly coming close in succeeding in his given task. all he could remember is what soap had said,"one centimeter over and it would've torn right through her heart" and it only served to further anger him when he knew you didn't have any bad intentions at all, you weren't there to hurt anyone. you only thought it was an innocent date and you have paid the price for it at a grave cost. the thought of losing you tonight only fuelled his anger, his jaw clenched tightly as his eyes remained on the man

rules were rules, threatening the 141 was punishable by death. and simon had never been so glad for it

"listen i'm sorry man, i didn't know" the man tried to justify to which ghost scoffed, cold brown eyes glancing at the sharp array of weapons on the table opposite.

"choose a better excuse, that one is overused" his chest vibrates with dark chuckles and it causes the tension in the air to suffocate, this wasn't an amused laugh. this had brought on fear and pain and ghost hadn't even inflicted anything yet. still the man's determined attitude hadn't wavered, much to simon's displeasure.

"fuck you" the man hissed and then cried out in pain when a whip slapped his abdomen, undoubtedly leaving a trail of blood in its wake. his head was yanked back as ghost grabbed a fistful of hair, his face in close proximity of the other

"listen close you bastard, i've dealt with my fair share of bloody narcissists. but you hurt y/n, you shot her. so take your bloody time i'll get what i want from you, one way or another" ghost snarled, the tip of his sharpened knife trailing down her neck circling around the man's abdomen. he screamed when the knife was twisted into the first layer of skin, gaping down to where the blood was beginning to pool on his lap.

"now all you gotta do is give me a name. and this stops right here. but if not..." ghost pushed the knife a little more deeper into the body, grinning under his mask when the man whimpered trying so hard to not scream. to try keep his composture not wanting to bring any satisfaction to the enemy

but hell, it was hanging by a small thread at this point.

"any progress?" a deeper, gravelly voice cuts in and both heads look towards the door. the man lets a small gasp as the rest of the team pile into the room. it was as if they commanded respect, demanded to be listened to. their muscles straining against their shirt, scars littering their bodies proof of the business they were, of the lives they led

"he's stubborn" ghost stops, wiping the few drops of blood from his mask. he was getting rather irritated, wanting to be at the hospital with you but forced to take care of this problem.

"he's looking worse for the wear" soap chuckled but there was no humour in his voice. all he could think about was how fragile you looked after being shot and it made him want to tear into the man but gaz and ghost would hold him back, they already were eyeing him carefully. still it was rather amusing how many people tried to kill them and yet they always seemed to be on the receiving end of the blade.

"why not kill 'im, the poor bastard" soap scoffed with sarcasm, looking at the man with pure anger, his fists clenching as he sized the man up. desperately wanting to be the one to plunge the knife so deep into his heart and watch the life fade away from his eyes. just as he had done with you

"as convenient as that sounds, we'll never end up getting our information if he's dead" gaz leans back on the table, looking at the purple and blue blotches on the man's skin. the way his hair was matted down with blood and sweat, how he looked on the verge of passing out at any given moment. they'd bring him back alive though, none of their enemies ever did have a quick painless death here. ghost had a knack for making his prisoners suffer until they physically and mentally couldn't take anymore, testing each and every brutal limit in their weak bodies. it was only a matter of time until he spilled the dark secret.

but time was not on their side.

"y-you bastards, go to hell" his voice fluctuated angrily as he tried to keep his heartbeat normal, to keep those nerves at bay. to remember his training as a soldier but these men were different, for every step he took they already knew about. he was at their mercy this time.

placing a hand deep within his pocket, the captain of the team entered the room a pensive look painted upon his features. he shifted his bucket hat, looking down at their little victim tied up to the chair as his head tilted a little.

"we're all tired from your little reign of heroism, thinking you're doing well by serving your country and your organisation. for now, you'd do well to remember we're the ones who determine whether you walk out of this building alive. i suggest you start by giving us some answers. you see, myself..." price grabbed the knife from ghost's hand in a quick flash and plunged it straight into the muscle of the man's thigh, completely unfazed at his screams and the splatter of blood coating his cargos

"well, i am not a particularly patient man"

[lymmsweb]

Hi! I don't know if you're taking requests yet, but I was wondering if you could do headcanons or scenarios about Ghost / Soap / König having a crush on a recruit girl who is a very skilled sniper, but constantly underestimated by other military personnel for being short and deaf / mute

Simon “Ghost” Riley

John “Soap” Mactavish

Words: 537

Tws: misoginy, bullying

A/N: i only did being short and mute because im pretty sure if you’re deaf you can’t serve in the military!! Also i wrote the muteness to at least allow you to talk because it'd be very dangerous to serve in the military and not able to communicate a bit on comms.

Totally didn't take me 4months to come back and i didn't do Konig cuz i dont know enough about his character

Simon “Ghost” Riley

When he first met you he underestimated you too, it wasn’t intentional but he just couldn’t help but doubt you and your abilities.

He took you under his wing to make sure you were keeping up with everyone but after you saved his ass multiple times on missions, all his worries quickly went away and he started respecting you a lot more.

After a couple months he started to get closer and closer to you he started noticing how most of the men wouldn’t take you seriously and often pick on you. It upset him quite a bit knowing he was one of these men at one point, so if he was around and men would pick on you he’d give them a stern lecture and give death glares whenever he’d pass them again in the future

He would always bring you along as back up on missions, you were one of the best snipers he could get his hands on and he felt safer knowing you were watching his back. He even grew to enjoy your company, not minding the silence he would always be met with, if anything he found it much more relaxing than anything.

Ghost started noticing that he liked you after he defended you from a man that was saying misogynistic things towards you, he hated the way you looked after receiving the insults and not being able to defend yourself. He didn’t know why he felt the urge to protect you, it was like love was a new emotion being discovered after years of not feeling in love with someone.

John "Soap" MacTavish

He was one of the few men that were nice to you right off the bat. After missions he would always go to find you and give tips on how to improve and what you did wrong.

