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emotionoitme · 2 years ago

Text

safe in your skin

part two of about a girl

carmy berzatto x reader (no use of y/n)

warnings: friends with benefits, bdsm dom/sub undertones, age gap, alcohol & tobacco use, lots of dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected vaginal sex (use condoms!!), choking, mutual pining

wc: 7.5k

a/n: thank you so much for the support on the last chapter! i was literally kicking my legs twirling my hair reading through the replies. please enjoy some more nastiness!! and lots of yearning ofc <3

title fight - safe in your skin

job hunting was a grueling task, no matter how lucky you get— the girl could feel this physically, shoulders slumped and feet aching. she had dropped off applications at 4 different places that day, eager to start a new job as soon as possible. what she didn’t expect was places seemingly desperate for help saying they’d up to a week to get back to her. she dejectedly checked the time on her phone, strolling down the relatively empty sidewalk. it was a little after 3, meaning she’d have time to check out a few more options before heading home. she wasn’t necessarily enthusiastic about the task, either, searching up bars in her vicinity to take an application to. she finds a smaller looking club on google maps 2 miles away and pulls up walking directions. she was looking for a change of pace, but a club was familiar and she catches a second wind as her steps slow in pace, smelling a delicious aroma heavy in the sunny afternoon air. she raises her head from the phone, looking around to locate the source of the smell. she continues forward, looking in the window of a small business. a makeshift sign taped on the glass reads, “the bear”, name underlined, and “help wanted”. she puts her phone back into her pocket, no longer curious about the club she had found. she opens the front door, entering the small establishment and letting her senses be overtaken by the mouth watering scent emanating from the kitchen. the push of the door rings a small bell, and after being inside alone for a few moments, a tall man comes from the kitchen to stand behind the counter.

“hey, sweetheart, we’re closed for dinner prep. you can come back in an hour.” he tells her, voice booming. she offers him a smile, approaching the counter.

“i’m actually here for the help wanted sign. are you guys taking applications?” she asks, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear.

the man lets out a hardy laugh, “you wanna work here? what, victoria’s secret isn’t hiring?” he asks her, scanning her up and down. her small smile drops, rolling her eyes.

“never mind,” she goes to turn, leave, and take her chances with the club nearby.

“ah, hey, hey, hey, wait,” he calls after her, “i’m sorry, i’m being an asshole.”

she shrugs, not entirely disagreeing. he puts a hand out, gesturing to stay, “wait right here and i’ll get carmy.” the tall man disappears behind the kitchen doors, and she takes a quick opportunity to look around, noting the old fashioned decor, a few parts of the restaurant seemingly in renovation. it was noticeably smaller than her old workplace, but harbored a cozy feel, the bustle of the kitchen softly filtering throughout the lobby. she took a copy of her resume out of the small tote bag she was carrying, setting it on the island in front of her. she hears motion, the kitchen doors swinging open and a man clad in a white shirt and blue apron emerges. he approaches her, separated by the counter.

“hey,” he calls, taking her in, slightly, “you, uh, here to apply?”

holy shit, she feels her throat tighten up, studying his face, strong stature, golden brown curls, “hi, yes i am! my name is -,” she introduces, sticking a hand out.

he takes it, momentarily noticing how cold her hands are.

“carmy,” he returns, “it’s nice to meet you. you, uh, got a resume?” and lets go of her hand.

she hands it to him, “here,” feeling slightly self conscious as he glances over it, thinking, is this supposed to be my boss?

“you have a lot of service experience,” he notes, glancing up at her.

“yeah,” she hesitates, “i’m not sure if that’s what you’re looking for, but i’m a fast learner.”

“no, no, that’s actually what we would need, another front of house,” he responds, “we only have richie right now.”

she feels a light flutter of hope in her chest, encouraged by the reassurance of their lack of competence in the front.

“are you working now? this last job dates back six months,” he asks, eyes double checking the paper. there was the dreaded question. she was hoping he wouldn’t notice, heat growing in her cheeks a bit.

“um, yeah…i actually work over at ricky’s,” she admits, hesitantly. his eyes widen a bit, eyebrows raising.

“i don’t dance, though,” she rushedly clarifies, “i bartend.”

his eyebrows relax, and a smile creeps at his mouth in realization.

“yeah, uh, that’s why i didn’t put it on there,” she says, gesturing to the resume he held, “everyone always thinks i’m a dancer.”

he clears his throat, busying himself with the piece of paper in front of him for a moment before speaking.

“you a student?” he asks, glancing up to see her nod, bright smile adorning her face.

“i’m only taking what i can afford right now, which is like two classes, but yeah,” she explains. he doesn’t have reason for why his tongue feels tied, and the back of his neck hot. he shoves it away.

“well, um, i probably can’t give you more than about 30 hours a week, at least to start. tips are yours to take home but they, uh, probably won’t compare to the tips at ricky’s,” he brings a finger up to his nose, scratching a phantom itch. the girl tilts her head a bit, smiling, “i’ll take that as a challenge,” she quips. a grin breaks his face, not doubting the personable girl.

“so, uh, when can you start?” he asks.

“as soon as possible,” she answers, increasingly eager to quit her bartending job. he looks to the side and behind him, towards the kitchen.

“if you want, i can get you set up today,” he turns back to her, “i think we have some extra aprons in the back.”

“wait, really?” she reassures, him nodding in response. she lets out a small squeak, clapping her hands, big smile on her face.

she’s cute, he thinks to himself, watching her enthusiasm, very quickly trying to shake the thought away. don’t be weird, she’s working for you now. off limits. not to mention he knew he wasn’t exactly boyfriend material, emotionally speaking.

“is this okay to wear?” she asks, gesturing to her outfit and effectively breaking him out of his thoughts. he rakes his eyes downwards over her form, shamefully grateful for the opportunity. hugged by a tight white shirt and baggy jeans that hung to expose a long strip of her lower hips, connecting at her front and lower back. he tears his eyes back up to meet hers.

“yeah, should be fine,” he says, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, “you won’t be working in the kitchen too much at first, so you don’t have to wear a uniform,” he tells her, putting his hands onto the counter, leaning into them slightly.

“and just regular work clothes for my next shift?” she asks, finding herself also leaning forward to press her weight against the edge of the counter. he nods, “yeah,” a smirk creeps at the edges of his lips, “just uh, maybe not ricky’s attire,” glancing at the girl. she giggles. he thinks it sounds like bells chiming.

“what?” she tries to sound surprised, “how am i supposed to make the same tips then?” a smile plays on her lips, meeting his eyes. he lets out a laugh, studying her face.

“i think you’ll find a way,” he responds. the counter space between the two seemed much smaller than earlier, as now he could see her face in much finer detail. he studies it, briefly, then tears his eyes away, forcing himself to step back. he clears his throat,

“follow me,” and begins walking towards the kitchen, “we’ll try and find you an apron. and introduce you to everyone.”

a slight feeling of nervousness as she trails behind, unsure what “everyone” will entail.

“okay,” she replies, and steps behind the counter.

—

he finds himself in his apartment that night, halfheartedly watching a rerun of an old sitcom on his small tv, his mind wandering back to her time again. he was oddly intrigued by her, wanting to get to know her better. it wasn’t just a physical thing—although she was easy on the eyes— it was her demeanor, sweet and gentle, that somehow immediately smoothed his edges. the staff all took an instant liking to her, welcoming her into the kitchen enthusiastically. sydney seemed happy to have another young woman in the restaurant, tina asking her about her university, richie making the occasional snide comment, but undeniably taking a liking to the new colleague. she made her way around the register system surprisingly fast without training, seamlessly taking orders with the exception of a few brief pauses. carmy kept an eye on the girl throughout the rest of the evening in case she needed him, watching her quickly adapt to the shift of environment. the dinner rush moved shockingly smooth, the large tip jar, empty while richie was manning the front, was halfway full at closing time. he was admittedly impressed with the young woman, trying hard to mentally discern between admiring and enamoring. it was almost as if a bright light had graced the restaurant that evening, leaving carmen with a lingering warm tingle throughout his body.

he looks around his dark apartment, messy and congested, cigarettes overflowing the ashtray, dishes piling the sink. letting out a deep sigh and running his hand through his curls, he stands, shutting off the tv and making his way to the bedroom. he could clean everything up tomorrow, not that it would make much of a difference, he thinks. although the booming launch of the bear was incredibly uplifting to the chef, reassuring him of the sacrifices he made to keep mikey’s restaurant running, there was still a void carmen felt deep in his heart, growing increasingly apparent in his solitude. he often felt trapped inside of himself, wondering if this was just something he would have to learn to deal with, destined to be defined by his profession, wishing there there was a way he could give into his personal desires while maintaining his professional growth. he crawls into bed and shuts off his lamp light.

you can’t have your cake and eat it too, a saying he heard from his mom as a kid. he shuts his eyes.

—

fuck. she takes an uneasy breath, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. turning on the faucet, wetting her palms in cold water and bringing the shaky hands to both sides of her face.

why am i so nervous?

she wondered if everyone felt this way before a hookup, focusing on deep breaths to calm her nerves. she wasn’t used to this. she had only ever been intimate within relationships, not having experience with casual encounters, nevertheless ones involving her boss. she knew it was a risky pursuit, especially for being a girl with an easily breakable heart, having shed many tears over lovers prior. nevertheless, something about the pull she felt to carmen was magnetic. he was strong, dominant, confident in his work, yet deeply complicated, a dull sadness within his striking eyes. he seemed the type of person to consistently be bearing the heaviest load on his back, and she had an inexplicable urge to relieve him of this, even if only for a moment. she wanted to watch him in bliss at her own control. just have to make sure it doesn’t go too far, she consistently reminds herself. she studies herself in the mirror, skinny straps of a short white sundress peak out from underneath her hair. a dress she specifically chose for him, adorning her exposed chest with a simple gold necklace. she ultimately was aiming to be comfortable for the night, yet each item was intentionally selected with a certain set of eyes in mind.

i can do it. i’m going to have fun tonight, she tells herself, and potentially fuck my incredibly hot boss, warming at the thought, then i’m never ever gonna think about him again, she internalizes, having had enough with wasted energy on dead end flings.

she smoothes out the white dress, satisfied with how it hugs her figure, then exits the small bathroom, making her way into her living room. the clock in the adjacent kitchen reads 11:13, and she makes her way to the large window to watch for carmy’s car. she felt erratic, heart palpitating in her chest at each set of headlights that drove by. she opens the window a few inches, breathing in the warm summer night to try and calm her increasing nervousness. it does work, a bit, and she’s able to even out her breathing before leaving. after a moment, a car slowly drives up to the pavement in front of her apartment and stops, engine idling. her phone vibrates on the counter, and she picks it up.

carmy: i’m here.

her heart does a leap in her chest, grabbing her keys and turning off the light before opening her front door and walking outside, locking it behind her. she feels slightly self conscious in the headlights while approaching his car, hearing the click of the passenger’s door being pushed open for her. she grabs the door, pulling it all the way open.

“hi,” she greets, a bit shy.

“hey,” he replies warmly, silently taking her image in. she climbs into the car and shuts the door behind her, noticing the clean car’s lack of trash and empty ashtray, differing from the previous night. she meets his eyes, a fluttering in her chest. he looks tired, lids low and white shirt wrinkled, but still has a spark in his eyes, clearly admiring the girl’s presentation. he turns his head back in front of him, breaking the eye contact and putting the car into drive.

“how was close?” she breaks the silence with, noticing the way his eyes flicker back over to her.

“long,” he admits, “harder without you there.”

her heart jumps against her ribs, face growing warm at the slight praise.

“what? you mean richie isn’t the best front of house closer ever?” she feigns surprise, smiling at the thought.

he lets out a scoff, shaking his head, and she softly giggles at this. the lull of the tires against the road fills her ears, noting the limited cars out at this time. her nerves have significantly calmed from before, but she still feels a knot in her stomach, amplified by the light smell of his cologne within the confined space.

“are you, uh… are you hungry?” he asks her, eyes trained front. she pauses a moment, debating whether she is hungry or the gnawing feeling in her stomach is from nerves alone.

“yeah,” she replies, “i am.” she wasn’t going to turn down a personal meal from a world class chef, and the thought of him cooking for her before anything else spreads a warmth throughout her chest.

“good,” a small smile on his face, “i’ll make us somethin’.”

carmen couldn’t help but feel excitement bloom in his chest at the prospect of spending time alone with the young woman, having spent the day at the restaurant mentally preparing for the night. he had been chopping onions before the dinner rush when she closely brushed behind him in the confined space. he was able to smell her sweet perfume, triggering an image of her to flash across his mind— kneeled, lips parted, face flushed, chest bare, leaning into his hands— the knife slipped and he sliced the side of his finger, cursing an obscenity as soon as it happened. he dropped the knife on the cutting board, walking over to the sink, mentally cursing himself for allowing the to perverse thoughts to bleed over into his work, as he promised himself many times they wouldn’t. the bleeding of his finger had stopped quickly under the cool stream of water to reveal a small nick. he was able to put a bandaid on it and get directly back to work, but it plagued him a bit. he wondered if would he be able to maintain the professional kitchen environment in the long run, once the two were satisfied with the fun they’d had. it had proved difficult so far, thoughts of her swarming his head uncontrollably since she had stepped foot into his restaurant.

the car slows, pulling up to the curb outside carmen’s apartment complex. he pushes the gear shift into park, turning off the engine.

“this is you?” she asks, to which he nods. “you live closer than i thought you did,” she chimes, opening the door to step out of the car. she smooths the white dress, glancing around the complex. he comes up behind the girl, pressing a hand to the small of her back.

“this way,” he says, ushering her forward. she can’t help but focus on the warmth of his hand, large and encompassing against her thinly clothed skin. they enter the building, taking the long flight of stairs up to his home, carmy desperately trying to look anywhere else besides the length of her legs leading up to the soft skin of her ass, fully visible as she climbs in front of him. they speedily make it to the top, carmen rustling in his front pocket for the keys. he swings the door open to a dark room, stepping in and flicking on a lamp switch. she follows him in, eyes scanning her surroundings. it was clean and tidy, with piles of various cook books stacked on side tables and a knitted green blanket draped over the old couch. the place smelled like him, and she feels her muscles relax.

“i know it’s not much, but uh,” he shuts the door, “make yourself at home, please.”

she gives him a big smile, “it’s cute. just what i imagined,” and puts her belongings on a side table, walking around to examine the space. he feels the edges of his lips twitch at her response, watching her look at the scarcity of the place. she spins around, facing him, “you’re really clean, too.” she sounds impressed.

he smiles at this, appreciating the assumption.

“it’s not always like this,” he responds truthfully. she lets out a soft laugh and saunters over towards the kitchen island, pushing herself up to sit on the stool he had. he walks to the opposite side of the counter, opening the fridge to gather various ingredients for their dinner.

“what are you gonna make?” she curiously asks.

“just uh,” he pauses, looking for an item, “something quick.” he straightens, carrying the ingredients to the counter. he meets her eyes, the two separated by a few feet of laminate, and he feels his chest constrict under her gaze. “some roasted chicken and veggies, with a garlic herb butter,” he turns back to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of unopened wine, beginning to look for a corkscrew.

“fuck,” she breathes out, “that sounds so good.”

carmy tenses, stilling for a moment. he loved the way her voice sounded, wanted to hear more. it was apparent he was tightly strung from the grueling week, feeling reactive to everything she said. he pulls the corkscrew out from a drawer, opening the fresh bottle and grabbing two glasses.

“you want some?” he asks her, holding it up.

she nods, “yes, please,” eager for a bit of liquid encouragement. he fills the two glasses halfway, handing her one and bringing the side of his glass to clink against hers.

“cheers for making it through the week,” he toasts, earning a giggle from her.

“cheers! and,” she continues, tilting her head, “cheers for richie not seeing my tits when i was in your office,” she grins and takes a slow sip of the wine, maintaining their eye contact. he lets out a breathy laugh, raising his wine glass to his lips, “yeah, i’ll cheers to that,” and drinks, the red wine dry on his lips.

with both of their plates empty and the girl’s warm praise still lingering in the room, carmen drinks the remaining wine from his third glass, feeling calm and airy. the apartment is hot and fragrant from the cooking, and the young man notices a pinch of want in the back of his mind, wondering where he had put his cigarettes.

“do you mind if i go smoke?” he asks her, wine weighing on his tongue. she smiles a bit, shaking her head.

“i’ll go with you,” her voice a bit lower and more drawn out than he would regularly hear it. he nods, standing and walking towards the bedroom to look for a pack of cigarettes.

“i don’t have a balcony,” he calls from his room, opening his nightstand drawer, “but we can step out onto the fire escape for a bit,” he grabs his carton out of the dresser. carmy walks back into the room to find the girl standing, peering out his window at the black grated fire escape structure. he leans beside her to unlock the window, pushing it open. he puts one leg through, ducks, then steps out, offering a hand for the girl. she takes it, hand small in his, and repeats his actions, noticing a definitive impairment as she joins him outside.

the night was warm and humid, chicago air damp with the summer monsoon. it smelled good outside, though, air fresh with recent rain, a mellow hum of cicada sounding throughout the trees. carmy flips the carton open, placing a filter between his lips and illuminating his face with the orange of the lighter’s flame. she runs her eyes over his features while they’re briefly lit up, finding herself in a close proximity to him, the two leaning up against the iron railing. she brushes her hair back behind her shoulders, watching the man smoke. the few glasses of wine she had clouded her previous anxieties. she genuinely couldn’t remember what she was worried about now, thoroughly enjoying the sight of the man in front of her. she leans into him, pressing the side of her hip into his thigh, arm flush against his.

“can i have some?” she asks, staring up at him, glancing down at the cigarette. she didn’t know exactly what it was, the alcohol or him looking so attractive with a cancer stick in his mouth, but she felt compelled to give it another try, having a distaste from previous experience. he turns to face her, gazes locking, a glint of surprise behind his eyes.

