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fireya-x · 13 days ago

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heavy, dirty soul

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a long mission, John is exhausted, bruised and distant. You take care of him. ✦ 3.7k words ✦ tags/cw: hurt, comfort, emotional intimacy, intimacy without sex, nsfw but no smut, nudity, injuries, showering together

He looks like hell.

Grimy, worn out, and the kind of tired that settles in a man’s bones and makes him older than he is. His shoulders hunch beneath the weight of his tac vest, stained from whatever hellhole he clawed his way back from. Dirt crusts the hem of his sleeves, and a dark smudge clings stubbornly to his jaw, half-hidden beneath the unkempt mess of his beard. His eyes – those deep, sharp blues – barely flicker when you step through the door.

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

The scent fills the office quickly: warm rice, spiced meat, a trace of soy and citrus curling up from the sauce. Something hearty. Something grounding. The kind of meal you knew he’d need after a mission like that. You’ve seen it before – how he gets afterward. How he forgets to eat, to breathe, to let go of the op and come back to himself.

The room is dimly lit, blinds half-shut to keep the afternoon sun from glaring off the tablet screens scattered across his desk. Papers are messily stacked, half of them likely reports left untouched. The takeout’s aroma gradually overtakes the faint smell of cigar smoke.

He sits across from you, staring at the food like it’s the first real thing he’s seen all day.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even shift in his seat.

You pull the container open for him, the heat unfolding slowly. Your fingers brush against the flimsy plastic cutlery as you fish out the fork, which bends slightly in your grip as you spear a piece of chicken, dripping with sauce.

His gaze follows the motion, but his body stays slack and unmoving.

So you lean forward, holding the fork right to his face.

“Seriously?”

His voice is low and dry, scraped raw from disuse – or maybe too much yelling. There’s a rasp to it, the kind you’re used to hearing when he comes home after long briefings or training days that stretch well past what anyone else would consider reasonable.

His brow twitches, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something close to disbelief, though it’s dulled at the edges.

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

He stares at you for another second, then exhales hard through his nose. A faint smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth, but it dies quickly as he leans in and takes the bite.

You hold the fork steady as his lips close around it. He chews slowly, jaw tense, like he doesn’t trust that the first real food he’s tasted in days will stay down. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth, where some of the sauce clings.

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t look up. Instead, he pulls the takeout container closer and starts eating like a starving animal, like his body just remembered it needed food to survive.

Something in the way he moves tells you he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Like feeding himself was too far down the list.

You move around the desk without a word, crouching beside him, hands already going to the buckles of his vest. He doesn’t stop you, just tilts his head slightly to give you better access.

You slide it off his shoulders, careful not to tug too hard where you know he’s probably sore. It slips free with a bit of resistance, then drops to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, his shirt clings to him like a second skin: sweat-darkened, stretched too wide at the collar, the fabric worn thin in places. There’s a patch of blood on the sleeve – old, maybe his, maybe not. You don’t ask. You never do.

Your hands move to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle there, working over the tight knots hidden beneath the surface. His body responds slowly, with a slight shift and a barely-there sigh, but his eyes close, and he leans into your touch with the kind of trust that always takes you by surprise – that quiet, unspoken surrender.

And somehow, that’s what nearly breaks your heart.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Just that – how rarely he lets go, and how much it means when he does.

“That tough?” You ask, even though you already know the answer.

And the silence answers for him.

So do the little things – how his head dips forward slightly under your hands, his fingers curl into fists, and he breathes a little deeper with every slow pass of your palms over his shoulders.

This is routine. Nothing new.

You’ve done this countless times. Brought him food when you heard they were back on base, sat beside him in silence until the weight of it all began to slip off his shoulders, piece by piece. You don’t mind. Not for a second. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he trusts you with the aftermath.

And that means more than anything ever could.

Then his hand comes up slowly and covers yours where it rests on his shoulder. His thumb begins to rub slow, lazy circles into the back of your hand, and the movement is so gentle, so unlike the man you imagine he has to be out there. There’s no pressure, no urgency. Just a quiet ‘thank you’ – a wordless gesture of gratitude.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, massaging in slow, steady circles. The skin is warm, a little damp. His hair is ruffled from his hat, sticking up in odd places, flattened in others. You smooth it without thinking.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmurs back, and there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.