You grew on him very quickly, often being paired up with him meant that he had all the opportunities to hit you with his corny jokes and you not being able to do much about it.

He would accidentally slip up some jokes about you and your size when drunk, not really caring about how loud he was at the bar. It earned laughs from his men, it felt good at first but when they started slipping sexist comments it sobered him right up.

After the bar incident, he started picking up on how your comrades viewed you. He started to feel disgusted about how they didn't respect you or your strengths or you achievement, in his eyes he started to lose respect towards them.

He started to talk about you to everyone, mentioning how great you are and how people should give you a chance. This started to rub off on people as more and more men started to at the very least stop picking on you.

It was after a couple weeks of a non stop cycle of improving your social status and you saving his life on multiple missions that he finally realized he was crushing on you. However now this meant that he started acting like a lost puppy around you, always by your side one way or another. Someone would have to be blind to not notice his growing crush.

[the-californicationist]

Excerpt from Gunslinger - "Appaloosa"

OMG!! I commissioned this artwork from the incredible @captain-natey who RETURNED TO ME WITH THIS MASTERPIECE!!!! I just wanted to plug their work (their commissions are OPEN! visit their website here!!) and I wanted to post the chapter excerpt from "Gunslinger" (Price/Reader) that it belongs to. Hope you enjoy! Please go show Nate some love! Thanks for reading. TW: reference to past domestic abuse, Reader has call sign and speaks Spanish

Price sat beside you and pulled your chair closer to his, looping an arm around the back of it,

“Look, love, you don’t have to do anything you don’t -”

“Capitán! Quit whispering your sugary words into her ear. This is the woman who survived Miguel ‘El Matador’ Moreno for diez pinche años. She may look like a little lady, but she’s done nastier work than all four of you perritos combined. She is the reason why the infamous Jefe Luis Villagomez doesn’t travel north of the Rio Grande. Charon doesn’t ferry the living very often, amigos. She only takes the dead. Porfa,” Alejandro waved a hand in the air dismissively, unamused by Price’s coddling tones. 

Ale may have been embellishing a bit, but he wasn’t wrong. You didn’t need your hand to be held.

“I can’t leave the animals,” you said, checking to see how far these men had thought this plan through. 

“Laswell called Tony, and he’ll be here Wednesday,” Gaz told you. 

Tony had watched the ranch for you once before. He was a sharp-witted veteran that had run his own ranch for decades, so you felt good about leaving the farm to him. Tony could take care of himself. He did tend to spoil the goats, but there were worse things. 

“How long?” Your question hung in the air like a balloon losing its air, floating, surrounded by silence. 

Vargas and Price shared a look. Price repositioned himself in his chair, not thrilled about having to answer you,

“Not sure, love. Is that alright?” 

It was a test. What were you willing to sacrifice for this man and his makeshift band of brothers? Your peace? You’d fought so damn hard for that peace. You’d survived a devil of a man in order to sleep warm and safe and knowing you could take care of your damn business unaided. After giving up years of your life to unrest and fear, your reward had been the reconstruction of your independence. Price was asking you for your hard-fought freedom. You weren’t ready to give that up. You weren’t ready for sleeping on floors and reloading guns. You weren’t ready to face more devil-men. 

But what else could you do? Price had you, threatening your heart. If you woke up tomorrow to his empty bed, you didn’t know if you could take that pain. You imagined that Kahlo’s Wounded Deer felt much the same; shot through the chest with nowhere to run, stuck between the cliff’s edge and your lover - your hunter - both promising suffering in different ways. No escape. 

The captain studied you like a heeler dog studied its herd, watching for even the slightest movement to strike, to react. He witnessed the fear flash in your face, and in turn, you saw the despair shadow his. It was so slight, that change in his expression, but to you, it was like he was screaming. You, too, were screaming. 

“Okay, but just for this mission. Then, I need to get back to my life,” you decided, making your limitations known, quietly but firmly. 

The relief that washed through Price’s eyes was palpable. 

Vargas served dinner in his chaotic way, family style, sharing plates. Everyone was eating with their hands, cradling the homemade tortillas like little flowers, using them to scoop up meat and sauce that dripped down their palms like nectar, spicy and sweet. 

Ghost didn’t take his food into the other room this time, feeling secure enough to flip up the mouth of his painted mask to eat. It was like seeing him naked; he was always covered up, so any skin was somehow too much. Soap crowded Ghost from his corner of the table, trying to steal more asada, laughing and joking with Ale. Gaz and Price were huddled, murmuring about something, talking with full mouths in low tones. 

It was almost too serene. There were times in life where you understood that you were in a moment you could never return to. You may have similar ones in your future, but somehow, you knew when certain wrinkles in time were singular. As you watched your guests, you knew that this was definitely one of those moments. 

Price had his arm draped across your chair, keeping you near him. You crafted a bite for him in your hand, pinching the soft tortilla until it held the perfect amount of Ale’s asada. 

You nudged Price with your free hand,

“Toma, come esto, papi.” Here, have a bite, daddy.

He turned away from Gaz and found you there, his bite of food in your hands, and his face lit up like a flame. Bending his head down to meet your hand, he grabbed your wrist in his huge fist, trapping your arm. Then, slowly, he put his mouth around the morsel, lips touching the pads of your fingers, tongue licking the sauce from them. 

Vargas watched your interaction from the other side of the table, open-mouthed. Soap smacked him on the shoulder as if to cash in a bet.

“No, animales! Not at the table!”

The men shared a lighthearted groan and laughed good-naturedly, giving you and their captain a hard time about your little display of affection. 

You smirked, feeling accomplished. Price had wanted to tell them, so you thought a dropped hint or two would be alright. To your relief, he laughed with them, chewing his food before making a comment,

“Sabe buena.” Tastes good. His voice, still badly accented, was mirthful and suggestive, dragging out another round of playful jeering. 

Then, to your surprise, the captain pulled your chair back away from the table, leaning it on its rear legs, holding it at an angle, and kissed you deeply. You let out a little cry of shock, silenced by his mouth. But, you recovered, kissing him back, wrapping one hand around his jaw and the other running through his hair. 