“sure,” he answers, remaining still, pointer and middle finger loosely grasping the cigarette. he glances at her expectantly and she leans over, bringing her mouth to the filter, lips brushing the tips of his fingers. she sucks, carmen watching, completely entranced, then stands upright again, exhaling the smoke with a slight furrow in her brow. the man lets a slight smirk break his face, bringing the cigarette back up to his mouth and inhaling. he studies the dark street behind his building, sporadically illuminated by the soft glow of a street lamp, tiredness catching up with him. she keeps her eyes trained on the man, trailing from his face down his body. she stops at his arms, admiring the sheer strength of them, tracing her sights over his various tattoos. she almost felt overtaken by want in that moment, darting her eyes back up to his lips wrapped around the cigarette. the young woman leans into him further, more of her body touching his and now facing him directly, tipsiness slightly clouding her rationality.

“carm,” she breathes out, immediately catching his attention. he gazes down at her, cognisant of her breasts pushed against his side, studying her face to find desire written across her features. she brings a hand to his chest, leaning up and gently kissing his neck. she feels his sharp intake of breath under her body, and she smirks at this, placing a few more gentle kisses around the side of his neck. the two had a strict rule about kissing on the lips, but never made the clear distinction to forbid all types of kissing, carmy not daring to protest. his eyes fall closed, focused on the heat of her lips against his neck, the weight of her body on his. he throws the cigarette to the ground, wrapping an arm around her, sliding his fingers up her back and to the base of her skull, carding his fingers through her hair. she nips his neck suddenly, causing him to instinctively tighten his grip, pulling the hair, emanating a breathy moan from the girl. his mouth falls open, a smirk playing on the edges of his lips. wrapping his other arm around her back, hand grabbing her hip, he pulls their bodies closer together. carmen’s tight grip doesn’t falter, pulling her head back to see her face, her eyes trailing upwards to meet his. she studies his blown pupils, him drinking her in as if she were a desert oasis. her face is flushed, lids heavy, eyes locked onto his. he leans in and pulls her simultaneously, lightly putting his forehead against hers, noses touching, lips twitching. she can smell the smoke on his breath combined with his fresh deodorant. she finds herself completely intoxicated by this, tightly shutting her eyes, unsure of what she’ll do if she continues to stare. she feels his breath, warm on her lips, so desperate for contact.

“you like this, don’t you?” he asks, voice a low rumble.

she gently nods, nose brushing against his, not trusting her voice. a slight tug makes her softly gasp, eyes snapping open. he pulls away, but only slightly. “answer me,” the sound of his voice weakening her knees. he scans his eyes over her face.

“yes,” she breathes out, sounding far more sultry than she intended, “i really like it, carm,” she admits, tone needy. he pulls away from her completely, the girl missing the warmth from his face almost instantly.

“get inside,” he growls, releasing her hair and removing his arm, leaning over and shoving the window open.

she takes a second to collect herself, almost dizzy from the eye contact and the growing heat under her dress. she puts her hand on the window ledge, climbing back into the apartment as quickly as she could. carmy follows behind, shutting the window halfway. he eyes the girl, standing by the edge of the counter, then walks past her to the couch, sitting in the middle, leaning back. she shifts, unsure of what to do, her hazed courage of earlier fading.

“c’mere,” he gestures her over.

she slowly walks towards him, coming to stand in front of him in between his seated legs, front of her shins bumping into the sofa. he leans forward, bringing his strong hands to caress the back of her thighs, admiring the silkiness of her skin, trailing his palms up and towards the curve of her ass, softly kneading the skin, then stopping.

“take this off,” he commands, squeezing. her face reddens, inching her hands down to the hem of her dress, slowly pulling it up her thighs. she pauses, before flipping the edge up over her head, taking the dress off completely. he softly groans at the sight, fabric removed to reveal her bare body, clothed only by a pair of skinny black panties. she drops it on the floor, shyly bringing her arms up to cover her breasts. he leans closer to her, pressing a kiss to her navel, bringing his hands up to grab her hips. he marvels at her exposed skin, feeling close to primal with desire, tempted to pull her onto his lap and shove the panties to the side.

should i?

he glances upwards at her, a smile creeping at the edges of his lips. he slides his left hand down to her the back of her lower thigh, then quickly pulls her body towards him, the girl letting out a sound of surprise, straddling his lap. he pushes her knees open more, hand trailing towards her inner thigh, stroking the soft skin, moving closer to kiss her neck. she lets out a quiet, “yes,” as she leans into the man’s touch, hoping for some release. his fingers brush against the fabric of her clothed mound, making her buck her hips forward a bit.

“want me to touch you?” he asks her, voice low in tone. she quickly nods her head, biting down on her lip to prevent any escaping noise. he brings his pointer finger to her clothed slit, dragging it up and down over the sensitive area a few times, noticing the abundant slickness beneath the fabric. her eyes flutter closed, cherishing the delicate contact, craving far more. carmen watches her closely, pulling his hand away. her brow furrows, to which he smiles. bringing his left hand from her thigh, he grabs the black panties and pulls them to the side, exposing her glistening core. he groans at the sight, the girls face flushing, bringing his thumb to rest on her swollen clit, unmoving. she whimpers at the sensitivity, bucking her hips forward once more, to which he tightens his grip on her thigh in response. he starts rubbing small, torturous circles with his thumb, thoroughly enjoying the reaction of her body, heat eminating from between her legs, juices dripping down the insides of her thighs and down onto his pants.

“you’re fuckin’ soaked,” he tells her, cock straining against his pants. she’s too embarrassed to respond, closing her eyes and throwing her arms over carmen’s shoulders, resting her face in the crevice of his neck as he continues his circles at a faster pace, dipping his middle finger down to rest against her opening. she kisses his neck, needy for more and tired of waiting, giving a thrust of her hips to sink herself onto his finger. she releases a drawn out moan, clenching around the soaked digit.

“fuck,” he curses.

a sharp smack lands on her thigh, the girl softly whimpering in response, coming back up to meet carmen’s eyes. he has a stern look on his face, a glint of enjoyment present.

“you want me inside of you that bad?” he questions, beginning a soft curling motion with his finger, loving the way she begins to fall apart.

“yesss,” she pleads, breathing heavily, trying to get closer to him, her hand coming up to the base of his neck to anchor herself. he increases the pace, bringing his thumb back to circle the bundle of nerves. feeling her relax at the pleasure, he pushes a second finger into her, marveling at the hot constriction of her walls. his pulses become rhythmic, middle and ring finger fucking into her, a wet squelching sound beginning to fill the room. her panting moans uncontrollably increase in crescendo, quickly clamping her teeth down to bite her lip, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of watching her come undone. he studies her face, closely— eyes screwed shut and head thrown back, trying to seem less affected by his fingers than she obviously is.

his eyes trail down to her bare chest, nipples perked.

jesus christ

carmy slows the pace of his fingers, thrusting them deeper now. he shifts, bringing his lips to brush against her right breast, trailing upwards to her nipple, gently sucking the bud into his mouth.

her teeth release from her lips, letting out a whimper from the pleasure.

he smirks a little, motivated from the noise, taking his fingers almost completely out and easing them back in entirely. his thumb continues its feather like circles around her clit, carmy teasing a gentle bite to her nipple. obscene sounds plentifully spill from her mouth, leaning forward into him as he comes up from her breast. her eyes open and lock with his,

“oh my god, yes,” she cries, breath increasingly heavy, his slow fingers bringing her to the edge. a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth as he continues the same movements, watching her approach her climax, eyes shutting tightly, head leaning back.

“please don’t stop,” her words come rushed, “i’m-“

he withdraws his fingers from inside of her, removing his hand from her warmth completely. she lifts her head immediately and looks to the man, confusion and frustration apparent on her face. he lets his smirk grow.

“what?” he asks, watching her brows furrow further, “did you think i was gonna let you cum?” he asks as he grips her thighs.

“you’re cruel,” she whines, head falling against his shoulder.

“yeah?” the smirk on his face was prevalent in his tone. she shifts the placement of her head and comes to gently kiss the bottom of his neck, the hand resting on his chest slowly inching down his stomach and caressing the skin that meets the edge of his pants.

“yeah,” she responds. another kiss to his neck, this one higher up. she sits up slightly to move her hands lower, unbuttoning his pants and pulling the zipper down. she goes to greedily pull the waist band of his underwear, and he stops her, grabbing her wrist.

“get down on your knees,” he commands, voice rough. she feels a surge of excitement run through her, easing herself to the ground between his legs, eager to inflict on him the pleasure she endured moments earlier, a dull ache residing in her core. she helps him pull his jeans down around his ankles, him kicking them off completely. she runs her hands over the tops of his strong thighs, then bringing her lips to trail kisses from his lower to upper thigh, teasing closer and closer to his clothed bulge, straining against the fabric. he sits up, slightly, pulling his shirt off over his head. she could swear her mouth watered at the sight, shamelessly gawking at his broad muscles completely exposed, along with tattoos she’s never had the pleasure of seeing. she rubs the palm of her hand over the solid bulge, inching towards the waistband of his briefs. in a fluid motion she quickly peels them towards her, carmy’s cock springing from the confinement and slapping against his stomach. she can’t help but let out a soft moan at the sight, bringing a hand up to grasp the base of his cock, thick and heavy in her hand. the young woman marvels, a bit.

“it’s big,” she observes, glancing up at him, then back down. she slowly jerks her hand up and down a few times, nervously eyeing the length. she leans forward, placing a hand on his thigh, and licking a long stripe up the side of his cock, then softly kisses the tip, brushing the head against her plumped lips. she looks up at the man’s face, jaw clenched and eyes completely fixated on her. she flattens her tongue and licks the head of his penis, swirling it around the tip. when she locks eyes with him and grins at him, tongue on his cock, he nearly explodes, throwing his head back against the couch and groaning. she presses her bare breasts against his thighs, now engulfing his length in her mouth, slowly moving up and down, hand wrapping around to stroke what she can’t fit. he grunts, bringing his hand up to his mouth, biting his knuckles for composure. she falls into a pace, saliva coating his cock, dripping onto his stomach. she forces her mouth down deeper onto him, gagging, tears brimming her eyes.

“fuck!” he exclaims, jolting forward. he grabs her hair, gathering it with his hands to keep it out of the way, using every ounce of resistance he has to keep from pushing her head down further onto him. she sinks her mouth lower, bobbing her head and quickening her pace. he tightens his grip on her hair and says her name. she looks up in inquiry, releasing him from her mouth with a wet pop. she continues to stroke his length, meeting his eyes.

“stand up,” he tells the girl, her immediately complying and getting up, wiping the spit away from her mouth. he comes to lean forward, eye level with her stomach, hooking his fingers into the sides of her panties and removing them altogether. he looks up to her.

“go get on the bed,” watching her quickly nod and turn towards his bedroom, standing and following the girl, both of them stark in their nudity. his eyes fall to her round ass, bringing a hand up to give it a small smack. she lets out a little yelp in surprise, turning over her shoulder to find a grin on his face. upon entering the dark room, carmy walks to the end of the bed, switching on a lamp on his dresser. the girl crawls onto the bed, flipping to lay on her back, resting her head on his pillow. she watches him from across the room, raising a knee to stack and bringing her hand up to her chest. she runs her thumb over her perked nipple, tracing her free hand down her navel to the crease of her thigh, staring at the man. he turns to her, raking his eyes over her laying form. her hand shifts lower, fingers brushing over her slickened clit, letting out a soft gasp. she arches her back slightly, rubbing small, soft circles over her sensitivity, locking eyes with the man.

jesus fuck, he internalizes, praying to god this image would remain forever burned into his brain, cock twitching.

there was something about the man that completely diminished her inhibitions, allowing her to fully submit to her desires and finding her brain instantly numb at his control. she tweaks her nipple, letting out a moan, face flushing, lips parting to speak.

“come fuck me already, carmy,” she breathes out, movements faltering. he immediately reacts, getting onto the bed, hands hooking under her thighs and pulling her lower body flush to his, his cock laying over her pelvis.

“can’t wait anymore?” he asks lowly, fully knowing his own desire is immeasurable, desperate to be inside of her.

“no,” she whines, bucking her hips and unintentionally spreading her slickness over the bottom of his length. he lets out a strained breath, running his thumb over her hipbones, grip tightening. he pulls back, then slowly thrusts forward to glide through her folds, feeling her grow increasingly wet. he moves back slightly, now gripping his cock and giving it a stroke, pressing it against her opening. he shifts his hips, slowly inserting the head. he looks to her, meeting her eyes.

“this ok?” he asks, scanning her face, watching her nod enthusiastically.

“put it in, please,” she pleads.

he pushes his hips forward, sinking inside of her inch by inch. the two watch the sight, entranced, a harmonious moan ripping through the both of them. buried to the hilt, carmy pauses, coming forward to lean over her— resting his right forearm by her head, his left arm wrapping around her leg and hoisting it up over his lower back. she wraps her arms around the back of his neck, pulling him in further. his thrusts start slow and shallow, face buried in her neck, almost in disbelief of the pleasure, so much better than those dreams. he bottoms out, hearing her gasp.

“you feel,” she breathes out, “so good,” her eyes screwing shut. he thrusts, again, slowly, moving his hand to grip her ass.

“fuck, baby” he groans into her neck, hips working at a delicate pace. she clenches involuntarily at the name, eager for more, urging him closer with her leg. he recognizes the cue, bringing his leg in closer, pulling out almost completely then plunging back into her. she pants, bringing a shaky hand up to grab his sturdy bicep for stability, feeling his strong muscles ripple underneath her grip. he bites down on his bottom lip, face and chest flushed as he pulls his cock back out of her tightness, thoroughly enjoying the view. he snaps his hips forward, the girl crying out, squeezing his arm tightly. carmen settles into a heightened pace, the depth of his cock igniting a fire within the girl. she moves a hand down and circles her sensitive clit with two fingers, feeling her orgasm already rapidly building as he lifts her lower back slightly off the mattress, driving into her harder. breaths grow heavy, the room gets hotter, skin slaps against skin. he brings his hand up to the side of her face, coming to hover above her, locking eyes. her whole face is flush, baby hairs sticking up, a wild lust in her gaze. carmy snaps his hips harder.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he tells her in pace with his thrusts, the girl letting out a moan in response, ripping her hand away from her clit as to not fall over the peak. everything is almost too much as the man relentlessly fucks her, savoring every sound, feeling, sight, not knowing if this would ever happen again. her climax approaches closer with each strong thrust of his hips, and she feels compelled to ask permission.

“carmy,” she whimpers, “can i please cum?”

he groans, moving his hand to rest on her throat.

“hold on baby, almost,” he grits through his clenched jaw, driving his cock deeply into her, slick juices spreading everywhere. she brings her hand to the back of his neck, grabbing his curly brown locks and tugging. he lets out a sharp breath at the action, hammering his hips against her, hoisting her leg a bit higher. his thrusts stutter, feeling himself grow impossibly closer to the edge. her moans become a chorus of “please, please, please,” desperate to cum around his cock. he grins slightly at her anticipation, lightly putting pressure against her throat.

“you gonna cum for me?” he growls, feeling himself approaching his own orgasm. she nods, tears brimming her eyes, face contorted in pleasure. his simple words snap the final string holding her together, and she comes undone with a loud cry, digging her nails into his back. the pleasure feels white hot throughout her body, waves of euphoria overtaking her. her body shivers, the clenching of her heat around carmen is enough to push him over his edge as he lets out a strangled moan, hot cum shooting into her, cock pulsing against her walls. they both lay there still, riding out the aftershocks together, bodies flush. they both catch their breaths for a moment, basking in the warmth of each other. carmy pushes himself up onto his forearm, grabbing her face with a strong hand and planting a kiss on her cheek, then one on her forehead. she tries to ignore the butterflies that erupt inside of her. he reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a few tissues, then slowly pulls out of her, his cum spilling down the curve of her ass. he gently cleans her up with the tissue, walking to the bathroom to throw them away once she’s dry. he returns to his room to see her sprawled onto her side, laying over his pillows. he joins in, laying next to her, scooting his strong arm under her head. she scoots closer to him, hand on his chest. he’s warm, smells good, feels safe, and she finds her eyes close for a moment.

“i’ll leave in just a sec,” she tells him softly, “i’m just so comfy.”

he wraps his other arm around her, kissing her forehead once more.

“stay the night,” he suggests, knowing it’s for a selfish reason, currently unable to fathom sleeping in a cold and empty bed without her presence. she happily hums in response, snuggling closer, already feeling herself drifting off. he closely watches the girl laying in his arms, eyes flickering over her face. he admires her features up close, examining what he’s usually too far away to see, running his eyes over a few faded freckles, the light peach fuzz on her cheek, the glimmer of a golden nose ring. he feels a twinge in his chest, resting his forehead against the sleeping girl’s, her deep breathing melodic to his tired ears. carmy knew deep down he wouldn’t be able to entertain this forever, opting to cherish the feeling of her against him while it lasts. he reaches to the foot of the bed, pulling a throw blanket up over the two of them, not bothering to shut off the lamp. he feels a sweet relief once he pulls her into him once more, nuzzling his nose into her hair. he shuts his eyes, the events from the day catching up to him.

he finds the last thing he thinks about before drifting into sleep is her, sweet and airy, breathing in her scent closely. he hears a dreamlike giggle, reminiscent of bells chiming, and smiles softly.

—

i hope you enjoyed! writing for these two gives me the butterflies fr

chapter 3 hopefully in the works! <33 if you enjoy please let me know :)

part 3 - human, for a minute

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy x reader #carmy berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto imagine #the bear imagine

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pompadourpink · 7 months ago

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Hi, what is your best tips for someone who spoke French the last time was like five years ago (in the process of B2 at that time), totally stop learn it, and this morning impulsively enrolled for DELF B1 and will have the exam in two weeks?