Your hands skim lower between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, and you feel him unravel slowly, like a spring wound too tight, finally loosening.

You pause, resting at the hem of his shirt, toying with the edge. “John,” you say softly. “I’m serious. You need to get out of this. All of it. It’s disgusting.”

He hums low in his throat. “You volunteering?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you strip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, revealing the full expanse of his back.

You suck in a breath.

His skin is a patchwork of bruises, old and new. Faint yellow blooms along his ribs, a fresh violet welt at his side, a jagged scrape near his shoulder. There’s dried blood near the collarbone, a rough streak of grime trailing down his spine, and the smell of smoke still clings to his hair. You’ve seen him like this before – battered, filthy, freshly returned from god-knows-where – but somehow, each time still cuts a little deeper like a bruise under your own skin that never quite fades.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

He exhales hard, and it almost sounds like a low and shaky laugh. “S’not as bad as it looks.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, your palm brushing lightly over the discolored skin, dusting off some dirt. “You need to get this shit off you.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“No,” you say, firm but not harsh. “You need to shower now . There’s blood on you. You reek. You’re not just gonna sit in it.”

He stares at the takeout box, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back or let you win this one. You ease closer, fingertips brushing his forearm, voice dropping with it.

“I’ll come with you.”

That makes him glance up. Something loosens, not in surrender, but in trust. That’s what this has always been with him. Not letting go because he’s weak, but letting you in because you’re the only person he lets see past the grit.

He nods, barely more than a breath of movement. But it’s enough.

You don’t say another word as you reach for his hand, and he takes it without hesitation. The trip down the hall is silent, his steps just slightly heavier than yours.

Inside the single-use washroom, he stops just inside the door while you lock it behind you. His shoulders slump in that particular way he only lets happen when no one else is watching, like the last thread holding him upright has finally snapped.

You step toward him, hands going to his belt. You make quick work of it – there’s no seduction here, not meant to be – just the firm, practiced touch of someone who’s done this before, who knows he’s hurting and wants to get him out of his own skin before it closes in on around him.

You open the belt, unfasten the button, and guide the zipper down. The fabric is stiff with dirt and sweat, heavy as it slides from his hips. You crouch to help him step out of the cargo pants and briefs, easing them over his bruised legs, and you try not to wince when you catch the red-scraped line along his thigh.

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

You undress after, folding your clothes on the bench. His eyes are already on you when you straighten, not with hunger, but with that same wide-eyed exhaustion. Like you’re the only still point left in a spinning world.

You reach for his hand again and step beneath the warm stream of water.

The water flows down between your bodies, hot enough to sting, to chase the ache from your joints. It splashes off his shoulders in thick rivulets, soaking the floor at your feet and catching in the creases of old scars and bruised muscle.

You move slowly, your hands gentle as they glide over his skin.

You start at his collarbone, lathering some soap until it turns slick between your fingers, then work your way down, tracing over muscle, bone, scar. You now know each line of him – the ridge of his sternum, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs, the old scar that curves beneath his pec.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are closed, lips parted, breath steady but slow, so deliberate, like he’s trying not to miss a single second of it. Like if he keeps still enough, this moment might last longer.

You ease your hands to his waist and turn his body gently until his back is to you.

And there it is.

The map.

You know it by heart now. The constellation of healed-over bullet wounds, the pale ghosts of shrapnel near his lower ribs, the raised, silvery slash across his left scapula – the one you first traced with trembling fingers months ago, when he finally let you see it in the daylight.

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

A black-purple bruise like a boot print blooms over his lower back, raw around the edges. Two smaller, thumb-sized bruises sit along his left flank – grip marks, maybe. His right shoulder bears a scrape that looks half-healed, dirt still stubborn in the raw skin.

You press your palm lightly to his spine, just between the old scars, grounding him.

He doesn’t flinch.

Your fingers skim over every mark, cataloguing them silently. You don’t ask what happened. You already know. You’ve learned the language of his body, the different hues of pain, the quiet story written in scars and skin.

You dip the soap in your hands again, rich lather clinging to your fingertips, and move down the line of his back. He’s quiet, letting you tend to him like he’s something sacred. Like he knows he can’t hide anything from you here.

You drag the suds across the worst of the bruises, careful not to press too hard. Your hands work lower, over the curve of his hips, the muscle of his thighs. You handle him like someone would a broken thing. Not because he’s fragile, but because he’s been through too much to be treated with anything less than absolute care.