It was all in good fun. Normal. Just a couple flirting with each other, but for Price, you could tell it meant more. It was one thing to bare your souls to each other in front of the farm animals, or to sneak off and rediscover original sins in the quiet of your room, but it was something else to show the world that you chose him. To show his men that you were committed to their captain. That you weren’t just a rest-stop on their long journey. You got the sense that by committing to him, you were also committing to them: his family. 

The rest of the meal passed in that same warmth, filled with laughter and jokes, stories and questions about each other. Intimacy. The whole time, Price couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Your thigh, your hand, the nape of your neck - he was grabbing you like a lifeline. He shared his food, making you try his chili relleno, giving you sips of his drink when yours ran dry, doting on you. 

“Okay, time for dessert, yes?” You asked the others, picking up dirty dishes as you retreated back to the kitchen. 

You heard exasperated groaning, their bellies full and struggling, but you didn’t hear a no. Vargas followed you into the kitchen, pretending to help,

“Dios mío, necesito un cigarrillo después de verlos a ustedes.” My God, I need a cigarette after watching you two. 

“Cállate, cerdito.” Shut up, piglet. You smiled to yourself, cutting up what was left of the cheesecake, giving Price’s plate the largest piece. 

“¿Estas enamorado, morena?” Are you in love, darling? His voice was a quiet whisper. It felt like a gunshot wound in your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you said, in English, not trusting yourself to tell such a lie in your native tongue. 

Your old friend covered his mouth with his hand, eyebrows heading skyward, giving you an obvious look. He replied in English, understanding the secret you’d been trying to conceal,

“You know better, Charon. We are not men who should be loved. I hope you know what you’re doing, mija. ”

You didn’t reply out loud, but on the inside, you heard yourself say, “Me, too.”

Even though they lived in the shadows, you weren’t sold on the idea that they should be priests for their causes. Men like Price typically followed two paths. The love of a woman, if she becomes his family, could break his heart, making him forget his purpose, distracting him from his quest for justice. Or, she would light a fire in him, turning him into a dragon. You were afraid to find out which path he would choose.

You wondered if he loved you. 

You delivered the cake and poured more tequila into all the little cups that were thirsty for it. 

John was rolling a cigar in his fingers absentmindedly, and you could tell he was aching to smoke it. 

“You wanna come outside with me, love?” Price invited you, rubbing your thighs in big, sweeping strokes, making your blood rush through them, somehow knowing what you wanted. 

Everyone else was chatting, or watching Gaz play that video game of his, backseat driving, telling him where to hide and who to shoot. Which gun to use. You slipped out onto the porch with Price, avoiding any more ribbing. 

You stood against the porch railing, facing the yard, staring out at the darkness of the night, the rain finally dying out to a drizzle, casting little blue galaxies in the flooded grass, reflecting the light from a huge moon. Price stood directly behind you, pressed against your body, wrapping one hand around the railing, closing you in. He held his cigar in the other hand, smoking it in circles, trying to make the ashes burn evenly. 

“You surprised me at dinner,” he commented, obviously looking for a response. 

You feigned ignorance,

“Oh, why?”

“Feeding me by hand like that. Can’t be doing that in public. Makes me go a bit hard, love.” His voice was right next to your ear, gravelly and delightfully threatening. 

You smiled sweetly, your words coated in pretend innocence, playing with him,

“What do you mean? I just wanted you to have a bite. One little bite can’t hurt, can it, John?” 

“It’s bloody mental, the way you make me feel,” he took a long drag from his cigar and let the smoke tumble out as he spoke, leaning over you, “I’d fuck you right here, pretty girl, given half a chance.”

He took a deep breath along the side of your neck, smelling your skin beneath your hair, and when he exhaled, a moan was wrapped quietly inside it.

You pressed your ass into his crotch, finding him nearly hard. Touching his hand gently, you took his cigar and stuck it in your mouth, the wet leaves tasting like him. You curled the smoke with your tongue, locking eyes with him over your shoulder, watching him suffer deliciously,

“I dunno about ‘mental’, John. But it seems like you have an oral fixation.

You punctuated your last two words, saying them with a soft, sultry undertone. His eyes narrowed as he smiled down at you in a sinister grin,

“Do I ever.”

He stole the stick back from you and smiled even wider, teeth gleaming, his incisors seeming like fangs in his wolfy smile. 

“Think they’re watching us?” You let your eyes turn over to the window, covered with a sheer curtain, fully aware that the view outside was more visible than your view into the house. Trick of the light. 

He shrugged,

“Not if they know what’s good for them.”

Price’s cock had fully hardened now, and he thrust it up into your body ever so slightly, rubbing himself through layers of clothes, rocking his hips once and then twice like a promise of things to come. It made you feel a deep, primal lust, understanding his need without his words, your bodies engaging in an ancient art that had remained untainted by eons of time. You returned his invitation, rolling your hips back onto him, your ass pressing soundly into his pinned shaft. 

“We should get some sleep. Early start tomorrow. It’s five hours to El Ojo,” Price groaned, whispering, rutting against you mindlessly, burying his face in your hair, staining your scent with his smoke. 

You turned around to face him; he didn’t stop his idle grinding, looking tranquilized by his heady tobacco. Hypnotizing you with his casual eroticism. 

“You don’t seem sleepy,” you commented, letting your hands roam over his chest and belly, tracing his nipples beneath his smooth shirt. He shuddered at your touch, sighing deeply. 

With his cigar perched carefully between his fingers, he grabbed your jawbone, and you could feel the wet end press into your cheek. You could sense the warmth of the ash on your skin. He began to kiss you, all of the smoke and musky scents of him blended together, and his strong, masculine cologne made your head spin. His kisses were controlling and long, moving your head where he wanted it to be, sucking your lips and tongue, keeping them from exploring on their own. He was the guide for your passion, showing you all the ways he would be able to please.