Hello,

In no particular order:

Read, read, read (France Info, Slate, Geo, le Huffington Post, Google News, etc.) about topics you enjoy and about the news (culture, society, tech - my DELF debate topic was tobacco usage on campus)

Read a paragraph out loud to your computer and see if it picks up what you're saying (speech-to-text)

Look up lists of ice-breaking questions and answer them (one orally, one in writing), with the help of Deepl and WordReference

Review the conjugations of être, avoir and aller (especially the perfect, present conditional, simple future and subjunctive - those last two are very similar)

Make sure to remember when to use the imperfect and the perfect and that French doesn't typically like the passive voice (I had my bag stolen: they stole my bag - on m'a volé mon sac)

Book me if you can - slight pronunciation corrections and pointers about grammar or syntax can change everything

Test yourself with a mock exam and make sure to read about the expectations so you know what to prioritise

Record voice notes on your phone talking about your day and listen to them the next day to see if you understand yourself

Good luck! x

Fanmail - masterlist (2016-) - archives - hire me - reviews (2020-) - Drive

#ask #studying

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sparkbeast20 · 2 years ago

Text

WHB Nobles/Ars Goetia's Sexual Paraphilias

Note: Some of these definition I only search through Google. (The list will be updated every time there's a new devil is been revealed) MINORS DNI

Gehenna (Satan's Region)

Leraye

Keraunophilia - Sexuoeroticism for the sound of Thunder

Sitri

Cardiophilia - Sexuoeroticism for the sound of heartbeats

Paimon

Haematophilia - Sexuoeroticism for Blood

Astaroth

Narratophilia - Sexual interest and arousal obtained from speaking or hearing sexually explicit words during sexual activity.

Zagan

Kinesophilia - Sexual arousal hinges around human movement and exercise.

Belial

Discophilia - love for recorded music

Amy

Catagelophilia: Sexual arousal from being humiliated, ridiculed, or made fun of in public or private.

Juno P. Cruel Orgasm 666

Aphephilia ((h)Aphepilia) - is the scientific term for a sexual fetish concerning being touched.

Abaddon (Asmodeus' Region)

Phenix

Morphophilia - Interest in sexual partners whose body characteristics (e.g., height, weight, skin and hair color) are different from one's own.

Dantalian

Autassassinophilia - A paraphilia in which sexual arousal and the achievement of orgasm are facilitated by the fantasy or belief that one is in danger of being killed.

Ronove

Acrotomophilia - is when a person is sexually aroused by people whose body parts, typically arms or legs, have been amputated or by amputation sites in the body

Tartaros (Mammon's Region)

Bimet

Timophilia - A primary arousal from gold or wealth.

Eligos

Diaphanophilia - Sexual fondness for viewing nudity through diaphanous fabrics such as veils, underwear, baby dolls, etc.

Hades (Leviathan's Region)

Barbatos

Heliophilia - The property of an organism being attracted to sunlight.

Foras

Scopophilia - Literally, the love of looking.

Glasyalabolas

Necrophilia - sexual intercourse with or attraction towards corpses.

Orias

Autopedophilia - refers to the gaining of sexual pleasure from dressing as a child, pretending to be a child, or having a sexual fantasy about being a child.

Paradise Lost (Lucifer's Region)

Marbas

Merinthophilia - Sexual arousal from being tied up.

Morax

Stigmatophilia - Sexual interest in and arousal by a partner who is tattooed or has scars, or by having oneself tattooed, particularly in the genital area.

Buer

Doraphilia - Sexuoerotic arousal and fetishistic fondness for the smell and feel of animal skin, fur, and leather.

Gamigin

Ablutophilia (uncountable) (rare) A paraphilia involving sexual excitement from baths or showers.

Rin JJ. wanking night

Basculophilia - The desire to be dandled or rocked in order to obtain a pleasurable sexual excitation.

Avisos (Beelzebub's Region)

Stolas

Pecattiphilia - Sexual arousal from performing an act one believes is a sin.

Bael

Olfactophilia - Sexual arousal by, smells and odors emanating from the body, especially the sexual areas.

Amon

Harmatophilia - is the fetish or preference for people who break rules or commit mistakes.

Naberius

Autozoophilia - A paraphilia in which the person is attracted to seeing themselves in the position of an animal in a sexual encounter. It is not the same as Zoophilia, the attraction to animals.

Niflheim (Belphegor's Region)

Gusion

Sapiophilia - a person who is sexually attracted to a person with intelligence.

Bathin

Hodophila - One who loves to travel.

Andrealphus

Oculophilia - A paraphilia involving sexual attraction to eyes and the licking of eyes; eye fetishism.

Beleth

Tobaccophilia - one who gets sexual pleasure from tobacco.

Agares

Hybristophilia - one who is sexually aroused by a criminal offender.

Vassago

Homilophilia - Sexuoerotic arousal and pleasure from hearing or giving sermons and speeches.

Human world

Minhyeok

Melcryptovestimentaphilia - sexual fetish or fantasies about women's black underwear/lingerie.

Heaven

Gabriel

Hierophilia - Sexual arousal from sacred objects.

Michael

Erotophonophilia - sexual arousal or gratification contingent on the death of a human being.

Raphael

Automysophilia - is a fetish for being dirty or being defiled.

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choco-cherry-chunk · 23 days ago

Text

It is time!

Modern BBC Ghosts AU a la Cherry (i.e., with mpreg bullshit) - Part 6 (Final Part)

Part 6

“I beg your pardon?”

James had pondered an endless series of possibilities related to how he’d been feeling of late. After his minor heart issue, one would think he’d be more vigilant about his health. But denial could be addictive and it was only when Anthony had ordered him to visit a physician that he actually began to reflect. He wasn’t one for frantic symptom-googling, but he did wonder. His father had passed from stomach cancer; could it run in the family? What if he had some strange parasite from consuming the products of Mary and Annie’s gardening, a remnant of God knew what method of compost? Maybe it was just stress, as he’s been insisting to his husband it was, and he was just reaching a point in his life where he couldn’t operate as the well-oiled machine he so frequently saw himself as? Every option was equally anxiety-inducing.

He’d insisted to Havers that he could handle the appointment on his own. After all, it was one of the few days off the man had, and James didn’t want him to spend it in a doctor’s office. He had only agreed when James insisted he needed to carry out a few errands for his most immediate bridal clients, and that it would be easier to complete said tasks on his own. As he departed that morning, Havers held him at the door and pressed a kiss to his lips. When he pulled back, James’ gaze remained on the scar tissue about his left eye, the lightning bolt remains of shrapnel that nearly took him away. He did love those marks, those signals of his Major’s survival.

“Keep me informed. Call if you need me.”

Good Lord, did he need him now. James’ mind had chugged along all day, all the while he was confirming appropriate bouquet designs with his florist, visiting a barn venue to check on lighting repair progress, driving through traffic, sitting in a waiting room, completing endless forms, having his blood drawn, getting poked and prodded by someone who seemed barely old enough to attend university – let alone have graduated—

But now… now, his mind was at a screeching halt, the machine that ran his life hitting the brakes so hard that the wheels were off the track, flying over itself, hitting the ground hard enough to set the coal alight. Because what the devil did she mean—

“You’re pregnant. Congratulations!” She – her tag read Dr. Judy Egan, which seemed a name far older than she was – repeated the news with the same tone of delight, as if she’d given James a present she wanted him to open. “Now, we can see about getting a more concrete idea of how far along you are, if you can provide us with some more information.”

It felt as though he was hearing everything from underwater, and James had to resist the urge to go at his ears. He answered his questions as best he could, desperate to get his mind back on track. No, he did not have any children, nor had he been pregnant before. He’d been hospitalized the decade before for a minor heart attack, and was taking medication as a result. Yes, he did smoke – mainly pipe tobacco – and was inclined to the occasional glass of bourbon at the end of the day. No, there was nothing in his familial history to look for in this context. As for the other side of the family—

The other side. Because there was another side, another person to consider in all this. The gears of his brain began to spin faster and faster, kicking up dirt and rocks while still so off track. Havers. He had to tell Havers. This wasn’t just some intensive, enormous corkscrew in James’ life, but one that would impact—

He didn’t remember leaving the office. One moment, he was uncomfortably aware of the tissue paper beneath him crinkling and folding in a terribly distracting way. The next, he was sitting in his and Havers’ car, white-knuckling the steering wheel and refusing to look at the mess of papers dropped in the passenger seat. Scripts for vitamins, reminders of appointments, documents to be completed with his husbands, regardless of desired outcome.

He and Havers had never actually discussed children. It was never something that came up. Perhaps it was a result of their upbringings, the belief that men such as themselves were never to become fathers being what pushed them from considering such a possibility. Maybe it was their own experiences in the Service, the memories of what they’d learned and seen that kept them from wanting to raise something innocent in a world that allowed such atrocities. Or were those just James’ reasons? Yes, Havers never broached the subject with him, but what if that was just another example of the man’s kindness? In their early years, Anthony never forced him to come out, to outright admit to his feelings. Even when James had been ready to force himself to do so, Anthony had been kind enough to assure him it wasn’t necessary, to kiss away the panic trembling his lips, to so gently guide him through the ways he could physically show his love where words were difficult. And that had essentially been their way for years. Their love defined in paperwork, private intimacy, disguised efforts. Love was rarely stated outright, but always always implied.

“I will miss you, Havers.”

“Now, you know I’m more inclined to the likes of Cole Porter, but I did manage to find tickets to Carmen for July. I know you have been looking for a chance to see it performed live.”

“Do let me know when you’ve arrived. I worry when you aren’t here.”

“I still don’t understand how you could prefer Patrick’s methods to mine. If you must have your tea such a way, I will make it, but don’t hesitate to ask how to properly brew a pot when you’ve learned the error of your ways.”

“Anthony, I’m not sure what I would do without you.”

But what if that wasn’t enough? What if, after all these years, Havers had wanted things different, had only allowed things to be as they were, let things pass by undiscussed because that was the way James was? What if this… this thing was what drove the final nail into the proverbial coffin of their marriage—

The sound that drew him from his thoughts was somewhere between a crunch and a shatter. Scrambling to park, James got out and moved to the front of the car, sighing over what he found. One of Fanny’s massive flower pots was shattered beneath part of his bumper. He really had been too preoccupied; it was a miracle he’d made it back to Button House in one piece. Or was it considered two pieces?

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Instead, he carefully collected what he could and hid the evidence behind the rose bushes. He could toss the evidence away when it was dark and he had proper gardening equipment. Once the task was complete, James’ eyes scanned the front of the house, confirming that no one had been a witness to his act. Eventually, his gaze remained on the familiar blue curtains, ones Havers had purchased when they moved in, feeling it appropriate to have something more easy to open and close above their kitchen sink. The fabric didn’t even twitch.

Button House was dead quiet when James entered. No arguments between Julian and Fanny in the library, no singing from Kitty’s flat, no sounds of Mary or Annie’s cooking progress in the kitchen. James stilled in the entrance, listening hard for any indication of other tenants. Nothing. He should have expected as much; it was the middle of the week and early afternoon. Then again, perhaps some part of him was seeking such a distraction. A reason to not go home and face this inevitability. His stomach sank all the more. When had he ever not wanted to return to his home?

Each door that led into each flat did much to hint towards who could be found behind it. Alison and Mike’s often featured some kind of seasonal décor, and items they (or Mia) had dropped usually dotted their path. Pat had hung a decorative “Gone Campin’” sign he’d procured from a charity shop, and the wall showed evidence of different hiking trips, if the dirt stains were anything to go by. The apartment shared by James and Anthony was spic and span, down to the freshly repainted wood grain and straightened entrance mat that read a simple “welcome” – no novelty décor, thank you very much. However, James hated how unwelcome he felt in that moment.

Their flat was just as it had been when he left hours ago, when nothing had been different. Evidence of their previous evening was gone. Havers had insisted they settle in for a quiet night, lounging on their sofa and watching The Pirates of Penzance (James should have known Anthony was worried by his willingness to watch that again). The throw blankets were folded away, the coffee table clear. The room smelled of freshly washed linen and in the kitchen, quiet music and water running could be heard.

Steps needed to be followed. If one thing could be kept steady, it was routine. James willed himself to follow it. Remove shoes, place on rack. Place wallet on side table, hang keys on key hook, hang jacket on coat rack. Take step, take step, don’t narrate each individual step in your mind—

Anthony didn’t immediately turn around when James entered. Not that the man minded. Perhaps it was the romantic in him, but James did like looking over his husband at all angles. The slender slope from his neck to his shoulders. The toned nature of his arms. The spot where his hair was just starting to thin – not that he would ever tell him, mind. Just that he liked to brush his thumb over it when they—

“You’d better hope Fanny doesn’t see what you’ve done to her geraniums.”

James instinctively stiffened when Havers turned, pausing to dry his hands on a tea towel. The water was off and the music continued to drift from his phone. That soft, easy smile Anthony was so often inclined to was already in place when he looked to James, but it quickly dropped away when he noted his appearance. “What did Dr. Boone say?”

Always so to the point. Yet another thing James loved about Havers. “He wasn’t in.” Perhaps that had been one triumph of the day. His usual physician had been out on holiday, so he didn’t have to be given this news by the man who was still inclined to calling Havers his “companion” whenever the subject arose. “I was met with Dr. Egan. Girl seemed barely older than your niece.” He stepped further into the kitchen, hands raised in an effort to force the tension from his body.

Anthony moved closer, accepting the invitation and resting his hands on James’ upper arms. “I hope you were patient with her.”

“I’m always patient.”

No comment was made, but both of them knew what it would have been if it was. After a brief squeeze, Havers moved toward the oven and turned a dial. “I assume you haven’t eaten. I’ve kept a plate warm for you.”

“Anthony—”

“I know your stomach’s been upset, but you need to try. Tell me everything the doctor said, but I doubt fasting was brought up.” Slipping on some oven mitts, he carefully removed a tray housing two plates from the oven and rested them on the stove. “It’s nothing heavy, just chicken, rice, and carrots. I didn’t even spice anything.”

James opened his mouth, prepared to insist that it wasn’t necessary, that perhaps they wait to talk about his visit until he wasn’t sure when, only for the scent of the chicken to cross the kitchen and very well sock him in the stomach. Gagging, he walked hurriedly down the hall to their bedroom and managed to fall in front of their toilet before he heaved. The strain on his stomach was only matched by the shock of pain in his knee where he hit the tile, though the shame of getting sick so abruptly was a close second. Good Lord, wasn’t the point of having a child to be to ensure it got enough nutrients while it was inside the body!?

Havers’ hand came to rest between his shoulders, James didn’t have it in him to resist his touch, to tell him to leave as he had in the past. He hated being in such a state, let alone being seen in it. Only when he felt his stomach had been truly emptied did he pull away, sitting back against the bath to catch his breath. Silently, Anthony flushed the toilet, still poised across from him. He didn’t speak, but his eyes… James knew he wasn’t simply pleaded, wishing to know the truth. He was worried, scared. He feared what was happening and James was the reason he was frightened. He’d done this to him before and now he was repeating that affair.

“Dr. Egan seems convinced that…” James swallowed, pressing his fingers to his temple as he struggled to explain, “That it’s not a disease. Or virus.”

“So she knows what it isn’t,” Havers offered cautiously, “Does she know what it is?”

“A… a baby, apparently.”

The bathroom was silent, save for the distant creaking of pipes that was commonly heard in the space. James slowly let his hand drop to his mouth, resting over his mustache and lips, afraid he would once more be sick just from saying the words. He felt something touch his knee and looked up. Anthony had moved closer, one hand holding his knee – mindfully his uninjured one – the other reaching to him.

“Oh, James…”

The pair embraced one another. James tucked his face to Havers’ neck and inhaled deeply; he was shocked that his aftershave didn’t turn his stomach, when so little was needed to set him off. Perhaps It knew something he didn’t… When they pulled apart, both were thankful not to see any wetness in each other’s eyes.

“How do you feel?”

“Still a bit nauseous, if—”

A hint of a chuckle escaped Anthony and he shook his head. “Not physically. How do you feel about being pregnant?”

There was that beloved pragmatism again. James sighed, sliding from his hold but still making a point to ensure their hands were intertwined.

“I don’t know.” He wanted an answer, wanted more than anything to have a solid inclination of what he did or didn’t want. But so much of his view of this was tied to Anthony. Before, it had been the military. If he’d been given this news when he was enlisted, he knew exactly what he’d have felt. But now, he couldn’t see himself moving toward any outcome if he was to do so alone.

“Alright. I don’t imagine you must make a choice right away,” He assured, eyes falling to James’ torso – was there something there to see already? “We can consider how things would—”

“How do you feel?”

He knew Anthony disliked being interrupted, but James couldn’t help himself. He had to know. Such decisions typically fell to the pregnant individual’s shoulders, he was aware, but he wasn’t inclined to have the final say without his husband’s input. “I want to know what you think.”

“Well, it’s—”

“I know it would be my choice, one way or the other. But I don’t believe we’ve so much as changed the oil in the car without a discussion.” James swallowed, trying not to grimace at the acid in his throat, “And you know I tend to value your opinion above anyone’s, perhaps even my own.”

“James—”

“And I won’t have you trying to tell me it’s all up to me. Because I’m not a father and have never seen myself as one, but I am certain I could be if you were too. But this is not something I would ever seek on my own and if you were against it—”

Lips silenced him. James instinctively closed his mouth, not wishing for Havers to smell the bile. When he pulled away, Anthony lifted a hand to James’ face, brushing his thumb along his cheek.

“I believe you would be a wonderful father.”

He was not even allowed an opportunity to argue.

“You’re passionate. Protective. You care so deeply and never want people to be unhappy. Yes, you’re stern and authoritative, often in times you shouldn’t be, but you’ve come far in your patience. I see how you are with Mia and no matter how you spin it, you’re essentially a father to Kitty. I don’t want any of your concerns about this to be tied to your abilities. Because you are more than qualified, darling.”

James pursed his lips, efforts to maintain a “stiff upper lip” beginning to crack. “I’m sure you’re aware that you are too.” Because if anyone was, it was Havers. Attentive, loving, kind. He did so much to reel James in, keep him from alienating others with his intensity while also never making him feel ashamed. He was so accommodating, cool in the face of uncertainty where James would so often fluster about. He was the kind of person who smiled at the children who stared at his scars, who happily baby-talked to Mia, who listened to endless stories from Alison or Mike about their child’s ability to stand-but-not-really. Was it so wrong to believe that the main reason James had the ability to be a father was because Havers was who he was?

“I am.” Anthony’s smile widened a touch. He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know what he was capable of.

“So we’re not concerned with qualifications.”

“No.”