“Turn around for me.”

He does, slowly. Steam curls around the line of his shoulders as he faces you. His eyes open – heavy-lidded and damp – tracking every motion you make, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You take him in like this: bare, open, bruised and battered, and beautiful in the most brutal way. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. The water sheets off his skin, trailing down the ridges of his ribs, catching in the hollow beneath his throat, darkening the thatch of hair on his chest.

You lift the soap again and step closer.

Your hands move over his chest, gliding through coarse hair and the slick heat of his skin. You know this terrain just as well as his back – that faint scar under his right pec from a close-range shot, the shallow dent near his collarbone where bone once broke clean through.

You drag the lather lower, across his abdomen, the ridged muscle beneath softening under your touch.

He just watches you. Jaw slack. Eyes impossibly soft, like he’s still trying to understand how this moment is real.

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

Your touch is slow. Careful. Not teasing. Not meant to arouse. This is different – gentler than anything else, more intimate than sex. You wash him the same way you’ve washed every other part of him – thorough, tender, respectful. Like this is just another part of him you want to take care of. Another place where the world left its mark, and you’re here to make it clean again.

His cock rests heavy against your hand, softened by exhaustion and heat, twitching only faintly when your fingers glide down the shaft to his balls. You cup him delicately, run the soap through every crease, every fold.

His breath catches once – barely a sound – but it’s not from pleasure.

It’s from the way you hold him like he’s something worth cherishing.

When you rinse him, your fingers guide the water with the same reverence, making certain nothing is left behind.

No blood, no sweat, no grime.

Nothing of the outside world.

Only the clean, worn-down man standing in front of you.

You glance up at him, and the look he gives you guts something inside you.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever touched him like this.

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

You reach for the sprayer again, adjust the angle, and wash yourself. He doesn’t look away. His eyes follow every motion, how you drag the soap across your chest, over your hips, down your thighs. You scrub briskly, working through the fatigue now also settling deep in your limbs, but his gaze never strays.

He watches like he’s memorizing you all over again.

With nothing but awe.

Like the steam has made everything holy. Like he’s standing in a church, and you’re the only thing on the altar.

You rinse clean, slick and glistening under the dim light.

When you step out, you grab the towel and wrap it around yourself, water still trailing down your legs. Another towel is pressed into his hands. He takes it without a word.

The silence between you now is different. It’s heavier. Thicker.

Full of everything you haven’t said. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

He dries off slowly, watching you the whole time. His hands move a little clumsily, like he’s not entirely sure how to be in his own body anymore – like he’s still trying to catch up to the tenderness he’s just been given.

When he’s done, you cross the small space between you and place your hands on either side of his face. Your thumbs sweep gently beneath his eyes, brushing away the dampness there. It’s not really tears.

But something fragile. Something honest.

You press your forehead to his. For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to this: damp skin, quiet breathing, the pulse beneath your fingertips.

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his.

He doesn’t pull you closer, doesn’t deepen it. He just lets it happen – like he understands exactly what it is. Like he knows it isn’t meant to spark anything but stillness. A stillness he can’t give himself, but craves all the same.

Without a word, he hands you one of his sweatshirts, and you pull it over your head. It swallows you, the sleeves brushing your fingertips, the scent of him baked into the fabric – clean laundry, cigars, and something warm beneath it all that’s just… him.

It’s comforting. Familiar.

Something that makes you feel closer to him, even when exhaustion has pulled him somewhere distant and quiet inside himself.

You followed him back to his office under the pretense that he forgot something – the tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. Each step is heavy, like he’s pulling against some invisible chain, drawn back into the familiar orbit of responsibility he can’t seem to escape, no matter how many bruises or wounds he carries.

You almost don’t believe what you’re seeing.

Like a machine, he walks back to his desk, as if the shower never happened. As if your hands hadn’t just touched every broken inch of him, hadn’t washed the blood and dirt from his skin with reverence. Like none of it reached him. It was as if the threshold to his office reset him, and all it took was one look at the desk for the weight of the world to settle back on his shoulders.

He sinks into his chair with a sigh, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and immediately reaches for the paperwork scattered haphazardly across the desk.

“John,” you say quietly, gently, but not without an edge of warning.

He glances up, meeting your eyes briefly before he sighs, already anticipating your next words. “Don’t start,” he mutters, turning his gaze back toward the paper. “This won’t take long.”