He broke away, but only far enough to keep your lips from touching, his breath hot as it warmed your mouth when he spoke,

“Early. Tomorrow. We have to get up early. We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you sighed, a little dramatically, easing past his grip, removing yourself from him, untangling his vines from your bones, “if you say so, John. Buenas noches.” 

You walked inside, swaying your hips a little more than you needed to, knowing he was looking, his blue eyes burning into your curves. Just before you went through the door, you glanced over at him. In the darkness of the porch, cast in shadow, the smoldering tip of his cigar glowed in his open mouth, the light from it gleaming off of his teeth and coloring his lips and beard a fiery orange. He was grinning, like a fox in a henhouse. When he saw you looking, he made a small show of readjusting himself, pawing at his swollen rod to release it from where it was trapped, and in the dimness, you could see its threatening outline. 

You shut the door behind you, hands shaking. The other men mostly ignored you, but you caught them glancing your way, trying to sneak looks. Soap was not as sneaky as the rest, staring blankly as if he had a secret he shouldn't have.

As you wished them good night, they returned the sentiment casually, but it was then that you noticed the window. Price was still at the railing - in full, clear view, smoking. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel the flush tingle against your skin with embarrassment. 

An hour or so later, you were already asleep when Price came upstairs. His heavy footsteps pulled you from your slumber. He was pacing in his room, packing perhaps. You went to the bathroom and pulled open the door. Upon hearing you, he opened his as well.

“Hey,” you whispered, squinting from sleep. 

“Hey,” he was breathing heavily, dressed in nothing but the jeans and boots he had worn that day. 

The captain watched as your eyes feasted upon his skin, gazing longingly at his thick waist where his pants were slung low on his hips, showing off just a bit of hair from below his belt line. One of his giant hands gripped the door frame, high on the plank, stretching his chest into a sweeping display of muscle. His armpit, arms, and torso were covered in the thick, dark hair you had let your hands roam across last night during your joining, and you knew how it would feel to touch. 

Price slid his hand down the frame, making a slow scraping noise, stepping fully into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a click, his icy eyes never leaving yours. 

He was enormous in the small space. His body was a powerhouse of visible strength. The meat of him hung heavy on his large bones, and he seemed, in the clean white tile of the bathroom, as if he was a specimen in some sort of display. Some museum exhibit, showing off, in sterile composition, the ideal form of Man. Built to fuck, to kill, to dominate the beasts of Eden from the lamb to the lion. Top of the food chain. 

Still a little shy from realizing you’d given his team quite the show earlier on the porch, you averted your gaze, turning toward the sink. Before you could run the water, he was behind you, quick, crowding your space exactly as he had on the porch.

He positioned himself behind you and, much more luridly this time, began to kiss and lick your neck, grinding himself into you as he did so, slipping a warm hand under your loose top, finding your soft flesh waiting for his touch. You could feel the roughness of his denim jeans through your cotton shorts, and the contrast between his soft, melting kiss and the hard, unforgiving feeling of him trying to fuck you through your clothes was too much to handle. Your body was trying to reconcile the two, splitting your thoughts, making you love-drunk on his ministrations. 

Price pulled off your shirt, raking it over your head, tossing it to the floor. He laced his hand through your hair and began to tug your head back, forcing you to look at yourself, bare to him, in the mirror. There was only the nightlight, more like a small Christmas bulb attached to a plug, so the room lacked any harsh contrast. Your bodies, your faces, the walls - everything began to swirl together, all colorized in the same, peachy glow. 

You felt his hands on your breasts, and you watched him touch you in the mirror. Seeing yourself being pulled and manipulated by such a large man was gratifying. His hands massaged into your softness, leaving warm trails on your skin, the tell-tale feeling of where he had touched and where he still had left to go. The captain saw himself in the mirror for the first time, then, looking up from leaving erotic kisses on your neck and shoulders. 

He sighed, locking eyes with you in the glass. That sigh trailed off into a groan, a ghost of the one he’d given you last night in the midst of his ecstasy. 

“Fucking hell, look at you,” he said in his lowest tone.

Suddenly, he was tugging at the button of his jeans and unzipping the fly, freeing himself and stroking his cock to attention using your plump ass. Through your flimsy shorts, you could feel the burning heat that radiated from him. Reaching behind you, his hardness fell into your palm and you watched the sensation crawl its way through his expression in the reflection. He gasped, resting his head against yours, whispering - yes, yes, yes - into your ear in a hiss through clenched teeth. 

John’s hand found your pantyline and pried it away from your skin with a confident finger, traveling down into your folds, searching for the swelling bundle nestled in the crest of your slit, rubbing it in long, loose ovals.

It wasn’t feverish; it was measured. His was the hand of a practiced man. As he worked, you joined him, rolling your wrist to rub his foreskin up and down in achingly long pulls, letting his wet head graze your skin as you teased him. The thick length was drooling with precome, and you could feel its stickiness on your palm. 

It didn’t take him long to find your particular rhythm, the one you used when staring at Pinterest photos on your phone of Keanu Reeves in his John Wick era; sweaty, bloody, and great with a gun. Price’s movements felt personal, like he’d read about what you wanted in your diary somewhere, as if he was in on the secret. It brought you to the summit very quickly, and he noticed the flush in your cheeks and breasts, only then increasing his intensity. 

You tried to continue to stroke him, but as you began to come in Price’s hand, you could only hold onto his cock, grasping it like the handle in a car driving too fast, careening downhill, rushing to its inevitable crash. 

“Yeah, love, come for me. Just like that, you gorgeous fucking thing,” he watched you tumble over the edge, crumpling in the mirror, reaching for him. 

“John! Please,” you cried.

You felt the tension burst inside of you like a mortar, hot and molten, pouring out of your core and into your body in waves of climactic pleasure. No one had ever made you come that hard, that quickly. It was hard for you to stand. Price steadied you, using his talented hand to hold you to him while you remembered your legs. 