James stared at his knee, where their hands were still interlocked. He could feel Havers’ gold band, pressed against his finger. They’d both been inclined to wear their rings on their left hands, ever sticklers for whatever they deemed traditional. He remembered proposing to the man, how scared he’d been even after more than a decade. They were both out of the service, both preparing to enter the civilian life they’d been apart from for years. Anthony had secured employment out in the country, doing the books for a history of war museum and archive. James… had no plan. He’d been taking orders for so long that facing a future in which he was not constantly at attention seemed inconceivable. But moving into a world he was unfamiliar with didn’t frighten James so much as the possibility of doing so without Anthony by his side. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe what they’d had was just some torrid fling, but some part of him knew steps needed to be taken, commitments made. So James showed up unannounced one evening at Havers’ door, ring box in hand, and with the same words on his lips that he found himself thinking on their bathroom floor:

“I want this life with you.”

Havers’ smile grew wider still, the act contagious as James allowed his own, hesitant grin. Laughter bubbled up between them, the sound seeming to echo in the enclosed room, and before either could consider the schematics, they were holding one another close as they kissed. Relief, joy, panic, excitement, worry, love – so, so, so much love, all of it threatened to flood their flat before they pulled apart and Anthony took James’ hands properly to help him up.

“You need to see about brushing your teeth. I’ll make you something else, but you’re definitely going to eat something. And you’re going to tell me how the appointment went.” Once they were both upright and Havers had squeezed James’ hands once more, he stepped out to let his husband ready himself.

Smiling after him, James absently let his hands drop, one to his side and the other just over his middle. A plan of action. He could certainly handle that.

#bbc ghosts #ghosts bbc #bbc ghosts au #caphavers #capvers #mpreg #the captain #anthony havers

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liquidorcard · 3 months ago

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Funny story Lily, you may have heard of it, that's actually a thing called, uh--

FUCKING NICOTINE YOU IGNORAMUS.

Any inhaled product can damage your lungs through long term use-- especially if it's burning, like tobacco, e-liquid, a blunt, crack-- whatever. Just due to the nature of the delivery method.

--->Nicotine<---, has other potentially harmful side effects, like restricting blood flow, messing with your levels of serotonin, etc-- even when not smoked.

Traditional cigarettes and chews also contain a whole host of other carcinogenic chemicals to stabilize the product's shelf life.

Vaping is tricky. Since it's a relatively new invention there isn't a lot of long term studies on the effects it has. In theory, there is strong reason to believe it is far safer than traditional smoking methods. But I wouldn't recommend it still, especially for those who don't already have a chemical dependence on nicotine. Here's more info on the matter (note that some of the wording on this page is a little misleading, thanks Trudeau, but the information provided is correct):

https://www.canada.ca/en/health-canada/services/smoking-tobacco/vaping/risks.html

But uh, you may have noticed the massive flaw in Lily's little dodge here . . . You know, mainly that

You don't need to fucking smoke weed Lily.

No, weed causes no long term damage to your fucking lungs, heart or liver on it's own. But if you don't trust me, ask THE FUCKING CANADIAN GOVERNMENT:

ASK LILY'S OWN PROVINCE, LOL:

Google is fucking FREE Lorch. Or is easily accessible info on the health risks of cannabis transphobic and out to get you too?

#lily orchard #lily orchard critical #anti lily orchard #lily peet #lorch posting #lily orchard stuff #youtube #lily orchard receipts #eldrich lily #liquid orcard

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stabbyfoxandrew · 3 months ago

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Can you share your favorite thing about any (or all) of your ocs? I absolutely love when you talk about them and I want to know more about them so bad!

Hi! This ask is two weeks old I'm so sorry. (The depression gets ahold of me sometimes.) Also I still can't believe anyone cares about my characters. Like I'm over the moon but it's also so weird to actually have people ask about them. TwT

I'd love to share some random stuff about them for you. :)

None of these are necessarily my favorite things about them, just a few Fun Facts I guess?

♥ Rayne is left-handed and was home schooled until he was a teenager. He immediately became a theatre kid. ♥ Elliot has chronic back pain from working on his family's farm. He fell out of the roof of the barn while hanging tobacco and never got to see a doctor about it. He just keeps ibuprofen handy at all times. He's fine. ♥ Laurent enjoys soap operas. He is very easily sucked into the drama. His favorites involve ridiculous plots and complicated romances. ♥ Leander is terrified of the dark (because his father used to lock him in a closet) and always keeps a light on in his room at night. ♥ Jace lives in a neighborhood that's hidden from non-wolves via a magical barrier. The barrier also acts as a ward against vampires.

I have approximately a million ocs y'all haven't 'met' yet, so I'm gonna share shit about some of the other bastards (affectionate) just because I can!

supernatural polycule babes: ♠ Isa (werewolf) is supposed to be the calm one but he's constantly about to snap. He can't let anyone know that though. ♠ Ashley (witch) has scars on his arms from being burned with cigarettes as a kid. ♠ Aaron (uh... one of a kind?) let Rayne choose their new name when they came out. "You're my father! You have every right to give me a name. And I want you to."

angel/demon babes: ♠ Skylar (angel) doesn't exactly understand how a google search works. "Am I... Is this praying to a machine?" ♠ Mackenzie (demon) has two guitars and a keyboard in his room, but he can play zero instruments. He wanted to learn but never quite got around to it. He lets Skylar play them though.

#thank you so much for giving me an excuse to think about them! <33333 #anon #answered #love #aerie's ocs #i will now be taggin all these losers:#oc: rayne hastings #oc: elliot montgomery #oc: leander vincent #oc: jace underwood #oc: isa green #oc: ashley hale #oc: aaron hastings #oc: skylar lovelace #oc: mackenzie everett

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madamlaydebug · 1 year ago

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{🙌🏿🙌🏾💭🏹🪓💥🗺🏕🛖🇲🇦🚯}🇺🇸}

The melinated people in America today indigenous to the Americas your answer would be yes. History would want you to believe that all of the melinated people you see in America are offspring of millions of people who were bought here on a ship, that is a lie and not true. First of all, they never bought millions of people here from Africa, at best they bought 25 actual Afrikaans twice a year at best ? And this is documented in the US archives, how do you think that these Europeans gathered 10,000 Afrikaans on a ship with only 10 of them as the the person in power… once you understand the transatlantic slave lie and research it then only could you understand how all of these melinated people whom you call Afrikaan Americans today are even on the continent to begin with, because we were already here and are indigenous to this land. At this point in time the elite colonizers who benefit off of all ethnicities lacking this information don't even care to hide it anymore, you can Google this stuff. In Egypt they found cocaine and tobacco in the stomach of mummies and these mummies obviously predate the “Indians" & you can only get these items from America. So with that fact being an actual TRUTH, any person who has the due patience to read can put this stuff together. Hence why their are so many pyramids in America, Mexico & South America. Even these elite people allow you to know in school that all life started in Africa, so if you have something originally created in Africa on another continent, it's obvious the first one built in America was built by the people who built the only other pyramids on the planet at that time which is where…? Afrikaa, the truth is melinated people are indigenous to earth and Caucasians are mutations of melinated people which is also common knowledge in today's time and was proved by an Asian scientist who was studying mutations in zebra fish. The best way to win a war is to make sure the losers never realize they were in a war to begin with. Why do you think “coloreds" weren't allowed to read & write, why do you think they killed the fathers and separated the women from children, they were psychologically breaking our connection whilst at that same time intermixing with us and rewriting history. Ever heard of a 5$ indian ? Now you know why they exist, the government obviously had many indian treaties and they didn't uphold any of them and when they finally decided too they had spent at least 100 years classifying people with their census and coming up with new words like mulatto and mixed, because you had to be an Indian to get the benefits of the peace treaty, so why not just make the indians forget who they are so they'll never even think to claim the land or benefits whilst whitewashing the ones who would sell out and controlling the image of said people all the way up untill this day ? If you ask me the shit is GENIUS cause it's still working unfortunately. I'm a melinated aboriginal of America

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hiddendepths-aublog · 3 months ago

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🥪 for the New Lords, cause I get a feeling that the old lords don't like to eat anymore (except the blue bug I'm forgetting the name of who likes tea) and I don't think Webby can eat.

Hold on a minute, first I gotta draw Stinger butchering you with a chainsaw for forgetting her name…

Just kidding, just kidding!

🥪 Favourite (human) food?

Wiggly - Generally any kind of seafood, but specifically shrimp. He actually does prefer when it’s, like… actually prepared and not just a full-ass, raw fucking fish. The incident at the end of Chapter 7 was mainly just him satisfying his primal instinct to hunt something that would at least try to run. He’s like a dog in that sense.

Blinky - I don’t know why, but something tells me she’d like those shitty, greasy snack foods you get at, like, carnivals and such. Y’know, caramel apples, corn dogs, churros, mac and cheese in a waffle cone (wh… does something like that actually exist, or is Google fucking with me?), etc. Oh, and tobacco smoke, but I don’t think that counts.

Tinky - That man would bite into pickle slices like they’re fuckin’ Pringles. But only because he’s a goat, of course pickles taste good to him.

Nibbly - I don’t think she’d be able to choose herself, but if you ask me? I’m leaning towards chocolate.

Pokey - Now that’s a tough one, because I don’t really see him being eager to eat anything, but off the top of my head… how about a nice caramel frappe? Nothing better!

#hidden depths au #hd!wiggly #hd!blinky #hd!tinky #hd!pokey #hd!nibbly #asks #yeahh I love talkin about food!

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lustforapproval · 2 years ago

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i put all disco kid's wii quotes through google translate

Correct! Hello! (See game content)

"Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. Ketom ready? Yes! (Predmachevi, Sudor)

"Correct!" (competitor full version)

"Don't worry!" (as well as how to link competitors)

"You Menia to Disco Fever! Is there a beat? (interlude, player)"

"Potropis, Mack. Where's Tropis?"

"Aha! *Din* I'm handsome! (Gaurit V Mini Zarkaro)" (Start New Rune, Join Mode)

"Oh! Oh, yes! Tobacco, Kakuyadivigai! Oh, yes! Bistri, Bistri!" (After Togo, Kak Sbil Maka Malenko)

"Try your best!" (if the little Mac has to wake up during the knockout countdown)

"Damned!" (when using Star Punch in competition)

"Oh oh oh oh my fantasy!" (after winning the contest)

"Hello!" (During the removal of animation or engineering)

"VC! Ah, Potanis!" (When choosing an opponent to defend the title)

"5, 6, 7, 8. And stretch, backwards and forth. Thepar sognis, dogamo! Let's go."

"The Boxer!" (before the title guard roll or while standing)

"Hurry up!" (Brosock right lever name)

"Valgani Tavern!" (left hand, title defense)

"Ponyaru-kun!" (Dodge Small Max's star attack)

"Wild!" (avoid being hit by stars)

"a 1" (when attacking while jumping)

"E1 and 2". (when playing double jump)

"I teach you moves!" (eg Disco Flurry)

- So beautiful! (Example: Disco Flurry)

"1-2-3!" (a frenetic disco is going on)

“Devoy, Mack, sexy genius! Robot!

I have a three-step program for you. you will fall!"

"I feel sick." (start another round, defend the title, spend time in the story until I recover)

"Ha-Ha!" (after title defense)

#punch out wii #punch out #cursed #nintendo #dankest memes #disco kid #super punch out #memes #fresh memes #meme #google translate #nintendo memes

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2dayihaveaheadache · 2 years ago

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My very late Valentine’s Gift: Obikin AU, Modern/College Setting, (does a bar still count as Coffee Shop AU-ish?) Bookish Lit professor Kenobi spends a lonely night out drinking Whiskey at a bar in New York City until Anakin, a Twink, comes around with a witty pickup line and changes everything.

“Another round for us!”, Vos shouted, one arm raised, leaning against the bar counter with a cheeky grin.

The tiny bar – Blue Iris– was lit by dimmed lamps and the air smelled like tobacco – sometimes with a slight hint of Jasmine, Obi-Wan loved his perfumed cigarettes. Clouded mirrors with tinged silver frames, Cuban mahogany furniture, a Morris wallpaper, vintage book copies, and an expensive collection of Scottish Whisky completed the image of the bar to be a pivot for intellectuals. It was perfectly located in SoHo, a couple of minutes by foot down Greenwich Village, and fancily atmospheric, British aristocrat-like, snobbish. To Obi-Wan, it sometimes felt elitist. Most of the guests were academics, reading and discussing philosophy, Nihilism, and Existentialism, while sipping on their café brûlot – every coffee was listed in French on the drink’s menu – and felt better than the rest of the entire world.

When Vos had first invited him here, Obi-Wan had made the mistake of googling the bar. The name was a literature reference to Novalis, the prices high, even for New York standards, though they offered a decent variety of beverages – of course, all of them connected to a certain kind of image, French coffee, lonely philosopher gin tonic and mocha in the fashion of Vienna coffee house culture, something they tried to imitate. A rendezvous point for New York’s academics.

“Come on, Obi, it’s time you meet your colleagues.”, Vos had grinned at him, brushing off dust from his jacket. Vos was one of Obi-Wan’s oldest friends and first-ever love – a poetry competition in Salinas, California had brought them together. Back then Obi-Wan had been a only college student, Vos was a couple of years older and an already established name in American literature. His poems had been tender, blinding with dazzling words, a trap – a Dionaea muscipula for Obi-Wan. Nearly fifteen years later and a broken teenage heart later, they had remained close even though Obi-Wan had finished his studies in Great Britain after their breakup and stayed in Oxford for his Ph.D. So, when Columbia University had offered him the position as the dean of their English facility, the two friends were suddenly living in the same city for the first time in years.

It had been quite natural for Vos – a carefree spirit – to try to integrate his friend Obi-Wan into his social circle in New York, so he had invited him for a night out. “You’ll have a good time there. Live Jazz Music on Saturdays, poetry slams, and Absinth.”

Obi-Wan had sighed and raised his hands defeated.

“And you will fit in perfectly. Your charming British accent, your love for cardigans and tweed…”

So, there he was, Obi-Wan Kenobi, an English professor, recently divorced, trying to enjoy himself on a Friday night out with his ex. He had positioned himself next to the bar, sipping on his Whisky – a Single Malt Scotch Whiskey, Chivas Regal – observing his surrounding. The Tobacco smell hung over the entire scenery. Smoking was en vogue in academic circles, it seemed. He nipped one of his jasmine cigarettes between his lips and lit it with a matchstick, an old habit. He took a few breaths before letting his eyes wander over the crowd again. Faintly background music was played, a low saxophone, and a smokey female voice, it had a jazzy feel to it.

The crowd had broken up into groups, always gathered around a set of chaise lounges. A low café table in the middle. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Vos talking to a group of people, laughing full-heartedly. A few faces were recognizable. Mace Windu, a professor of Classics & Philosophy and a Hellenist, took a nip from a Gin Tonic. Next to him, dressed up in a black turtleneck with dark-painted nails, sat Depa Billaba, Mace’s TA. The youngest in the group was Aalya Secura, an investigative journalist, and seated next to her was Yoda – his pen name – one of the most famous Dadaism poets of the 21st century. All of them were Obi-Wan’s new colleagues at Columbia.

Still, he felt like the odd one out, the intruder. He emptied his Whiskey. It burned in his throat but he did not care and took another breath from his smoke. Being the new one sucked.

The bartender thumped a shot of Korn down on the bar counter. It clicked against Obi-Wan’s empty drink, glass against glass. Irritated Obi-Wan looked up and raised an eyebrow. The liquid shimmered colorless. Schnapps judging by its smell. Did the bartender pity him? Obi-Wan lowered his head and smiled bitterly, what a night. “Something for you.”, the man in the velvet suit explained, “From a gentlemen admirer.” A wink was added.

Pushing up his horn-rimmed glasses, Obi-Wan turned his head around the room. A new song had started playing. Bass strings were gently plucked and a female singer sang about Le Temps de L’ amour – how fitting. Who in this bar would buy him a drink? Him? A lonely whiskey drinker, that was leaning against the bar counter, bitterly grinning to himself, the hair a mess of copper strands, dressed in a tweed jacket – maybe someone in an Irish Pub would, impressed by his cliché literature professor appearance but here it seemed unlikely. He was one of many, tasteless, nothing like the hipsters with their New York chic, black turtlenecks, vintage military coats, and Dr. Martens.

Vos? After their breakup, the two had never really lost their spark. A few foolish drinks or a night where one felt lonely often led to a shared bed. Obi-Wan glanced at Vos. He was currently occupied discussing with his fellow Columbia professors, a smile plastered on his face. Unlikely. No. Then whose interest had he tickled? A woman had taken a few glances at him, long dark hair, and a red dress with a back neckline hugged her figure. Her smile was quite lovely and it seemed like she had a good taste in whiskey. No. She was out of his league. Then who else? The man with a copy of Nietzsche’s “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” in his hands? He had looked up at Obi-Wan shyly a few times. Maybe.

Something caught his eye. Nearby a man had raised his glass – the same shot of Schnapps that the bartender had given to Obi-Wan – and cheered to him, grinning cheekily. Was he flirting? He looked a couple of years younger than Obi-Wan and smiled with a crooked smile. A Twink. In the dimmed light his hair faintly shimmered golden, the unruly locks tied up in a low bun, and the rest of them framed his boyish face, his angular jaw piercing out, his eyes a midnight blue. He gave Obi-Wan a thumbs up before drowning the shot in one go and then stepping closer to the bar counter.

“Why?”

“You looked lonely.”, said the boy with a more serious expression. His features had hardened, and his eyes darkened. He seemed older, end-twenties. The black inking on his exposed lower wrists caught Obi-Wan’s glance. A Quote was tattooed on his tanned skin. “Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, …”, were the cursive words Obi-Wan could decipher. The rest of them was covered under a black Shirt. The first lines of William Ernest Henley’s poem Invictus. Armor, these words were like armor tattooed on a body. What had the young man endured in his life? Interesting.

“Do you buy drinks for all lonely people?”, asked Obi-Wan.

“Only for the pretty ones.”, explained the man, smiling once again. “There was a beauty in your loneliness Like the Boy with the thorn, an inner turmoil but so tranquil on the outside, behind a masquerade of serenity.”