“Right,” you scoff. “We both know you’re lying. You’ll be here all night. Again.”

He huffs, trying for irritation, but it barely carries any weight. “You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re stubborn,” you counter. You tilt your head, watching him carefully, aware of every lingering bruise beneath his clothes. Your voice softens, concern seeping through. “Come on, please? Lie down. Get some rest, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

That finally makes him look at you properly, a flicker of amusement surfacing behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bet your team would pay good money to see me try,” you add, a grin forming despite your seriousness.

He snorts, shakes his head, a smile tugging briefly at the corners of his mouth. But his shoulders remain stiff, and his voice drops again. “Can’t yet. There’s still work –”

“Bloody hell, John, that can wait,” you interrupt. “You’re barely awake as it is.”

His jaw tightens briefly, that familiar flicker of pride flashing in his eyes before giving way to weary resignation.

“I’ll stay if you want,” you offer, meaning it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and reaching for his hand across the desk. “John –”

“You never sleep well here,” he says, voice rougher now, protective frustration bleeding through. “Those bunks are shite, and you always wake up sore. It’s not happening.”

You laugh softly, stepping closer. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. The fierceness in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“John,” you murmur again, just his name – but it’s enough. A soft plea, steady and warm, tugging him toward you even as he tries to hold his ground. “I’m staying with you tonight. And if you don’t move right now, I will drag your stubborn ass down the corridor.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but the look in your eyes seems to drain the fight from him, replacing stubbornness with reluctant acceptance. He sighs deeply, head bowing slightly, and finally allows you to tug him gently from his chair.

You lace your fingers tighter with his, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm pressed against yours, and lead him out of his office into the empty corridor outside.

It’s late enough that nearly everyone has left for the night, and the low buzz of lights overhead is the only sound accompanying you both as you slowly walk toward his quarters. Beside you, each step John takes feels heavier, slower – like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him, dragging at his limbs, weighing him down with every breath he takes.

When you finally reach his quarters, you push the door open and guide him inside, flipping on the single lamp beside the bed. The soft yellow glow spills gently over the sharp edges of his tired face, brightening the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

You lead him silently to the bed, nudging him down until he sits at the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor like he’s not quite sure how he got there.

“Lie down,” you demand, your voice soft as your hand presses gently on his shoulder. He lets you guide him, shoulders easing back until they finally meet the pillow. The mattress dips beneath him, but his body remains rigid, like he’s waiting for something. A call. Another demand, another battle. An alarm that never stops ringing in the back of his mind.

You climb into the bed and shift toward him slowly. You barely fit onto the mattress beside him, so you let your arm slide carefully around his waist. Your chest is pressed against his side, and your head finds that familiar spot tucked perfectly against the curve of his neck.

His muscles remain locked tight, like part of him doesn’t believe he’s allowed this. You.

You sigh softly, pressing closer, and lift your chin to kiss the line of his jaw. A familiar gesture, one you’ve done countless times when words weren’t enough to reach him.

It’s a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re with me.

And the moment your lips touch his skin, something in him finally breaks.

He exhales – long, deep, a breath dragged from somewhere buried. The sound carries the weight of the entire day, or maybe, of too many days. His arms come around you slowly, then fully, wrapping you in a firm, unspoken need.

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words carrying more than simple gratitude – they’re heavy with trust, with love, with quiet awe at the simple gift of your presence.

You smile softly against his chest, pressing closer still, your fingers drawing slow, soothing circles along his side.

And only then, with you wrapped safely in his arms, your heartbeat anchoring him, does he finally, quietly, drift into sleep.

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gf2bellamy · 3 months ago

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vest — aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: hotch helps you with your vest content warnings: mention of an unsub holding a hostage , mention of guns , mention of snipers a/n: hotch in a fbi vest <3 hope you guys enjoy this !!

You sat in the SUV for a moment, gathering your thoughts as you watched the flurry of activity outside. Police cars were scattered across the street, their lights painting the scene in sharp flashes of red and blue. Officers stood with their guns raised, their focus locked on a house at the end of the block.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out of the vehicle, following Derek Morgan as he strode toward the rest of the team.

This wasn’t your first case with the BAU, but you were still new enough to feel a little out of place. You’d learned quickly that there wasn’t much time for hesitation in this line of work, and standing on the sidelines didn’t help anyone.