Once you regained your senses, you removed your hand from him to pull down your shorts and panties, letting them pool at the floor beneath your feet. You returned to his cock, now swollen and throbbing, and fed it into you. Your come made his entry smooth and slippery, and he filled you up, your body celebrating his return.

He returned to his slow, grinding dance on the porch, thrusting himself into you rhythmically in aching, rolling motions. It was not the slamming pugilism of two people trying to find release. This was a concerted effort for him to fuck your walls into his memory, rubbing his dick along them to sense every ridge and sweet spot, and to find the ones that made you scream. 

When you let slip a desperate moan, he would pause, reflect, and return, hitting it again and again, watching you writhe and begging for him to help you.

“You feel so good in me,” you admitted, talking to him in the looking-glass. 

His eyes were full of mismanaged control, and his grip on reality was slipping, 

“Bloody beautiful. So warm and wet for me. Goddamnit, I’m not gonna last.”

But, he did. Your beast had stamina. He returned to your clit as he thrust in and out of you, dragging his fat cock through your body, ripping two more orgasms from your lips before he surrendered. 

You watched him come, crying out darkly in his reflection. He had pulled himself from you and was painting your generous ass cheeks with his load. The tacky fluid was searingly hot, and it ran down your skin in drips. 

You smiled, bending back to kiss him,

“Messy boy,” you chided playfully, a naughty tone in your voice. 

“Wanna clean you up,” Price sighed, satisfied and spent.

Do you want 30 more chapters of these two? Read "Gunslinger" here.

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

[rookiesbookies]

Hi i love the empress and male!concubines idea with the COD boys, I def think that it'll be interesting to see more hcs for this idea/au?

Alright my little anon. Truthfully I should have given more details in the og post (it also started as a rant about how I couldn’t handle a poly relationship because of my anxiety (I also saw a post about a girl who had 4 partners and didn’t get any attention and it made me sad so that's also way).) I have been stewing on this idea though so here’s some hc. Might do more if people are still interested in it or want more, I do love talking about my AUs (like this one and the Greek god one, so let me know if you want me to go more bc stuff like this rattles around my brain)

Also apparently there is a term for a male concubine and they’re called concubinatus or a concubinus. Honestly I took Latin and the fact I didn’t expect this lowkey brings me pain.

General HC?

The first empress in a long time. And the first empress to like her concubinuses (hope that's right) more than the idea of marrying for an emperor. So the council decided to bring you only the best warriors to keep. They of course still must serve occasionally but they have been elevated in status to there is lower risk anything will happen. Mostly kept as tacticians or kept to train the new boys joining the country’s military.

Konig and Krueger were taken as trophies of war for the Empress. They were two of the largest, smartest, and strongest men from the battlefield.

When the two were adjusting, it was difficult. The empress was gracious with them, mentioning how she wouldn’t dare make them do anything, apologizing for the war and the loss. Truthfully trying to get them comfortable, and the two were honestly shocked but I’ll get into that more in their sections.

Keegan was sent as a gift by a neighboring nation looking for peace and protection. He had a good time adjusting, sometimes making comments about how this treatment is too good for nasty military dogs like all of them but I’ll touch on that more later.

Price

Price was probably the first concubinus. He had been a strong warrior and was deemed by the council to be a good fit for what they were hoping for. He also, however, did not intend to retire from his position so they had to find an alternate reason to stop him from getting in trouble.

For him it was awkward. His empress was a bit younger than him, however he did crave to be a father. While the empress didn’t intend to fall pregnant yet, he would be on his best behavior when the opportunity came.

The chance to be the father of the next royal was something he couldn’t miss.

Soap

Both him and Gaz were best in their class, breaking records, so it only made sense it seems to send them to the empress once they got their prime years out of them.

He was probably the last concubinus to come in before the gift and the trophies of war. He has the more vicious puppy eyes. He waits for you like a dog every time you leave and enter. Always talks about how much more comfortable your bed is and how nice it is to lay with you. Definitely sweet talks you even though he’s already a concubinus.

Will literally do anything you say and it’s partially because he thinks he will get sent back to the military full time if he doesn’t.

Ghost

Definitely does checks on all the palace guards to make sure they’re up to spec. If even one slacks he uses his power to make them run.

This is all because of how gracious the empress has been with him. When he had a fit of ptsd (i'm thinking anxiety attack or something) she invited him into her room and away from the others so he didn’t feel embarrassed and comforted him as best she could before making him some tea. With an empire that stretches across Europe he was impressed she had the time to stop and care about a random concubinus.

Definitely was surprised he told you as much as he did and how you listened and comforted him. Telling him you’d never make him do anything he wasn’t comfortable with was something he appreciated.

Gaz

See the first paragraph of Soap’s bc Im not copying it again.

Since I feel like Gaz is the older of the two (he seems to have a maturity I dont see as much in Soap idk?) He was sent to her first of the two for his ‘semi-retirement’. Now they just need them to occasionally train incoming recruits.

He definitely enjoyed adjusting to the cushy life of the castle. He liked being able to keep his weapons since he did double as a personal guard for the empress. But he likes that he and the other concubinus get a hot tub more, definitely likes all the fancy clothes.

His job is the have sex with his sexy empress, what’s not to love?

Konig

Truthfully, when he was being cocky toward the other concubinus and you pulled him away into a separate room to tell him you knew he was compensating for his anxiety, he was more than shocked. He was stunned into silence.

So when you reached your hands under his hood and rubbed his cheeks, telling him it was ok and he didn’t need to act out, he melted. He had never truly been shown such softness, so to be shown it by the empress of the enemy? He was so conflicted. With a pat on his chest you told him he could take on his position fully when he was more comfortable and that you were concerned for him and there if he needed to talk. He was still quiet.

Krueger

Was not interested. No matter how many compliments you gave him or gifts you sent, he wouldn’t budge. He was grumpy and hostile. So much so he made the other concubinus nervous especially for you.

It wasn’t until you pulled him into your room that night that he relaxed quite a bit under your soft hands and apologies. Massaging his tired muscles, and lulling him into a sense of security. Now he understood how Konig folded so easily.