That was probably one of the strangest pickup lines, Obi-Wan had ever encountered – even though he had to admit, that it tickled his interest. He had felt bitter before, sitting all alone at the bar counter, smoking, and drinking. His friend Vos was nowhere to be found, occupied with his own life and it had been truly a weird dynamic to go out with your ex. Now fate had granted him a chance with this beautiful, infatuating creature, how could he say no to this?

Two sapphires pierced his eyes, tanned skin with a faint touch of copper, goldish curls, and chiseled body. To that, a mind thinking alike. “What’s your name, young gentleman admirer?”

“Anakin Skywalker.”

The other man leaned closer and took Obi-Wan’s smoke. He nipped it between his lips as if he wanted to lead Obi-Wan’s eyes there. They were slightly tinted in a reddish color, like a dark wine, glossy and plush. Intoxicating. Thrilling. Kissable. The jasmine tobacco mixed with the other man’s scent of musk and made it taste sweet and bitter at the same time on Obi-Wan’s tongue as he breathed. The glare meeting Obi-Wan’s eyes was intense, dazzling, thrilling, and filled with something that sparked heat in Obi-Wan’s gut.

Anakin let his head fall back and blew a cloud of smoke at Obi-Wan. He leaned even closer and paused an inch before Obi-Wan’s face, breath warm on the other man’s lips. It was like a silent question for consent. Then he slid forward the last centimeters and tasted Obi-Wan on his tongue.

Maybe being new did not suck that much, thought Obi-Wan and opened his mouth to let himself be devoured by Anakin. Tasted like heaven with a slight hint of Jasmine tobacco.

#obikin #obikin au #obikin fic #sw au #obi wan star wars #Felix's stupid midnight thoughts #art obsessed Obi Wan #philosophy #happens somewhere here #if you look close enough #sw valentines gift #Anakin is Twink #authors was lonely at and wrote this at 2 Am #and is a lit student so way to much lit references #sw fanfic #star wars fic #college au

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yeenybeanies · 2 years ago

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This is the Way I Pray | Chapter 1: Sunday

not the usual type of writing i put here (aka not G/t), but i felt possessed by the ghost of a new cod oc, & it compelled me to write enough words to fill 45 pages of google docs @@~@@ next call of duty | wayne "champ" champagne (oc), john "soap" mactavish, simon "ghost" riley, john price, nikolai 13,659 words strong language, canon-typical violence, transphobic & homophobic language (contained to a small section), tobacco & alcohol use thanks for reading!! patreon ✨ ko-fi ✨ read it on ao3 for some more notes

Touchdown. Camp Sasha. A small US Marine Corps base in Kentucky, not far from Lexington.

Soap was up first, grabbing his gear pack and travel bag. Ghost followed suit, the two of them heading to disembark through the opening cargo door. The summer air hit them hard, almost like an ocean wave of heat and humidity. It almost made the lieutenant flinch, the intensity of it.

They were here on a mission, the two of them, at Price’s order. Laswell had heard whispers of possible terrorist activity in the area—the goings down of some weapons deal between Ultranationalists and a yet-unknown American government official.

Normally, a mission like this would be left to a less-specialized team, but the involvement of an official necessitated a finer set of tools. More precision. More power.

Upon landing, they were to meet up with one of Nikolai’s men. Price and Laswell seemed to know of him, but neither Ghost nor Soap had heard of this “Champ” before. He was an American man, ex-marine. In Nikolai’s words, he was the “best damn sharpshooter” he’d ever seen.

Something in that statement made Soap a little jealous, but he kept that to himself.

Out on the tarmac, the two made their way towards their welcoming committee. Ghost stopped abruptly in his tracks, prompting Soap to do the same. The sergeant’s brows furrowed inquisitively.

“Is that a fucking horse?” Ghost asked.

“A what…?” Soap followed his gaze, finding the… the literal horse in question. It was a massive beast, its fur a shaggy black. It stood facing away from them on the tarmac about fifty feet ahead. Astride it was a man sporting a cowboy hat, leather chaps, and cowboy boots. The whole cowboy outfit. Soap snorted. “No way… Thought we left Los Vaqueros back in Mexico.”

“Tell me that’s not Nikolai’s man. Fucking hell…” Ghost shook his head, and resumed walking.

Nikolai had also mentioned that his guy was eccentric. That they’d know him when they saw him.

Soap took the lead and approached first, calling out a few feet behind the horse. “Er… Corporal Champagne?”

The cowboy first looked back over his shoulder, one dark brow raised over his reflective aviator sunglasses. The lower half of his face was hidden under a red paisley bandana. He tugged on the reins, swinging his steed and himself around to face them.

“You must be the fellas from 141,” he said. His voice was friendly, his accent full with a country twang. He tipped the brim of his hat in greeting. “Haven’t been a Corporal for a long time now, though. Wayne Champagne; call me Champ. I’m guessin’ Spooky here is Lieutenant Riley, which must mean you’re Sergeant MacTavish. Pleasure t’ meet’cha.” He leaned down, offering a gloved hand for both men to shake.

Soap shook first. “That’s right. You can call me Soap. He’s—” he glanced back at Ghost with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, but Ghost leveled him with a warning glare— “he’s the Ghost.”

“Soap n’ Ghost,” Champ repeated, “Niky spoke highly of you. Lookin’ forward to workin’ together.”

“Likewise,” Soap said. His eyes fell to the horse. “Can’t remember the last time I was this close to a horse. What’s this handsome lad’s name?”

Champ chuckled and shook his head. He gave his steed a hardy pat on the neck. “This here’s Danger. He ain’t a horse, though; he’s a mule . Go on an’ pet ‘im if ya like. He only bites when I tell ‘im to.”

Soap happily took up the offer, and held his hand out for the mule to sniff. “Danger, huh? Like the sound of that. What’s the difference between a mule and a horse?”

“Mule’s half horse, half donkey,” Champ explained. “If Danger n’ I got one thing in common, it’s that both of our daddies were real asses.”

Ghost actually huffed at that. It was barely noticeable, but it was a huff.

“C’mon,” Champ said, turning his mount around. He motioned for Soap’s duffel bag and hooked the handle onto his saddle horn, then did the same with Ghost’s. “We got a truck waiting that’ll take you to your accommodations. You’re here for a week, yeah?”

“That’s right,” Ghost said. He and Soap followed at Champ’s side, the cowboy leading them at an easy walk. “Work starts tomorrow at oh-eight hundred.”

Champ whistled a low note. “At least you’re getting tonight off. You boys ever been to Kentucky before?”

“I have,” Ghost answered.

“First for me,” Soap said. “But Ghost here tells me he loves Kentucky.” He knocked the lieutenant’s shoulder with his own, grinning up at him. “Says he’s a bourbon fan.”

“That right?” Champ asked. His eyes slid over, watching the lieutenant from his peripherals. “I’ll keep that in mind. No shortage of bourbon ‘round these parts, that’s for sure. We’re in Bourbon County.”

Ghost shot Soap a glare, and lightly shoved him back. “We’re not here to drink. We’ve got a job to do.”

Champ glanced back at the two. There was an amused crinkle around his eyes, only partially hidden behind his sunglasses. “Aw. All work, no play? That’s no fun.”

At the end of a tarmac, a truck sat idling. As they approached, a marine stepped out of the driver’s side and took the duffel bags from Champ to put in the back seat. She then met him with a fist bump, and gave their visitors a proper military salute.

“Gentlemen, this is Corporal Yeong. She’ll drive you to the hotel,” Champ said.

Soap, stepping up to the opened door next to Champ, regarded him with a confused look. “You’re not coming with us?” Ghost, who’d entered the back seat from the other side, peered out as well.

“Oh, I am, worry you not,” Champ said. There was a grin in his voice. He and Yeong exchanged knowing looks. “Matter of fact, I’m gonna race ya there. An’ I’m gonna beat ya.”

“It’s because he’s a dirty cheater,” Yeong said.

Champ shrugged without a care. He tipped his sunglasses down to look at Soap over the rim, and winked. “You can ride with me if ya like. Much faster’n this hunk a’ junk.”

“Johnny…” Ghost said from inside the cab. He sounded distrustful.

Soap looked between the Brit and Champ, a grin tugging at his lips. He dropped his pack in the truck and took the cowboy’s proffered hand. With a little help, climbed up to sit behind him in the saddle. He held his arms up awkwardly, unsure of where to put them, until Champ guided him to circle them around his waist.

“Alright,” Champ said, eyeing Soap over his shoulder, “very important that you hold on tight, ‘kay? Don’t wanna lose you in the woods right after you just got here.”

“Got it. I’m good.” Soap tightened his hold just a little bit, realizing now that Champ was quite a bit smaller than he’d initially thought. Being up on the big-ass mule made him look huge. Champ nudged the truck door shut with his boot, and strode up to the driver side window. Yeong stared at the road, her fingers firm around the wheel.

“Pray for your friend,” she said. Ghost met her eyes in the rearview mirror, his brows furrowed. “It’s a crazy ride.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Ghost muttered. He leaned back in his seat, back hitting the cushion with a dull thump. They’d been in America not ten minutes, and he was already exasperated.

Where the hell did Nikolai find this guy?

Champ settled into his saddle, adjusting to the new weight behind him. Danger pawed at the road, his horseshoes scraping against the asphalt with a satisfying clack. “Steady now,” Champ cooed, more to Soap than to his steed.

In perfect unison, both truck and mule launched forward. Also in perfect unison, both passengers shouted alarmed expletives and held on for dear life, Soap squeezing around Champ’s waist and Ghost clinging to the handle above his window.

“Bloody—do you always do this?!” Ghost shouted, unsure if he should be glaring at Yeong or at Champ.

Yeong laid harder on the gas, the truck quickly overtaking the mule. There was a tight, satisfied smirk on her lips, but it lasted only a moment. “More often than you might think,” she answered. “I’ll admit, though, that Champ especially likes to do this when we get visitors.”

Soap hadn’t stopped cussing since they’d started sprinting. Champ grinned like a madman under his bandana, perfectly at home astride his hurtling mule, even with an inexperienced passenger. He watched the truck speed past them, unbothered. “Alright, Soap!” he shouted, giving the Scot’s arm a pat with his free hand, “things are about to get a little bumpy!”

“It’s already bloody bumpy!” he yelled back. Champ couldn’t see him, but he gleefully imagined the expression on Soap’s face.

“Hold on!” He tugged the reins, directing Danger to make a sharp turn off the asphalt road, onto a dirt trail leading into the forest behind the airfield.

From the truck, Ghost watched helplessly as his sergeant and the crazy fucking cowboy vanished beyond the treeline on that bloody mule.

Soap was just as helpless. As promised, the uneven trail was indeed bumpier than the road. He ducked every time they came upon a low-hanging branch, despite Champ’s assurance that nothing was low enough to smack him on this path.

“Where the hell are we going?” he asked, yelling over the wind in his ears and the adrenaline in his blood.

“Taking a shortcut,” Champ answered. “Yeong was right: I am a dirty cheater. We ain’t losin’ this race.”

The trail was well-worn, Soap noticed, but it was narrow and winding. Even still, Champ and Danger maneuvered it with expert precision. Danger didn’t so much as slip on the damp earth, nor did Champ miss a turn. They moved as if they were one being. And Soap was left holding on for dear life.

“You know your way around a gun, right?” Champ asked once they reached a relatively smooth stretch of trail. The question caught Soap off guard.

“What? ”

The cowboy reached for something to his left, under the leg of his saddle. Soap quickly realized that it was a rifle, and watched in astonishment as Champ pulled it out. “Got a target up ahead if you wanna take a shot.”

Soap peered over his shoulder to get a better look at the firearm. It was a bolt action rifle. Beautiful piece, really. Were they not zipping through the forest on a runaway mule, he would have been happy to try it out. But alas, “Mate, I’m barely hangin’ on back here!”

Shooting from a helicopter or a truck was one thing, but horseback was a different beast entirely.

Champ, still completely unbothered, only shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He dropped the reins—much to Soap’s alarm—and shouldered the rifle. He switched the safety off, yanked the bolt handle to chamber a bullet, and took aim. Soap followed his gaze to a human-shaped target set up a ways down the path.

Boom.

Soap’s jaw dropped. There was a new hole in the dummy’s head that hadn’t been there before.

Boom.

And another in its chest.

“Holy shit…!” Soap shouted. Two perfect kill shots on horseback… from a distance! Champ chuckled, taking plenty of pleasure in his passenger’s awe.

“Last chance, Scotty. We’re almost through.” Champ held the rifle by the forestock, offering it again to Soap. “I hear you’re a helluva shot too.”

Aw, hell. That sounded like a challenge. Well, he couldn’t just let this cowboy show off without at least trying. Soap pried one arm away from Champ’s waist and took the rifle, but he hesitated to release his other. Sensing his apprehension, Champ, after taking the reins again, reached his free arm around Soap’s back, offering him a point of security. He ducked down low, almost lying against Danger’s neck, to give Soap more room to aim. Soap flicked off the safety, chambered a bullet, took a breath…

Boom!

Champ howled in delight. “Hell yeah! You got it! Good shit!”

Soap lowered the rifle and flicked the safety back on. He had hit it. Caught the dummy right in the shoulder. He huffed. On one hand, he knew he could do better. His marksmanship is what earned him his damn nickname! But, on the other hand, he’d never had to shoot anything from horseback before.

“Alright, Scotty.” Champ patted Soap’s thigh, then took the rifle back and shoved it back into place under his saddle. Soap wrapped his arms around his waist again. “We’re comin’ up on a jump. Gonna need you to hold on real’ tight.”

“A what—?” A jump?! Soap felt his heart leap into his throat. He was still kinda-sorta getting used to the galloping, and now he had to deal with a jump?!

“I got a feelin’ your spooky friend’ll skin me alive if I let you fall n’ crack your head open. So put the squeeze on, partner; you won’t hurt me none.”

The jump in question was a deep, rapidly approaching ditch. On the other side of it was the treeline and the road. Soap cursed under his breath, pressed his chest to Champ’s back, and sent a silent prayer to whoever might be listening. His hold tightened around Champ to the point that he thought he might crush the smaller man when he felt the mule’s hooves leave the ground. For a brief moment, it felt like they were flying. It was as euphoric as it was fucking terrifying. And then it wasn’t very euphoric at all. As soon as they landed on the other side of the ditch, pain shot up through his groin. A strangled noise erupted from his throat. He doubled over as much as he could, head pressed between Champ’s shoulder blades.

“ Ach—Champ, my fuckin balls…!” he whimpered. Tears welled in his eyes.

Champ snorted. “Oop, sorry about that, partner. Should’a warned ya about the drop.”

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus, we better fuckin’ win after all this…!”

“We will,” Champ said confidently, patting Soap’s arm. They burst through the treeline, the hotel in the near distance. Champ pointed to a truck tearing down the road, much further away than they were. “See your friend! We got this.” He dug his heels into Danger’s ribs, spurring the mule on even faster—something Soap hadn’t thought possible at this point. Oh, but it was. They shot forward like a speeding train. Danger’s heavy breaths reached his ears over the whipping wind, snorting with every powerful stride he took.

In a matter of seconds, horseshoes met asphalt once more. Champ pulled on the reins, bringing Danger to a skidding halt. Soap could swear that he saw sparks coming from the mule’s hooves.

“Hold on, Scotty,” the cowboy said, his free arm reaching back around to hold Soap in place. He gave the reins another tug and clicked his tongue, prompting Danger up onto his hind legs with a triumphant bray. As he came back down to earth, the truck slowed to a stop a few feet away.

Soap breathed out a heavy sigh, his hold on Champ going slack. He leaned his weight onto the cowboy a bit more as he tried to catch his breath. Champ knocked his knee with a fist and a chuckle.

“Alright back there, Soldier?”

“My balls are killin’ me, mate,” Soap said, the stain clear in his voice. That got a bark of laughter from Champ. Soap dismounted with some assistance, but his knees buckled as soon as his feet touched the ground.

Ghost stepped out of the vehicle with both his and Soap’s bags. Even through his mask, he looked unimpressed. “You did this to yourself. On your feet, Sergeant,” he ordered.

“Gimme a sec, LT,” Soap said, still gasping for air. “God, I’ve been through less painful helicopter crashes.”

“Aw, it wasn’t that bad,” Champ chided playfully.

Soap scoffed. Slowly, he stood up, his legs shaking under him. “Next time,” he said, pointing to Ghost, “you’re riding with him.”

“Fat chance of that.” Ghost shoved Soap’s bags into his arms.

Champ pointed to the hotel doors. “Check in at the counter. I believe you’ve got a two-bed room to share.”

“Sounds good,” Ghost said with a nod. He gave Soap’s shoulder a push to get him moving. Champ couldn’t help but smirk at the Scot’s bow-legged walk.

“See you fellas later tonight,” the cowboy said with a tip of his hat.

He hung back to speak with Yeong, leaving Ghost and Soap to enter the hotel alone. Once they got checked in and received their key cards, they headed to their room. Soap didn't voice his complaints of the new soreness he felt, but it was clear by the strain on his face and the change in his gait that he was hurting.

Ghost felt no sympathy.

In their room, Soap dropped his bag and all but collapsed onto the first bed, an arm draped over his eyes.

“That damn yank is out of his mind,” he said.

Ghost dropped his duffel on the second bed and sat down. “Truck ride wasn’t much better. Thought that corporal was gonna flip the damn thing.”

“Fuckin Americans,” Soap groaned. Ghost echoed the sentiment.

Over the course of the next few hours, the two settled into their room—as much as either of them really could. They knew their trip here was a short one; they hadn't brought much by means of clothing and personal items as a result.

They checked in with Price via video call, letting him know that they’d made it to the US in one piece, albeit one of them more bruised than the other. Price, naturally, found the whole ordeal amusing.

“Nik told me that Champ was a wild one,” he said with a sniff. "Can’t believe you got on a horse named Danger with a guy that dresses like a fuckin’ cowboy.”

“Apparently Danger is a mule,” Soap retorted, a little annoyed with the teasing. He was never going to hear the end of this.

“Not that I don't trust Nik,” Price continued, tone shifting to something more serious, “but you boys think this bloke’s gonna be any help on your mission?”