He offered to return the favor but you told him not until he was more comfortable and made him promise to play nice. He agreed but only to be a bit nicer.

Keegan

He honestly believes this treatment is too good for all of them. They were dogs of war, animals trained to kill, and now they’re dressed in fancy clothes? With an empress who dotes on them when they should be doting on her? Truthfully he baffles him. He isn’t ungrateful, he just didn’t expect to become a concubinus when sent here. He expected a joint military operation or to be a representative. He hit it off quickly with the group from the empire’s military.

The two from the war keep to themselves and the shorter one threatened to bite him.

Often feels the most out of place because he is the only one from his area, but he doesn’t complain. He gets nice gifts and is invited into your room pretty often, so he appreciates every moment. He wonders if it would be proper or allowed for him to get you gifts?

I was surprising more eager to write this ask than I thought. Let me know if yall want me to do formal parts to this? Maybe an actual fic for this au?

Masterlist is pinned on profile as always, don’t forget to leave me a comment or a request in my inbox to let me know what yall want to see!

[incodnito]

Cod men as school teachers because vice principal price is haunting my dreams

- Simon “Ghost” Riley: Better known as Coach Riley amongst his students, he teaches PE because I don’t believe he has the patience (or the brains) for much of anything else. This was a tough decision because any of them could fill this role really but the others at least have overarching skills that I think could apply to other teaching positions. Simon however is mentally ill and dumb of ass so I dont think theres anywhere else he could go unless I made him a janitor (and I did consider it). Also coaches the schools soccer (or football whatever) team, his kids always make it to the semi finals at least.

- Kyle “Gaz” Garrick: History teacher. Theres always one real handsome history teacher for no reason and thats Mr. Garrick. Has some of the highest test scores in the school since hes so charming and energetic and knows how to get his students interested in the most boring topics. Bonus points for really focusing in on the history of cultures outside of the west and real passionate about black history in particular. Gets in trouble with parents for being “too political” in a history class. He just rolls his eyes and nods along as they rant.

- Johnny “Soap” MacTavish: Unhinged physics teacher who puts his students in danger. There will be explosions, you better be wearing safety goggles. Spends the first two weeks of classes testing his students on lab safety till they all get full marks because he will not have any (more) liabilities on his hands. Kids love him, faculty hate him. Constantly in trouble with admin for destroying some piece of school property. Only reason he hasn’t been fired is because the test scores don’t lie, whatever he’s doing its working.

- Captain John Price: Vice principal but will sub for english and history where needed (yea I watched The Bay and promptly lost my mind what about it). Keeps everyone in line, and serves as the bridge between teachers and admin. Is usually the one handling whatever fresh hell Mr. MacTavish has cooked up for him. Is great with the kids and they genuinely trust him to take any of their concerns seriously no matter how petty. Makes sure all the clubs and extracurriculars are well taken care of because he knows how important it is for kids to have an outlet. Does not stand for bullying and will stop that shit in its tracks the second he sees it.

[blingblong55]

A bit morbid question (hopefully not), but if you could fuck tf141, who would you go for first?

And how do you reckon they fuck? I would like Soap would be hard fast (perhaps), gaz might be soft, loving. Price maybe soft loving yet dominant.

I love these kind of questions, here it goes:

I would start with Soap, I think he would be the one to get me all wet and easy for the others and he is the one to convince me to do more for him and the other men. I do agree he is the kind of man that hold you by the hips, your back to his chest as he fucks himself with deep and hard thrusts into you.

Gaz would be next since I believe he would soft, like you said. I'd be a chance of pace and it would serve for some sweet praises and loving kisses over me as he fucks himself into me. I also like to believe Gaz is the kind of man to truly take his time with you and make sure you are pleased before him.

Ghost is next. This is because I know switching from Gaz to him is rather nice. The transitions are smooth and since I know Ghost wouldn't want to harm me whilst he fucks me, it would be the best sex, apart from Gaz. He also seems like the kind of guy who is a little shy because of his scars and his past, which means that he takes things more slower than Gaz. I also think he truly would praise every inch of my body and would make me feel all loved and happy.

Price is last since I think, and this is my personal favourite thing about a man, his hairy chest and soft tummy would be the perfect combination for not just nasty sex but also the most amazing after care ever. I do agree that Price is dominant but also soft. I think he is the type to kind of have lazy sex? Y'know, him leaving on the headboard, your back to his chest, maybe even chest to chest, his hands on your hips as he kisses your neck and shoulder. I think him and after care included a cigarette/cigar on his mouth as he caresses your back whilst you lay your head on his soft and comfy chest.

I also like to think that if it's canon, unlike what I've written, sex with any of them would be filled with laugh, your hair getting stuck under his hand and him apologizing and chuckling. I truly believe they have realistic sex. The accidentally tipping you both over and nearly falling, laughing about it and even after, you two laying beside, talking about any stupid thing that comes to mind.

There would be silence, the good kind where he caresses your arm as your head rests on his chest. He looks at the ceiling and smiles and once he looks down, he's compelled to kisses your forehead, close his eyes and hold you there for longer.

[lemonwrap]

Imagine: a Dishonored AU where Ghost is marked and gifted with the Outsider’s powers, and Soap is the royalty he protects.

As a young child, Simon grew up poor—so poor that his father couldn’t repay the debts he racked up. Not when he spent nearly every cent on booze. 

When Simon is eight, the street gang his father had been avoiding for nearly a year finally catches up with him. Although Simon manages to escape, the gang kills his entire family as retribution—his father, mother, and older brother, Tommy. Ghost didn’t care for his father in the least, but it’s still a shock to see a corpse. 

That night, as he sobs on his cracked front doorstep and mourns the loss of his mother and brother, he falls asleep. He awakens in a strange place, where chunks of buildings and land float throughout a vast abyss. 

Simon wanders around for an unknown amount of time investigating—it could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been years. A flurry of inky black particles form in the air and quickly arrange themselves into a…being.

There’s something distinctly godlike about the being. He isn’t human. His eyes are pitch black, an abyss with no bounds, and his skin is pale as snow. He holds himself with a rigid posture, arms crossed, and chin lifted as he looks down upon the young boy. 

“Hello, Simon,” the being says. 

“Who are you?” Simon whispers. 

“I am the Outsider. Your life has taken a turn, has it not? I have chosen you and drawn you into the Void,” he says. “There are forces in the world and beyond the world, great forces that men call ‘magic’, and now these forces will serve your will.”

Simon doesn’t say anything else, mystified. What is he talking about? There’s always been stories of magic, of the Outsider, but magic doesn’t really exist, does it? But nothing else can explain how real this all feels, from the cold, empty air to the calls of the whales as they float throughout the chasm of this realm, to the Outsider himself. 

“This is my mark,” the Outsider says, and he lifts his hand. Suddenly, Simon’s own left hand is burning, and he jumps at the pain, looking down at it in alarm. There’s an intricate design forming on the back of his hand, and when he tries to wipe it off, it’s smooth and stays firmly in place like a tattoo would.

“Use this newfound power, my gift to you, Simon. How you use what I have given you falls upon you, as it has to the others before you. And now, I return you to your world—but know that I will be watching with great interest.”

In the morning, Simon wakes up on his doorstep again. He immediately checks his hand and is startled to see that it’s still there, and it doesn’t come off. It wasn’t just a dream.

He lives on the streets after that. 

Simon spends years honing his abilities, including his ability to Blink moderate distances, Wind Blast opponents or objects, and his sword fighting skills. He also maintains a strong, agile body ready for just about anything, and even adopts the name Ghost, coming from his ability to Blink and his stealth. 

In his dreams, Ghost sometimes finds himself in the Void, but he never sees the Outsider. His mark is as visible and strong as ever, though, and so he keeps it covered constantly.

At sixteen, Ghost enters the Blade Verbana, an annual sword-fighting competition. The prize is a spot in the Serkonan Guard, something he would have almost zero chance of gaining otherwise.

Ghost wins, of course. Even without his powers, most of his opponents were no match for him. He didn’t use his powers in the competition because using his Wind Blast to throw one of his opponents into a wall or Blinking to dodge would give him away. Black magic is feared and looked down upon, and its discovery would subject him to arrest or death. Ghost knows that is what he possesses, so he keeps it a secret, only using it when alone or in an emergency.

After two years of service, the Duke of Serkonos sends Ghost to Dunwall to serve Empress Anne MacTavish. The Empress assigns him to be the Royal Protector, specifically for her son. 

That’s when he meets John MacTavish.

He’s Ghost’s age, has a stupid haircut in the form of a mohawk, and likes to be called Soap. Ghost thinks he’s insolent and irritating, with the most redeeming thing about him is that he doesn’t talk down on Ghost and doesn’t purposely flaunt his wealth or status. It makes his attitude a little more bearable. However, Soap has a healthy disrespect for authority and, to Ghost’s annoyance, likes to flee the elegant balls his mother hosts and sneak out of his room in the tower at night. It’s Ghost’s job to protect and guard him, and Soap is making it a pain in the ass.

Ghost isn’t particularly attached to his fiery ward until one night, when Soap slips out of his room yet again. Ghost tracks him down and eventually finds Soap in the middle of a brawl with three men in an alleyway, losing badly. Ghost helps him. He and Soap fight side by side, though Soap is clearly lacking in any real technique, and Ghost chases the men away. He could’ve easily Wind Blasted them, but he doesn’t want to try and explain that to Soap. 

He’s about to yell at Soap until he realizes there’s a girl there, too. A teenager, only a few years younger than them. Soap had been defending her. Ghost is still annoyed, but not quite as upset as before as he drags Soap back to the tower. He tends to a pouting Soap’s scrapes and sends him back to his room with a blooming black eye. 

The next day, when Ghost is reprimanded for allowing Soap to leave his room and get hurt, Soap jumps in to defend the Royal Protector. Ghost manages to avoid punishment, although Soap and his black eye make quite the sight as his mother chews him out. 

After that, they get closer. 

As it is his duty to do so, Ghost follows Soap just about everywhere, much to Soap’s annoyance. When Soap isn’t sneaking out, roaming the city streets, or meeting up with his friend Gaz, he likes to find reprieve in the small patch of woods near the tower. Sometimes he takes a dip in the small pond located there. 

“C’mon, Ghost,” Soap urges, waggling his eyebrows as he tosses his shirt to the side. “The water’s fine.” 

“I’m supposed to be guarding you,” Ghost says gruffly as Soap steps in. He tries very hard not to look at Soap’s chest, his strong biceps, or his tanned skin.

“You’re so serious all the time,” Soap huffs, taking his arm and playfully splashing Ghost with water. From the edge, Ghost is torn between wanting to splash him back and wanting to stay on guard. 

“I won’t let you get in trouble,” Soap assures him. “You need to relax a little!” 

Ah, fuck it. What’s a little fun? Ghost has more clothes back at the tower, anyway. He kicks off his boots.

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ghost says. 

“Warn me about wh—“

Ghost doesn’t hear the rest of his sentence. Clothes on, he impulsively cannonballs straight into the pond, splashing water all over the place in a huge wave. When he rises to the surface, Soap is sputtering and spitting water out of his mouth. 

“I didn't mean come in like that,” Soap laughs incredulously. Later, when they return to the tower, Ghost dripping all over the floors and boots squelching with every step, Soap tells his mother that he pushed Ghost in just so that Ghost wouldn’t get in trouble. 

Between their banter and jokes, Ghost also teaches Soap more about self defense, and they spar frequently. Soap gets better and better, but against Ghost’s years of experience and unnatural talents, Ghost still wins. Soap gets some good hits in, though, and he can hold his own in a fight. 