Ghost shrugged. “Remains to be seen,” he said flatly. “All we know so far is how well he can ride a mule.”

“Actually, in the forest, I got to see a bit of his marksmanship,” Soap added. He adjusted how he sat on his bed, ignoring how it made him wince, and continued, “Man whipped out a bolt-action rifle and made a headshot from at least three hundred meters away on the back of a sprinting mule. Then he made another one center-chest immediately after.”

Price whistled, his brows raised. “Damn. Guess Nik wasn’t exaggerating when he said Champ was his best sharpshooter.”

Ghost, to most, looked blasé as ever, but Soap could tell that he was at least a little impressed.

“Well,” Price said, leaning away from the screen, “rest up tonight, boys. Work begins tomorrow.”

Soap and Ghost exchanged glances. “Not sure how much rest we’ll get,” the sergeant admitted. “Champ said earlier he was going to take us to a ‘right and proper rodeo.’” His imitation of Champ’s accent was poor, but it got a chortle out of Price regardless.

“As long as I don't get a call back saying that one of you broke your neck riding a fuckin’ bull,” he said.

“Won’t be me,” Ghost said, pointedly looking at Soap.

“Oi—I’m not goin’ near one of those monsters,” Soap said, sounding offended. “The mule was Danger enough.”

Ghost leveled him with a deadpan stare, which he met with a cheesy grin. It was a bad joke, of course, but he knew that Ghost secretly liked it.

They finished up their call with Price, then set out to explore the base that they’d be calling home for the next week. The heat of the Kentucky summer had them both drenched in sweat in no time. Soap took some comfort in seeing that it wasn’t just them suffering, though; all the marines in their full uniforms, even with their rolled-up sleeves, looked just as miserable. Some shot Ghost strange looks, likely wondering why the hell he was wearing a full balaclava in eighty-plus degree weather, but no one said anything.

After locating and wandering around the exchange and commissary for an hour, the two sought out the firing range. There was a scoreboard that Soap took particular interest in. He stood under the board, arms crossed, reading all the “W.C.”s that topped the charts for distance. He shook his head, muttering “There’s no way” under his breath. He turned to one of the range administrators, thumb pointed at one of the top scores. “Is this right? That’s Champ’s distance record?”

The administrator glanced up at the record in question. “Yep. Furthest bullseye we’ve seen here.”

“That’s, what, a mile and a half?” Soap stared at the number in disbelief. Ghost’s head whipped around as well, his eyes a bit wider than normal.

“Just about,” the administrator said. “Saw the shot myself. Kid’s one helluva sniper. Better than any SEAL or other special forces I’ve ever seen. Didn’t even have a spotter when he did that.”

“No fuckin’ way…” Soap grumbled. When was the last time he’d felt intimidated by someone else’s marksmanship?

“Good thing he’s on our side,” Ghost said.

“Aye, no shit…”

The two of them stayed at the range until mid afternoon. Soap tried his hand at usurping Champ’s record, refusing Ghost’s offer to play spotter. He didn’t get it, but he did still impress the administrator and other observing patrons by hitting the target at all. Soap grimaced, staring through his scope at the nick he’d left on the edge of the target. “Bastard,” he mumbled.

Even still, he did get to etch his initials into the board under Champ’s.

“Stay focused, Johnny,” Ghost reminded. “It’s not a competition.”

Soap waved him off. He wasn’t trying to pout; it just wasn’t often he came across someone that was a better shot than him. He’d get over it.

But who said it couldn’t be a friendly competition?

The two of them hit up one of the on-base restaurants for takeout after leaving the range, and headed back to their rooms to eat. It was mostly for Ghost’s benefit, giving the lieutenant relative privacy to take his mask off. He sighed in relief once he peeled the balaclava from his skin. Beneath it, his hair, head, and neck were drenched in sweat.

Luckily, he had several extra masks, so he wouldn’t have to put this sweaty one back on.

Soap flipped through the TV channels for something mildly interesting, landing on some old western movie. It made him chuckle at how closely the characters’ attire resembled their new cowboy friend’s.

At some point after they’d finished eating, Ghost put one of his other masks on—this one less dramatic, with a much simpler skull pattern on the face—and turned away to nap. Soap wasn’t far behind, nodding off shortly after the movie’s climax. The both of them had endured a long flight from across the pond, and they had a tough week’s worth of work ahead of them; they deserved this moment of rest.

Neither of them meant to nap for a few hours, though. Jet lag was having its way with them. It was nearly five thirty when there came a knock to their door. Ghost woke first, always the lighter sleeper. He rolled over, looking first to Soap, and then to the door beyond. He adjusted his mask, making sure everything was covered, and then walked over to peek through the peephole. A cowboy hat and reflective glasses filled his view. That was enough to tell him who it was. Shaking off his grogginess, Ghost opened the door and… and looked down much further than he’d expected to.

Champ was a solid foot shorter than Ghost, eye level with his chest. This surprised the both of them. They stared at each other, taking a moment to process this information.

The cowboy whistled, his brows nearly disappearing into his hat. “Ho-lee shit, Spooky, what the hell’re they feedin’ ya in the 141? I knew you were a big boy, but damn.” He playfully tapped the side of his fist to Ghost’s chest.

Bold. Most people made no attempts to touch Ghost.

“I get the bones left over from steak nights,” Ghost said, completely deadpan. “Suck out the marrow.”

Champ tilted his head. “I can’t tell if you’re jokin’ or not,” he said with a chuckle. He peered around Ghost, into the room. “You n’ your buddy ought’a throw on some civvies. I got my truck out front, ready to go.”

“To the rodeo,” Ghost clarified. He looked Champ up and down, trying to gauge what sort of civvies would be appropriate for such an occasion. His hat and bandana were the same, as far as Ghost could tell, but the cowboy was wearing a different shirt now. It was a bright blue, long sleeve button up, with the buttons unfastened low on his chest. Black ink peeked out through the V, but Ghost couldn’t quite make out what the tattoo was. His chaps were different as well. These ones were bigger, flashier, and had tassels dangling off of the back of them. To top it all off, Champ had an obnoxiously large, shiny belt buckle hooked onto his belt with “CHAMP” engraved in bold letters.

Yeah, Ghost didn't have anything remotely similar to wear, clothing-wise. He was glad for it, too.

“Don’t sound too excited now,” Champ teased, pulling the lieutenant from his observations. “Y’all don’t gotta come if you don’t wanna. But I know some a’ the organizers, an’ I got y’all some good seats up close.”

“Can’t turn that down now, can we?” Ghost turned to yell at Soap, “Johnny, wake up. We’ve got a rodeo to get to.” He glanced back down at Champ. “We’ll be out in five.”

“Sounds good,” Champ said, giving his arm a tap. “I’ll be waiting out front.”

Ghost closed the door and listened to the sound of retreating cowboy boots until they faded from earshot. It surprised him a little to notice that he didn’t hear the jingling of spurs.

What an eccentric fellow indeed.

Soap stirred on his bed and raised his arms in a long, luxurious stretch. Various joints cracked and popped. It sounded delightful. “Time is it?” he asked sleepily. Ghost glanced at his watch.

“Seventeen-thirty. Put on some civvies; Champ’s waiting for us outside.”

The both of them shuffled out of their sweat-dried clothes and into cleaner, casual wear. Soap donned jeans and a tight, short-sleeve shirt that squeezed his chest and biceps just right. Ghost adopted jeans of his own and a light zip-up hoodie, hood up, of course. It made his balaclava look slightly less out of place. This was about as “civvy” as it got for him.

“Hey, LT,” Soap said, drawing Ghost’s attention. Soap was in the bathroom, combing the bedhead in his mohawk down. He had a goofy look on his face that told Ghost that he was about to say something moronic. “Think we’ll find a cowboy hat here that’d look good on you?”

Ghost rolled his eyes and didn’t bother with a response. Soap still snickered anyway.

As promised, Champ was out front, sitting in an idling red truck. Soap found it a little surprising; he’d expected someone that dressed like Champ to have one of those oversized, ego-boosting, too-big-to-be-safe-to-drive American trucks. This beast was older, its paint faded, and much more practical. Hooked up behind it was a very fancy horse trailer—much more on-par with Champ’s eccentricities. That trailer looked loads more expensive than the truck.

Champ had his arm resting out the rolled-down window, patiently waiting for his guests. He perked up when they stepped through the hotel doors, and waved them a two-fingered salute. Ghost gave the trailer a questioning look as he approached the driver-side back seat.

“You’re bringing the mule?”

“Yep,” Champ said, his smile evident despite his bandana. “Danger loves rodeos as much as I do. Volunteered to be a pickup rider for tonight.”

Ghost pulled the door open and slipped into the back seat, settling in the middle space. Soap took up shotgun. If Champ noticed him still wincing from the lingering soreness between his legs, he didn’t say anything.

“What’s a pickup rider?” Ghost asked.

Champ shifted the car into drive, and pulled out of the parking lot, onto the road towards the main gates. “Y’know the people that ride buckin’ broncs an’ bulls? Pickup riders’re the ones that help ‘em off safely once they complete their ride, or herd the animals away if they fail.” He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see Ghost better, since it was otherwise useless to him with a trailer in back. “Got you boys front row seats. Hope you’re excited.”

“Ecstatic,” Ghost said without a hint of emotion. Champ snorted and turned to Soap.

“He always like this?”

Soap tilted his head thoughtfully, a playful smirk on his lips. “He’s just shy. Usually he’s a ray of sunshine. Even tells jokes.”

“Jokes, hunh?” he turned his head in Ghost’s direction, brown eye catching him in his peripherals. “Would love to hear one.”

Ghost was staring hard at Soap, who was trying not to laugh. “I’m lookin’ at one,” he growled. Champ pushed an amused breath through his lips.

The drive to the fairgrounds hosting the rodeo was about half an hour. Champ, after asking what his passengers wanted to listen to and getting indifferent responses, tuned the radio onto one of the local country stations. His gloved fingers drummed on the steering wheel, loosely following the guitar strums. Most of the conversation shared on the drive was between him and Soap, with Ghost only occasionally giving his input. Champ was a friendly guy. Chatty.

Ghost was left to wonder if he had another Soap MacTavish on his hands. God help him; he didn’t know if he could deal with two of them.

Then again, maybe that worked in Champ’s favor. Soap had somehow managed to chip away at Ghost’s hardened shell.

Fuckin’ hell…

It was still plenty light out when they pulled into the fairgrounds, the time just after six. Champ chatted briefly with the woman working the back gate, then drove as directed to park his trailer. He skillfully maneuvered his oversized haul into the designated spot, and killed the engine.

“Still got another hour before the rodeo starts,” he said, pocketing his keys. “I’ve gotta go get set up n’ check in with the organizers n’ other riders. Trust you two’ll be alright on your own in the meantime?”

Soap dropped down from the truck, Ghost following suit. “We’ll be fine,” Soap said. He paused next to Champ, noticing, like Ghost had before, how surprisingly short the cowboy was. He’d felt it earlier on the mule, when he’d had his arms around Champ, but he hadn’t seen him on his own two feet yet.

He wasn’t small, though, relatively speaking. Underneath that bright blue shirt, there was solid muscle. Big arms, broad chest, thick middle. For his height, Champ was pretty well-built.

Soap and Ghost left Champ to handle his affairs, and made for the more populated part of the fairgrounds. They had time to kill before they were to meet Champ again at the western bleachers. Ghost kept his hands in his hoodie pockets most of the time and followed behind as Soap led the way through the various attractions. There were rides with dramatic names that neither of them were willing to approach, plenty of shady-looking game stalls, and a seemingly endless abundance of junk food carts.

Some of the smells had Ghost feeling uneasy, dredging up old, unpleasant memories, but he kept it to himself. Even still, Soap, ever perceptive, made an effort to steer clear of the barbecue trucks. While the cooking sausages did smell mouthwatering to him, he was presently more interested in some of the games. Namely the shooting games.

“You didn’t get your fill earlier at the range?” Ghost asked as they approached a stall. The operator greeted them eagerly and explained the objective: shoot as many of the cutout groundhogs as possible before the timer ran out.

Soap handed over the appropriate amount of cash, and grinned up at Ghost as he shouldered the miniature rifle. It had an infrared laser that interacted with sensors on the groundhogs. No physical ammunition. “I’m gonna win you that prize, LT,” he said, nodding to a stuffed cartoon ghost dangling from the prize wall behind the operator.

Ghost narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. “Very funny, Johnny.”

As soon as the timer started, his cheery demeanor vanished, the hardened soldier taking over. The toy gun wasn’t the most accurate thing in the world, go figure, but Soap adapted quickly and knocked down groundhog after groundhog. The operator watched on in amazement, clearly not having expected such a performance.

Needless to say, Soap did win that prize. Soldier mode deactivated, he gleefully claimed to the ghost plushie, and handed it to Ghost. The lieutenant gave him the most annoyed stare he could muster, his skeleton-gloved hands reluctantly accepting the toy.

“I am not carrying this around all night,” he growled.

“Aw, but I won it for you,” Soap said, giving the plush a squeeze on its sewn-on rosy cheeks. “It looks just like you.”

Ghost pulled the toy away and tucked it under his arm, eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head in his exasperation. He did, in fact, end up carrying it as they continued to wander. Soap played a few more games and scored a few more prizes—small ones, thankfully, that could easily be stuffed into pockets.

As the time neared for them to head over to the bleachers, Soap made a quick stop to grab himself and Ghost a bratwurst from one of the food carts, then they made their way. Champ was easy to spot in the ring with his bright shirt. Danger was also easily the largest mount, towering over the other horses by a good few inches.

With a direct comparison, it became obvious the differences between a horse and a mule. Danger’s ears were huge, and his face was distinctly donkey-like. It was in the eyes. Those lashes were long.

Courtesy of Ghost’s imposing stature and skull mask, Champ spotted them just as easily. He veered sharply from his path around the arena and met them at the fence. Soap reached out, resting his hand on Danger’s nose.

“Didn’t get me one?” Champ asked, tipping his head at the half-eaten brat in Soap’s other hand. The Scot stammered, caught off-guard, but Champ just laughed and waved. “Kiddin’, kiddin’. I don’t need to be eatin’ anythin’ right now. Don’t need nothin’ comin’ up while I’m chasin’ a runaway bronc. Nice toy, by the way.” He nodded to the ghost plush pinned against the Brit’s side. Ghost grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

Champ pointed to a trio of reserved seats a bit further down, near the chute where animals were being lined up, that were for Ghost and Soap. He followed them as they walked along the fence, explaining the events they’d be having tonight.

Steer wrestling, tie-down roping, team roping, barrel racing, bareback riding, and, the final event, bull riding. The excited giddiness was evident in Champ’s voice as he described each sport.

“The animals don’t get hurt, right?” Soap asked.

“Naw. We got strict rules in place to avoid harmin’ the livestock. An’ if there is an accident, we got plenty a’ vets on standby to see to ‘em.” He looked out to the crowd seated on the bleachers. It was a lively night, with anticipation for a good show. He sat up a little straighter in his saddle. “The participants’re much more likely to get hurt,” he said, “but that’s why folks like me‘re here to help. Y’all best get t’ your seats; we’re startin’ soon.”

Soap gave Danger a parting pat on the neck, and met Champ’s fist with his own, then he and Ghost took their seats. They had a great front-row view of the whole arena. Soap nudged Ghost’s shoulder. “This is pretty cool, ey, LT?”

The lieutenant lifted a brow, eyes scanning the crowds of people. It was a sea of cowboy hats as far as he could see. “More people than I expected.”

“Yanks love a rodeo, apparently,” Soap said, leaning back in his seat. “I’m excited to see what the fuss is all about. Still think you should pick up a cowboy hat, though.”

Ghost hummed, keeping his thoughts to himself. He settled more comfortably in his seat, setting the ghost plush in his lap.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, welcoming the guests to the rodeo. The crowd roared back at him in response. Ghost abstained from showing any excitement, but Soap clapped and offered a few excited hoots. The announcer chattered on, explaining what was in store for tonight, thanking sponsors, introducing judges, and directing everyone to stand for the American National Anthem.

American patriotism was a bit nauseating to witness, but the Brit and the Scot said nothing. They stood like good soldiers, watching the pretty young lady parade around the arena with an oversized flag, standing on the back of a white gelding.

“Ghost, you know how to ride a horse?” Soap asked once they were allowed to sit again.

Ghost shook his head. “Not well. Only done it once or twice.”

“Today was my first time.”

Eyes wide in disbelief, Ghost’s head snapped in Soap’s direction. He had half a mind to smack the Scot upside the head, or to strangle him. “Never been on a bloody horse before, an’ you decided your first time would be riding bitch with a mad fuckin’ cowboy?”

A loud throat clearing on his left briefly drew Ghost’s attention. He met the glare of a middle aged woman, who gestured to a young girl sitting in the seat next to Ghost. The girl stared up at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. She couldn’t have been more than five years old. “Language,” the woman hissed.

Soap snickered at his right, earning himself a glare of his own. “Impressionable youth around, LT.” And that earned him a concealed, but no less rude gesture.

The first event, steer wrestling, started with a bang. It surprised the two to see just how fast of a sport it was. And aggressive. Soap grimaced as the first rider dropped from his horse onto the steer’s neck and wrenched its head around until it fell to its side. It bellowed in alarm, but it did get up and trot away unharmed once it was released.

“Jesus…” Ghost muttered. But he was intrigued.

After every round, Champ and the other riders herded the animals into their exit chutes while the competitors reveled in the crowd’s cheering.

The next event was even more aggressive. The steers were smaller. Skilled enough competitors hooked them around their necks with a lasso from horseback, sprinted to them, slammed them down on their sides, and tied their legs together with a wire. But still, once their roles were done, the little steers just got back up and trotted along.

Tough creatures, these cattle.

Ghost wasn’t one to cheer, but he found himself mentally complimenting or criticizing the performances. As if he had any room to do the latter.

Soap, on the other hand, started to clap and hoot. He was clearly enjoying himself. It wasn’t football—real football—but it was entertaining nevertheless.

By the end of the steer roping, the sun was finally starting to sink in the sky. Thankfully, their seats were facing away from the setting sun, so they wouldn't be blinded.

“Oi, where’d Champ go?” Soap asked, sitting up in his seat to scan the ring. Ghost did the same, finding neither the cowboy nor his mule.

“Don’t see him,” Ghost said.

Speak of the devil, though. The man in question appeared from the rider’s area and hopped the fence, jumping down onto the audience side.

“Evenin’ boys,” he said. His sunglasses were gone, no longer necessary in the fading light. He plopped down in the empty seat next to Soap with a sigh and crossed his ankle over his knee. “Enjoyin’ your first rodeo?”

“Better than I expected,” Soap said.

“Know what I’d say if I ever came to another one of these?” Ghost asked. Champ leaned back in his seat to meet Ghost’s eyes, brows lifted in anticipation.

Hunh. Now that he didn't have his sunglasses on, Ghost noticed that Champ’s left eye was an icy blue color, starkly in contrast to the deep brown of his right.

“‘This ain’t my first rodeo.’”

Soap groaned loudly, his head dropping into his hands. That was exactly the reaction Ghost was gunning for.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, he does have jokes,” Champ said, his eyes crinkling with a hidden smile.

“No he doesn’t,” Soap said through his hands, “I was lying when I said that.”

“I thought it was funny.”

Ghost huffed. “At least someone appreciates my humor.”

Soap turned fully away from Ghost, very pointedly ignoring him. “Done for the night, Champ?”

“Naw, just taking a break.” He craned his neck, looking at the crowd behind them. “Givin’ Danger a rest. We’ll sit out these next two events, n’ hop back in for the last—” Soap jumped to lean in close, making Champ stiffen. He frowned, confused by the very sudden and intense eye contact. “Uh…”

“Woah. You see this, LT?”

“Noticed it a minute ago, Johnny.”

Champ blinked twice, then realization struck him. “Oh.” A faint red tint crept up from under his bandana. “Yeah.”

“That’s neat.” Soap retreated from his personal space, lips quirked in a half smile. “Bet that makes you popular with the ladies.”

“Heh. Sure does.” He scratched at his jaw, a little uneasy. “Fellas too.”

Ghost did not miss how Champ watched them both for a reaction, nor did he miss how he relaxed when neither of them batted an eye. Soap caught on too.

It’d be hypocritical of them to be anything less than indifferent.

The announcer’s voice rang again over the loudspeakers, announcing the next event: team roping. It was a welcomed change of topic for Champ. He shifted his focus to the arena. Ghost and Soap did the same.

“So, this one’s tricky,” Champ explained. He laid one arm around the back of Soap’s chair, and gestured with his other. “Takes real teamwork. Gotta time it just right to snare the steer. Lassoing the horns is one thing, but catchin’ its hind feet?” He whistled a long, low note. “Lot harder ’n it looks.”

The first steer shot out of the shoot, and a pair of riders shortly after it. One rider successfully caught the steer by its horns with his lasso, but his partner missed the legs, disqualifying them from the competition. Champ gave them a consolation clap.

“Crazy,” Soap said, “‘cos that looks very hard.”

“Oh for sure. I think it’s the most difficult event,” Champ said.

“You ever do any of these?” Ghost asked.

For the briefest moment, Champ’s eyes glazed over. Nostalgia was hitting him hard. “Yep,” he said. “Done ‘em all. I grew up doin’ this stuff.”

“Any good?”

Champ leaned his head back, pondering the question. “Yeah,” he said eventually, “pretty good. Won more’n a few medals n’ trophies.”

The next steer ran from the chute, its roping team in hot pursuit. These two managed to catch it properly, suspending it on its forelegs. Champ clapped heartily, and yelled out a few cheerful words.

The other teams came and went, most of them securing their steeds. Champ was enjoying himself, enthusiastic in his cheers. Now that they had their resident rodeo expert with them, Soap asked questions here and there, seeking clarification on various aspects of the events they’d seen so far. Techniques, scoring criteria, the cattle, the horses, et cetera.

Once the announcers listed off the winners and the cheering faded into a low chatter, Champ leaned forward in his seat, elbows propped on his thighs. “This next event’s my favorite,” he said, an excited twinkle in his eye. “ Barrel racin’.”

Workers set up three barrels in the ring in a triangle while the announcer explained the clover pattern the racers would run in.

“I was real’ good at this back in the day,” Champ said. He nudged Soap’s shoulder, the mischief clear on his face. “Bet you could do it. Got some good practice in on the trail earlier.”

Ghost scoffed before Soap could answer. “Don’t even think about it, Sergeant. I’m not haulin’ your ass—” he paused, glancing at the little girl sitting on his other side— “not haulin’ you back to Glasgow with a broken neck.”

Soap put his hands up, crossing them over his chest in an X shape. “Aye, no worries here. I’ve had my fill of crazy riding for a lifetime.”

“We’ll see ‘bout that,” Champ said with a smile. “I’ve got you boys for a whole week.”

Ghost pulled Soap back by the shoulder so he could level the cowboy with a hard stare. “Champagne, if you break my sergeant, I will be very displeased.”

“Hoo,” Champ replied, his shoulders jolting up. “Chills up my spine. That’s a mean mug ya got there. Don’t worry, Spooky; I got no plans a’ breakin’ either a’ ya.”

An announcement rang overhead, drawing attention back to the ring for the first racer. Champ hooted as she shot from the chute on a sorrel horse. She whipped that horse around the barrels, sending dirt flying with each tight turn, and zoomed back to the finish line, clearing the course in just over sixteen seconds.

“Steamin’ Jesus, she was flying,” Soap said, almost breathless.

“That was just a girl,” Ghost pointed out. “Couldn’t’ve been more than sixteen.”

“Yep,” Champ confirmed, “they start young. I was, what, six? Seven? When I first barrel raced.”

Soap breathed out through tight lips. “Crazy yanks.”

“That’s for sure,” Ghost agreed.

The next girl to race was even younger, and even faster. Champ took great pleasure in the way Soap’s jaw dropped.

Most of the other racers were adults, but their runs were still plenty thrilling. Champ couldn’t help but jump up in his applause with a hoot and a holler after one racer cleared the course in fourteen and a half seconds. His enthusiasm was infectious; it got Soap yelling out a few cheers as well, and even Ghost clapped once or twice.

The winners were announced—fourteen and a half won—and Champ leaned back into his seat with a huff, grinning to himself. “Good shit,” he said.

“Language,” Ghost said, drawing a confused hum from the cowboy. He jerked his head to the kid next to him. “Already got in trouble once with the mum.”

“Well, then I’d best get, ‘fore I say somethin’ that’ll get me in trouble.” He stood up and adjusted his collar, smoothing it down against his neck. “Time t’ get back out there anyway.”

“Two more events, right?” Ghost asked.

Champ nodded. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, hands framing the shiny, oversized buckle in the middle. “Yep. Bet y’all have ‘bout had your fill a’ this country folk nonsense; I won’t be offended if ya wanna catch a cab back to base.”

Soap and Ghost exchanged looks, as if communicating telepathically. “We’re good, Soap said after a moment. “Already watched the wee bulls get manhandled; I wanna see the reverse.”

The cowboy shook his head with a soft laugh. “Trust me, a tramplin’ ain’t a pretty sight. I’ll be doin’ my damnedest—” The girl’s mother cleared her throat and glared daggers at Champ, but he ignored her— “to make sure no one gets hurt.” He offered a fist to Soap, which the Scot knocked in return. “Meet’cha back here when I’m done.”

“Didn’t offer me a fist bump,” Ghost noted as Champ disappeared back into the work area. Soap rolled his eyes and knocked his shoulder to the Brit’s.

“Don’t get your feelings hurt. Probably guessed you wouldn’t have obliged him. And I’m sure you wouldn’t have.”

“Probably not,” he agreed.

Workers scrambled about the ring to clear it for the next event: bareback riding. The giant stadium lights overhead switched on, illuminating the arena. Champ rejoined his fellow pickup riders astride Danger, his shirt practically glowing under the harsh light.

Everything was set. The announcer called up the first rider and bronco combo. Music started playing. The big iron gate swung open, and the bronco launched up into the air, its rider flailing about on its back like a ragdoll. His cowboy hat was gone within two seconds, and he didn’t last more than four more before he was sent flying. A few people on foot helped him up, while Champ charged on after the horse to pull its buck strap off and herd it back to the chute.

All in all, it looked like a painful sport. Soap grimaced, reminded of the soreness still plaguing his loins. A funny thought did occur to him, though. He side-eyed Ghost, a grin creeping onto his face, and breathed in—

“If you say anything about wanting to get onto one of those fu—” ahem— “one of those animals, I’m gonna toss you in there right under the next one’s hooves.” Ghost spoke casually, not even bothering to look at Soap. The sergeant snickered.

“Actually, I was gonna say that this reminds me of riding in the car when you’re driving. Bumpy as all getup.”

“I just might throw you in there anyway.”

The next rider had a nasty bronco. The damn thing was all over the place, jumping sideways, twisting mid-air, kicking its back legs high. The poor rider didn’t stand a chance. Soap winced as he hit the ground, narrowly missing a kick to the head before someone could rush in and contain the situation.

Rider number three fared better. The horse put up a good fight, doing its damnedest to throw its charge off, but the man held on tight until the buzzer went off, signaling that he’d done it. Now they actually got to see the “pickup” part of the pickup rider’s job. Champ swooped in next to the bucking bronc, practically flushed against it, and helped pull the rider off. He held onto him for an extra second, making sure that he was okay, then let him down to collect his hat and his glorious praise. Eighty-five points. The crowd roared for him.

Of the eight remaining riders, only four were able to keep themselves atop their broncos. It struck the soldiers as a light miracle that no one was injured amidst the violence. Champ and his fellow pickup riders did damn well in keeping things safe—as safe as they could be, given the dangerous nature of the sport.

It did not go unnoticed how Champ and Danger seemed to parade around the ring after every successful rescue. His mouth may have been hidden, but his eyes and his body language did the smiling for him. And the mule? The mule held his head high, and strutted.

What a pair, those two.

The winners of the bareback riding were announced, and then the arena was cleared so that preparations for the final event could proceed. Champ stopped at the fence for a moment. “Fellas!” he called to the soldiers, “get excited. This’s the event everyone’s been waitin’ for!” He clicked his tongue and tugged his reins, bringing Danger up onto his hind legs. The immediate crowd echoed a small chorus of oohs and ahs as he sped off, following the other staff into the back.

Ghost lifted a brow. “Quite the show off, in’ he?”

“Aw, I kinda like him,” Soap said.

“Didn’t say I didn’t.”

Soap rolled his head to the side, giving Ghost a knowing look. “You don’t like anyone. ‘Cept me, of course.”

Ghost met his gaze, deadpan as ever. “Who says you’re the exception?”

A dangerous smirk formed on the sergeant’s lips. “I got the impression last time I had my mouth around—”

Ghost’s hand shot to cover Soap’s mouth, cutting him off before he could finish that sentence. “Watch that mouth, MacTavish,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Children around.”

Soap’s eyes twinkled, but he said nothing more.

The staff poured back into the arena, taking up their posts. Champ settled next to the chute, not far from Ghost and Soap. The announcer addressed the audience, asking if everyone was ready to see some bull riding. The crowd roared back at him, Soap joining in with his hands cupped around his mouth. He was loud enough for Champ to hear. The cowboy gave him a pleasantly surprised look.

“Christ, Johnny…” Ghost muttered.

“I’m having fun, LT,” he retorted. “You should try it sometime.”

A loud bang rattled the chute door, followed by an angry bellow. The announcer noted that someone sounded unhappy; best not to keep him waiting much longer. Music started—some upbeat country tune—the rider gave the signal, and the door flew open. The bull that careened out wasn’t particularly huge, as far as bulls went, but he was mean, showing his rider no mercy. The poor bastard made it four seconds before falling off. He landed hard on his front, garnering a few sympathetic groans from the crowd. A bullfighter rushed up to distract the bull while Champ came in to yank its buck strap off and direct it back to the chute.

“Shite…” Soap mumbled, leaning forward in his seat. “Is he okay?”

The rider was still for a long moment. The crowd hushed into concerned whispers.

“He’s movin’” Ghost said. “Look. He’s gettin’ up.”

Slowly, the rider got up to his knees, and then to his feet, steadying himself with a bullfighter’s help.

“Probably concussed,” Ghost concluded. Soap echoed his agreement as the rider limped out of the arena.

“...That was pretty awesome though.”

Ghost closed his eyes. “No, Johnny.”

Soap scoffed, halfway offended. “What? I don’t want to try it!”

Three more riders took their turns, and all three went flying from their bulls. The announcer noted that the bulls were feisty tonight. Would anyone be able to hold on?

The fourth rider could, apparently, but his bull didn’t have quite as much fight in it as the previous animals. Still, Champ was at his side as soon as the timer went off, an arm around his back to haul him off of the bucking beast. The rider stared at Champ, as if taken aback by him, but the cowboy only winked before letting him down and trotting off again.

According to the judges the whole performance was only worth fifty-six points. The crowd cheered regardless, happy to see someone complete a ride.

Two more riders failed in a row, two more succeeded, and the last one slipped off just before the buzzer. With only three people qualifying, they all automatically made the top three places in the competition.

Champ disappeared from the arena. Soap and Ghost sat up, preparing to leave, but the announcer spoke again, catching them and the rest of the crowd by surprise.

“It seems we have a surprise bull rider tonight, folks!” the voice boomed. The crowd murmured, voices whispering over who it could be.

Ghost had a sneaking suspicion. “No…”

“One of our pickup riders wants to try his hand! No worries to our winners, though; he is not joining in on the competition.”

“What?” Soap looked between Ghost and the arena, watching a couple of bullfighters and a pickup rider file out for the last ride.

“Everyone, say hello to Mr. Wayne Champagne! He’s the fella in the blue that’s been helpin’ keep our riders safe all night! Can we get some love for Mr. Champagne here?”

Champ stood up on a fence behind the chute and waved his arms, stoking loud cheers from the audience. He looked over to where Ghost and Soap were, and shot them a double finger guns.

“He’s fucking mad!” Ghost shouted, springing up from his seat. He unconsciously squeezed the ghost plush in a tight fist. Soap followed behind, watching nervously as Champ settled down in the chute.

“No fuckin’ way…”

The opening riff of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fUtD40GqGY">B.Y.O.B</a> blared over the speakers. The door swung open. The bull tore out of the chute with a vengeance. Champ looked positively tiny on the beast, but he was holding on, despite its greatest efforts. His hat flew off a few seconds in, leaving his dark, curly hair to flop around wildly.

“Holy shite.” Soap gripped Ghost’s shoulder, unable to tear his eyes away from the raging bull. “He’s gonna make it!”

Ghost felt a similar level of disbelief.

The crowd was going wild. Their cheers were deafening, loud enough to drown out the buzzer that marked the end of Champ’s ride.

The pickup rider came to his side quickly to help him off of his bull. Once his feet hit the dirt, he snatched his hat and thrusted it up into the air, earning himself one final cheer.

“What a spectacular ride! Eighty-seven points for Mr. Wayne Champagne!”

“That’s the second-highest score of the night,” Ghost noted. He almost sounded impressed, but he mostly sounded annoyed. Not only had the yank gone and done something stupid, but he’d done it well.

Champ jogged over to the gate where Soap and Ghost stood slack-jawed—or rather, Soap was slack-jawed; Ghost was largely unreadable—and hopped over the top. “Howdy, boys!” he said, breath heavy from exertion and adrenaline.

“Yer aff yer fuckin’ heid!” Soap exclaimed. He ruffled the cowboy’s already messed up, sweat-slicked hair, grinning ear to ear. “Did you have that planned all night?”

Champ waved the Scot’s hand away playfully and replaced his hat on his head, his chest shaking with barely-contained laughter. “‘Course I did. Figured I oughta have a little fun before I’m whisked away from my vacation.”

“Steamin’ Jesus. How’re your balls feelin’ after a ride like that, huh?”

“Wha—?” Champ blinked, looking a little startled by the question, then huffed out a breathy laugh. “Still not as sore ‘s yours, Scotty. Gotten used to takin’ abuse like this.”

Ghost, wanting to stop this conversation before it continued any further, cleared his throat loudly. “We should get going. Busy day tomorrow.” He paused, eyes narrowing on Champ. “And you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Champ was about to hit the Brit with a lighthearted retort, but a shrill voice behind them cut him off. “Excuse me!” the mother from earlier shrieked, her hands clamped firmly down over her daughter’s ears. “You’re all filthy! There are children here!”

Ugh. Champ rolled his eyes so hard that they threatened to roll right out of his head, and bit back an extra nasty retort so as to hold onto a shred of professionalism. He lightly slapped the back of his hand to Soap’s chest and started walking to where the trailers were parked, the soldiers following behind. There was still a pep in his step; he wasn’t about to let some bitchy suburban helicopter mom ruin his good mood, his adrenaline high.

Fuck her! He rode the fuck out of that bull! And he was fuckin’ proud!

Once out of earshot of the miserable woman, Soap resumed his excited chatter, asking questions about technique, how it felt, how bad it really hurt. Champ explained it all in great detail, ever the expert on the subject. He was just starting to tell Soap that he might be able to pull off a ride on a smaller, tamer bull, and Ghost was ready to admonish him again, when an unfamiliar voice called from behind them.

“Wayne Champagne!”

The three of them stopped in their tracks and looked back, Champ turning halfway to face three oncoming men. All of them were rodeo competitors, judging by their cowboy hats and flashy, tasseled chaps. The middle one was the first one that Champ had pulled off of his bull earlier—the first man to actually stay on his bull, and the man that went off to win third place in the competition. He was clearly the leader of this little group. His two buddies—one burly man with a thick beard, and a taller fellow with bright red hair—hung back an extra couple of feet.

Ringleader stopped in front of Champ, pushing the boundaries of personal space. Champ raised a brow. “That was some good riding back there. Unexpected. Made all of us look like damn amateurs.” He wore a smile on his face, but it was devoid of any earnestness. Ringleader’s buddies had similar smiles.

Soap and Ghost stood behind Champ, bodies tense. They could tell that this was not a friendly confrontation between competitors.