Soap quickly becomes likable—and despite his intention to stay distant, Ghost starts crushing on Soap. He’s still professional, of course, but it’s hard for him to not like Soap, especially when they spend so much time together. Soap treats him well, too, and the brazen-faced man often shows him a softer, more kind side of himself. Ghost’s own facade slips more often than he intends it to.

Sometimes, Ghost wishes he could tell Soap about the Outsider’s mark. He doesn’t, and the Outsider never visits him either. Perhaps Ghost is too boring for him now that he isn’t a street rat. 

Less than a year after Ghost is appointed as Soap’s Royal Protector, the Empress falls ill and dies. At only eighteen, Soap becomes the new Emperor of the Empire of the Isles. 

Soap doesn’t get a lot of time to process it all when the council urges him to make a public statement and officially inherit the title. After, Soap stands with Ghost at his side as the aides move Soap’s belongings into his new quarters—his mother’s old room. 

Soap doesn’t say a word and just stands there with watery eyes. Unsure if this was a line he should cross, Ghost attempts to go stand outside Soap’s door, but Soap asks him to stay. The new Emperor cries into Ghost’s shoulder that night. 

Ghost tries his best to help Soap deal with his grief, but even with personal experience, he’s not the greatest at it. Even so, Soap begins to get the hang of being Emperor and proves himself to be a benevolent and competent leader. The people become fond of Soap and respect him greatly.

It isn’t enough to keep him from being targeted, though. 

It’s a quiet night, nearly three years after being appointed Emperor, when a group of assassins makes an attempt on Soap’s life. Soap and Ghost are resting in a gazebo, looking out at the water, and standing much too close for Ghost to even pretend he’s being professional. He can’t stop looking at Soap, from his grown-out mohawk that hasn’t been trimmed in months to his beautiful blue eyes. Ghost wants to kiss Soap so, so badly, but he does no such thing, and resigns himself to observing.

Neither of them are prepared for the attack, but Ghost recovers first. There’s six of them, all covering their faces like Ghost does—perhaps they had heard of Ghost’s fighting prowess and thought that they could overwhelm him with numbers.

He doesn’t let that happen. 

Everything comes in a rush, and he’s using the Outsider’s mark to prevent them from even touching Soap. Soap knocks one of them out in the ensuing struggle and beats the shit out of another, but Ghost is a whirlwind, dodging and Blinking to avoid blows, Wind Blasting his opponents to the ground, and using his sword like it’s an extension of his own body. It’s over quicker than Ghost had expected. 

“Shit,” Soap says breathlessly, visibly shaken when Ghost pulls his sword out of the last assassin’s stomach. 

“You alright, Johnny?” Ghost asks, stumbling forward, and finds that he’s very out of breath. 

“Simon? What’s that on your side?” Soap asks, his brow creasing with worry. “Are you—“

Ghost staggers, and suddenly his side is bursting with pain. He can’t believe he didn’t notice it before. He reaches his hand to where the pain is radiating and can feel the hot blood quickly gushing from the wound. 

“Simon?!” Soap rushes forward, and suddenly, Ghost feels a little too woozy. Shit, they must’ve gotten him bad.

“It’s fine,” Ghost grunts, trying not to worry Soap too much, but it’s starting to get dark and Ghost is dizzy.

The last thing he hears is Soap frantically calling his name.

When Ghost wakes up, he’s in a dim room that he recognizes as Soap’s quarters. There’s a weight on his thigh, and he looks down to see Soap’s head resting on him. Soap’s closed eyes are puffy like he’s been crying, and there’s shadows under them, too. Ghost shifts and lets out a groan as a sharp pain shoots through his side, and Soap immediately notices, his eyes snapping open. 

But then his face switches from relief and crumples into a terrible, terrible guilt. 

Soap sits up and lays his hand on Ghost’s chest, and Ghost realizes that he’s feeling how his chest rises and falls. Ghost doesn’t know what to say, but anything he possibly could fades when Soap lets out a shuddering gasp and begins to cry. It quickly turns into hiccuping sobs, and Ghost worriedly grabs Soap’s hands in his own, trying to soothe him. 

“Ah, shit. Johnny, it’s okay,” Ghost says, wanting to lean forward but wincing. Soap pushes him back against the propped-up pillows, his cheeks wet with tears, lip wobbling, brows upturned in utter sorrow. Ghost feels like an asshole for letting himself get hurt so badly. 

“It’s not. I thought you were going to die,” Soap says, his breathing hitched. 

“I had to protect you,” Ghost says, running his hands up Soap’s arms. 

“But—“

“Johnny, I’d do it a thousand times if it meant you lived.” 

Soap sniffles and lays his head back down on Ghost’s thigh, and Ghost pets his hair. 

Later, they talk about what happened. At Soap’s probing, Ghost cautiously admits that he had been marked by the Outsider as a child. Soap doesn’t seem to find this off-putting, nor does he call for Ghost’s arrest or beheading. He doesn’t seem to think any differently of Ghost, although he does seem incredibly intrigued by the mark on Ghost’s hand that he’d diligently kept hidden until now.

Only a day and a half after being stabbed, Ghost gets out of bed and hobbles around some, much to Soap’s displeasure. 

When he gets tired, he lets Soap lead him back into bed. They’re close, and Ghost just can’t help himself. He strokes his hand through Soap’s hair softly, and Soap allows it—seems to enjoy it, even. 

And then he’s using the hand in Soap’s hair to urge him closer, kissing him before he can stop himself, because he’s wanted to do this for three years at this point. Ghost quickly pulls back, though, stunned at what he’s just done.

Soap looks just as stunned for a moment, but then he grins.

“Is this your way of telling me you’re feeling better?” Soap laughs, following Ghost’s lips and kissing him fiercely. 

“Better because of you,” Ghost manages to say between their desperate kisses. He doesn’t even care that his side still hurts like a bitch and that it’ll likely be weeks before he’s back on his feet.

“You big fuckin’ sap,” Soap says. “I love you.” 

“Yeah?” Ghost breathes. 

“Yeah,” Soap affirms, and that’s that.