That didn’t stop Champ from trying to play it off as one, though. He scuffed the heel of his boot in the dirt and breathed out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Naw, y’all did great. You especially. First one to stay on the bull all night.”

“Uh hunh.” Ringleader nodded, his jaw flexing to one side. He gave the two soldiers a quick glance, but his focus was on Champ. “‘Champagne,’” he repeated. “Only ever heard of one family with that name. You wouldn’t happen to be related to Liam Champagne, would ya?”

Now Champ tensed, his shoulders visibly stiffening. All projected ease vanished from his demeanor. He lifted his chin, eyes steeled, and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

Ringleader continued, an air of arrogance about him. “Liam was friends with my dad, back in Michigan. Had a couple of daughters, didn’t he? Emily and—” he shot a quick look back to one of his buddies— “and what was the other one?”

“Myra? I think?”

“ Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

Champ tensed further, tight as a compressed spring.

“There a problem here?” Ghost cut in. He took a step forward, but Champ put a hand to his stomach to stop him.

“No problem,” Champ said, his gaze not leaving Ringleader.

“Don’t know much about her, but I remember a couple a’ things about Emily. She had these weird eyes. One blue, one brown. Just like yours, hunh?” Champ didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “And I remember hearin’ that she gunned her own dad down.”

Now Soap stepped up, a hand on Champ’s shoulder. “Sorry—what the hell is—”

“Back off, MacTavish,” Champ hissed, shaking his hand off. “I’ve got this.” Soap furrowed his brow, confused, but reluctantly retreated.

“So now you’re here, dressin’ up like a man, goin’ by a different name? You some kinda tranny freak, Emily?” Ringleader gave the two soldiers a smug look, a crinkle on the bridge of his nose. “You a faggot too? These your British boyfriends?”

“I remember you,” Champ said suddenly, his voice cutting like glass. “Didn’t I take your virginity in high school? Don’t remember it bein’ too great neither.” Ringleader’s smile dropped. His buddies gave him looks of shock and disgust. Champ continued, “Wonder if your daddy’s any better. Bet I could find him, wine n’ dine him, make him a new son that’s not a bigoted piece a’ shit.”

Ringleader swung a fist. Everyone saw it coming from a mile away. Champ even looked directly at it before it hit him. It struck Champ across the apple of his left cheek and sent his hat flying. Quick as lightning, though, Champ came back, snatching Ringleader’s belt and driving his own fist into his crotch with vicious intention. The sound that left Ringleader’s throat was like a donkey’s bray, his body doubling over involuntarily.

Soap and Ghost both cringed, the former squeezing his legs together just a little bit with a soft noise of sympathy.

Champ followed up with an elbow to Ringleader’s back, catching him right between his shoulder blades and sending him coughing into the dirt.

The two goons lunged, and the soldiers moved to step in again, but Champ snarled at them to stay the fuck back. He was fast. He ducked to avoid the bearded man’s punch and caught him in the jaw with an uppercut that sent him staggering. He crashed into the red headed man with a guttural roar, shoulder to his gut, and rammed him against the side of a trailer. Redhead tried to wrench him off, but Champ came back with a headbutt, knocking his brows to his forehead with an audible thunk.

Ouch.

Redhead went limp, unconscious. Champ stood up, a little shaky, a little disoriented. Headbutts weren’t always a good move.

“Knife!” Ghost shouted. Champ heard footsteps behind him and sidestepped, avoiding Beardo’s hunting knife that surely would have skewered a kidney. He spun and wrapped his arms low around his waist, holding him from behind. With a grunt, he hefted Beardo up off of his feet and suplexed him, dropping him on his head. He too went limp.

“My sister’s name is Mireya,” the cowboy spat as he pushed himself to his feet again. He stomped on Beardo’s wrist and kicked the knife away. There was a wild fury in his eyes, almost animalistic. Feral. Rabid.

Those eyes turned to Ringleader, who was up on his hands and knees, still coughing. Champ rushed over to him and shoved his heel into his ribs, knocking him back down onto his stomach. He stepped over and straddled his hips, taking a fistful of his hair to lift his head up. He leaned in close, voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “Call me what you want. I just want you to remember that your first time gettin’ your dick wet was with a tranny. An’ that same tranny beat your ass years later.”

Champ threw Ringleader’s head down and stepped away, panting. When his gaze snapped up to Ghost and Soap, he looked half-ready to attack them too. Soap raised his hands to placate. “Woah, hey, we’re all friends here.”

“At ease, Champagne,” Ghost warned. “No one else has to get hurt. We’re on the same side.”

Champ scoffed and straightened his shoulders. “Don’t patronize me.” He turned sharply and disappeared between the trucks, headed back towards his own. Ghost and Soap exchanged looks.

That was fucking crazy.

It had all happened so fast, too. Despite taking a punch—which he’d taken like a, well, a champ—Champ had laid out all three men in less than thirty seconds.

Ghost shook his head as he stepped over the fallen ringleader. “Fuckin’ yanks,” he muttered. Soap grabbed Champ’s forgotten hat, and then they followed after the cowboy.

He was in his truck when they found him, his head down on the steering wheel, hair a mess with sweat and dirt. He had music playing—hard rock, from the sound of it. Something angry. Ghost rounded to the passenger’s side and pulled the door open. Champ’s head lifted, eyes still burning with fury from the fight. They darted back to Soap then, as the sergeant climbed into the back seat.

Slowly, Ghost reached for the radio and turned the music down.

Two soldiers. One cowboy. A whole lot of tension.

Champ didn’t trust them. Not right now.

After a long moment of silence, he spoke up, “Well? Anythin’ to say, Lieutenant? Sergeant?”

Soap shook his head, lips pursed just so.

“You’re bleedin’,” Ghost said. He gestured to the wet patch on the left cheek of Champ’s bandana.

Champ cursed under his breath. He flipped down his sun visor and pulled open the mirror, then yanked off his bandana. In addition to the cut on his cheek, his nose was also bloody, likely from the headbutt. Red ran down his lips, into the short, dark hair that covered his chin and jaw. He folded the cloth and dabbed it at his nose, trying to clean the worst of the mess up.

When he looked over, he caught both of the soldiers staring. One brow quirked, he said, “I know I’m handsome, but damn. Careful how long ya look, fellas; you might start fallin’ in love.”

Ghost ignored him and searched around, spotting a miniature first aid kit in the cubby on his door. He opened it and sifted through the supplies, finding some alcohol wipes. “Here.” He tore open a packet, and motioned for Champ to lean in. Champ, still feeling the rush of fight or flight, hesitated. “Come here, Champ,” Ghost said more firmly.

Tentatively, Champ complied. He leaned forward, left cheek turned towards Ghost. His nose wrinkled a little under the sting of the alcohol wipe, but he voiced no complaints. His eyes drifted from the skull mask over to Soap, who continued to stare.

Now sans-bandana, his piercings were visible. There was a small, silver ring through his septum, snug against the skin, and a flat stud in his left nostril. This man was just full of surprises.

“I’ll apologize for this tomorrow,” he said. “But tonight, I ain’t too sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Soap replied. “Those guys were arseholes. Got what they deserved.”

Champ pressed his lips together, a low hum in his throat. “Everything he said was true. To an extent.” Ghost paused his cleaning for just a moment. “Missin’ context, of course, but it ain’t really any a’ your business. However, if we’re gonna have any problems about it, best tell me now.”

“Don’t know what problem we’d have,” Ghost said. Soap nodded in agreement. The Brit grabbed some ointment from the kit and dabbed it onto Champ’s cut, then stuck a bandage over it. “Like you said, it’s none of our business.”

Champ blinked and slowly leaned back in his seat. He brushed his fingers over the bandage, wincing a little at the tiny bloom of pain. It was already starting to bruise around the cut. Tomorrow, it would surely be nice and purple.

“You let him hit you,” Ghost pointed out, stashing the medkit back where he found it. “Baited him, even, from the looks of it.”

“Heh.” Champ flipped the sun visor back up, a mirthless smile on his lips. “Had to have a solid reason t’ beat the shit outta him. Bigots’re so easy to piss off.”

“Could’ve blocked the punch.”

“Could’a.” Champ shrugged. He rolled down his window and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the center console. “Y’all mind if I smoke?” The soldiers shook their heads. He placed one between his lips, and offered one to his company. Soap accepted; Ghost did not. He lit both of their cigarettes, and then Champ took a long drag, letting the smoke and the burn fill his lungs. It took the edge off, dampening his fury so that it wasn’t so sharp. He could come down from this. He always did.

Once he finished the cigarette and stubbed it in an old soda cup, he turned the key in the ignition and fired up the engine.

“Wait—” Soap looked out through the window as they started to move. “Danger?”

“Had someone load him up before I got on the bull,” Champ said. “Not gonna forget ‘bout my best boy. I’d die before I ever leave him behind.” He did press on the brakes, though, his face going pale at something he did forget. He pawed at his head, then looked around, a bit frantic. “Shit—where’s my—?”

“Got it here,” Soap said, holding up Champ’s hat. It was a bit dirty from its multiple tumbles tonight, but it was intact. Champ gratefully took it back and flipped it over, fingers feeling the sweat band along the brow until they found the piece of metal wedged under. Two silver pendants. Dog tags. Champ breathed out a sigh of relief, then placed the hat on his head where it belonged.

Music turned back up—still playing early 2000s hard rock, which felt right, given the turn the night had taken—Champ weaved on out of the parking lot, off the fairgrounds, and embarked on the half-hour journey back to the base.

This time, he wasn’t nearly as chatty. Soap tried once to start a conversation, but it quickly became clear that Champ was in no mood. He was still angry, even as the adrenaline ebbed from his systems. Another cigarette calmed him a little more, but he was still burning inside. And Ghost, of course, was his normal level of chatty outside of a combat situation.

A break from the heavy guitar came in the form of a phone call, which made Champ jump. The text on the radio screen read “Bluebird” with a chick and a blue heart emoji. Champ cursed under his breath. “Y’all speak Spanish?”

“Only a little,” Soap replied.

“‘Kay. It’s is my sister. She’s got a sixth sense, I swear—always knows when somethin’ happened.” He pressed the answer button on the screen, forced a smile, took a breath, and said, “¡Buenas noches, mi pajarita! ¿Como esta? ” The stark contrast between his normal country accent and his perfect Spanish gave the soldiers whiplash.

The sister didn’t answer immediately. There was a pregnant pause that made Champ visibly nervous.

“Mireya…?”

“¿Qué histice? ” a woman asked.

“Wha—? Hey.” Champ grimaced, his grip tightening on the wheel. He continued in Spanish, “Now is not a good time. I have coworkers in the car. ”

“What happened? ” she asked again, more insistent.

The cowboy flicked his hand and sighed. “Nothing. Got in a fight. I’m fine.”

“Wayne…” She sounded disappointed.

“It’s fine! Some people were talking shit. I didn’t start the fight; I just finished it.” He glanced at Ghost, feeling a little embarrassed. His little sister was admonishing him in front of his coworkers. “Bluebird,” he said, continuing in English, “really can’t talk right now. I’ll call ya in the mornin’, ‘kay?”

Mireya went silent again, a sigh of her own coming through the speakers. “Fine. First thing tomorrow.”

“Of course. Te quiero mucho, Bluebird.” His smile softened into something more genuine. “Good night.”

The call ended. Champ leaned back in his seat and rubbed his brow. He’d had a headache brewing since his scuffle at the fairgrounds, and it was reaching its apex.

“Fuck it.” He scrolled through the contacts on the screen and hovered over one labeled “Boss.” “Y’all speak any Russian?”

“No more than Spanish,” Ghost answered.

Champ pressed the call button and, after a few rings, Nikolai greeted him. Once again, whiplash struck when Champ responded in not-quite-perfect Russian. His normal accent came through a little more in his pronunciation.

“Niky. Wanted you to hear it from me before it reached you through the grapevine. I had a bit of a brawl—”

“Already? Champ, I told you to play nice with Price’s men!”

Champ waffled, taken aback and offended. He looked to Ghost for support, but the lieutenant wasn’t privy to the conversation. “Not with them! They’re fine. Probably would have backed me up if I’d let them. No—I got in a fight with some shithead hillbillies. Figured I’d tell you in case these two decided to tattle on me.”

Nikolai snorted. “I doubt they would have. Were you hurt?”

“No. Just a cut on the cheek. I’m fine.” Mostly fine. Angry still.

“So you are getting along then?”

“Other than this little incident, yeah, things are going smoothly. I like these guys. They’re funny.”

“Ghost? ” The Brit perked up. Apparently he recognized his namesake in Russian. “You think Ghost is funny? ”

The corner of Champ’s lip quirked up, almost a smirk. “Yeah. He’s pretty funny. I think I’m growing on him too.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes on Champ. “Hope that’s not me you’re talkin�� about,” he growled.

“Oh! He’s there with you?” Nikolai asked, switching to English. Ghost glared at Champ, who pointedly avoided his gaze.

“I’m here too, Nikolai,” Soap interjected, his head popping up between Ghost and Champ to break the glare. “You know your man’s fuckin’ crazy? Where the hell did you find this cowboy, huh?”

“That’s a story for another time,” Champ interrupted, any traces of humor vanishing from him. “That’s all I wanted to say, Niky. We gotta go. Call you if anything else comes up.” He hastily ended the call before the Russian could reply, and stared straight ahead, eyes firmly on the road.

That was… abrupt.

Soap leaned back into his seat. He and Ghost both stared at Champ for a long moment, but neither of them said anything. The cowboy met Soap’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Another time,” he repeated.

He turned the music back up, letting it fill the space as it had before.

Pulling up to the base gate, Champ collected Soap and Ghost’s papers that permitted them passage. He noted with an inquisitive brow that Ghost’s papers had no photo, nor any name. It just listed his rank, his affiliation, and “GHOST.” The gate guard noticed it as well, but everything still checked out after a quick phone call to a higher-up. They were allowed entry without issue, save for a quick comment about the new shiner on Champ’s cheek.

“I’ll drop you two off at the hotel first. Gotta head to the stables n’ take care a' Danger,” he said. “Thanks for comin’ out to the rodeo. Hope ya had at least a little bit a’ fun.”

Soap leaned forward, forearms resting on the backs of Champ and Ghost’s seats. “I wanna see the stables. Are there any other horses?”

“Nah. Stables are there mostly for me,” Champ replied. “I’m the only one that brings a mount around.”

“I’d still like to see ‘em.” Ghost gave the sergeant an annoyed side eye, but he paid it no mind.

Champ shrugged. “If ya wanna.” He flipped on his blinker, and turned down the road that brought them to the tiny stables and fenced-in pasture. It was a two-stall structure, simple in build, but it served its purpose. Once he backed his trailer into the designated spot, he hopped out of the truck and rounded to the back to start unloading. Soap followed after, curious, while Ghost stayed where he was, decidedly less curious. He looked down at his lap, realizing that he still had the damn ghost plushie Soap had won for him. He stared into the cartoon eyes, zoning out…

Hearing laughter from the stables after Danger was unloaded, though, pulled him back to the present. Ghost leaned his head back with an exasperated sigh and pushed his door open. He set the plush down in his seat, and followed the cackling to the stable’s door.

Was he prepared to see Champ dumping a stout beer into a bucket for his mule to eagerly slurp up? No, he wasn’t. Ghost paused at the threshold, watching the scene unfold, dumbfounded.

“What the fuck?”

Soap was doubled over, trying to contain his laughter. Ghost looked to Champ for an explanation.

“Medically necessary,” he said. It clarified nothing. Ghost’s deadpan relayed as much. “Danger has trouble sweating, and beer helps.”

Ah. That still made no fucking sense .

“He’s just—” Soap struggled to speak, struggled to breathe— “The mule’s just poundin’ back a brew!”

Champ crushed the now emptied can and dropped it into a nearby recycling bin, then grabbed another beer from the minifridge in the adjacent stall. “Think fast, Scotty,” he said, tossing the beer to Soap. “One for you too, Spooky?”

Ghost shook his head, eyes narrowed.

“Suit yourself.” He grabbed a can for himself, pierced it at the bottom with a pocket knife, popped the top, and promptly shotgunned the whole thing in a matter of seconds. Soap blinked in surprise, then shrugged and followed suit.

“You’re all fuckin’ insane,” Ghost said, now sounding more disappointed than exasperated.

“You’re one to talk,” Champ retorted. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth, cleaning off the stream of beer that trickled down his chin. “No one in our line of work is sane.”

Ghost couldn’t argue with that one. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He shook his head and turned around. “I’m walkin’ back to the hotel,” he grumbled.

Soap disposed of his beer can and jogged after him. “Wait up, LT!” He paused at the barn doors and glanced back over his shoulder at Champ. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

The cowboy nodded and gave a two-fingered salute. “Tomorrow. Bright n’ early.” He returned to caring for Danger, and Soap followed Ghost.

Behind them, they could hear rock music resume. It was a song they’d heard earlier in the truck—one that Ghost at least was already familiar with. The singer’s voice drifted out on the wind, “Living just isn’t hard enough… Burn me alive inside… Living my life’s not hard enough…”

The hotel wasn’t far away. The two of them walked back in the muggy summer night air, accumulating another layer of sweat to cake onto the already existing layers. Soap muttered something about needing a shower. Ghost was eager to get one as well. He preferred the dry heat of the desert to this humid nonsense.

It was nearly eleven when they made it back to the hotel. Back in their room, they both seemed to breathe out a sigh they’d been holding onto. Soap stripped off his shirt, grimacing at how it clinged to his skin.

“Crazy day,” he said, tossing the shirt aside and stepping into the bathroom. Ghost listened to the shower sputtering on.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Got a feelin’ our stay’s only gonna get crazier.” He unzipped his hoodie and discarded it, then sat on the bed to wait his turn for the bathroom.

“It always seems to,” Soap agreed. “I got a good feeling about Champ, though.”

Ghost huffed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

#call of duty #cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #john mactavish #simon riley #john price #nikolai #hyena writes #hyena ocs #wayne champagne #cod oc #just to reiterate: this is NOT gee tee & this story will not involve gee tee (if i continue it)#does this new guy bear striking resemblance to my cowboysona? yes. is that intentional? yes. let me live #anyway i love him

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