The unsub was holed up inside the house, refusing to come out, with a hostage trapped inside. Every second felt critical as the team discussed their plan.

“Snipers are in position, but we don’t have a clean shot,” Emily said, her tone clipped and professional.

“There’s only one way in and out,” Rossi added, nodding toward the front of the house. “If we breach, we need to control the situation immediately before he hurts the hostage.”

You stood quietly at the edge of the group, listening intently but not speaking up. You weren’t sure if your input was expected yet, and you didn’t want to risk saying something that wasn’t helpful.

Then Hotch’s voice cut through the discussion, calm and authoritative as always. “I’m going in.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and before you could process them, his dark eyes shifted toward you.

“You’re coming with me,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You froze, caught completely off guard. “Me?” you asked, your voice betraying your surprise.

“Yes,” Hotch replied, already moving toward the house without waiting for further questions. “You’ve studied his profile. I need you in there.”

You swallowed hard. The weight of the moment pressed down on you—this wasn’t a training exercise or a simple debrief. This was real, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.

You walked back to the SUV, the cool night air doing little to calm the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Opening the door, you grabbed your bulletproof vest and slammed the door shut.

Your hands trembled as you fumbled with the vest, trying to slip it on and tighten the straps. You cursed softly under your breath, annoyed at yourself for not being able to steady your movements.

“Do you need help?”

The deep, steady voice startled you, and you turned quickly to see Hotch standing just a step away. His face was calm, unreadable as always, but there was a faint softness in his gaze that caught you off guard.

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. Without another word, Hotch gestured for you to turn around with a light touch on your arm.

You swallowed hard as you turned, your back to him now. The faint pressure of his fingers lingered against your arm, and you felt your heart pick up its pace. You cursed yourself silently.

Hotch’s hands moved with precision as he adjusted the straps of your vest. His knuckles brushed lightly against your sides as he tightened the straps, and you couldn’t help the nervous flutter that rose in your chest.

“Follow my lead,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, and you felt heat rising to your face.

He finished securing the vest, his hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back. “And stay close to me,” he added, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You turned around slowly, meeting his eyes. His expression hadn’t changed—calm, stoic—but there was something in the way he looked at you that made you feel just a tiny bit less terrified.

“You’ll do okay,” he said simply, his voice firm but not unkind.

For a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You nodded, swallowing hard as you tried to appear confident.

Hotch gave a single nod before turning, his focus already shifting back to the task at hand. But as he walked away, you couldn’t shake the lingering sensation of his hands on your vest—or the way he’d looked at you.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotcher x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner angst #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction

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geneviveleocardius · 4 months ago

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the way you see me

feat. simon ‘ghost’ riley

your boots crunched against the gravel as you leaned back against one of the metal supply crates in the training yard. ghost, as always, stood at the edge of the scene, observing the rest of the team with his usual quiet intensity. his gloved hands were adjusting a strap on his vest, every movement precise, calculated. he looked like he didn’t care about anything—or anyone—but you could tell he noticed everything. he always did.

it was hard not to watch him. there was something magnetic about his silence, the mystery he carried like a second skin, the mask that kept the world at arm’s length.

“what?” his voice startled you out of your thoughts, low and gravelly, catching you in the act of staring.

your mouth moved before your brain could stop you.

“nothing,” you said, a playful smile tugging at your lips. you leaned slightly toward him, as if sharing a secret. “it’s just… i was noticing your eyelashes. they’re blonde.”

the air seemed to still, like someone had paused a movie mid-scene. ghost turned his head toward you, slowly, as though he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.

“come again?” his voice was quiet, but there was a hint of something—curiosity, maybe?

you grinned, fully committing now. “your eyelashes,” you repeated, motioning with a finger toward his eyes, where the mask couldn’t quite hide them. it was such a small detail, but once you noticed it, it was impossible to ignore. “they’re blonde. makes sense, doesn’t it? if your hair is the same color, i mean.”

a sound escaped him then, something between a huff and a laugh, though it was too faint to call it either. he seemed more bewildered than annoyed.

“let me guess,” you continued, clearly enjoying how off-guard he was. “you’re blonde. not bright blonde, though. more like…” you squinted, imagining him beneath the mask. “dark blonde. sandy.”

ghost crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head just slightly to the side. his gaze, or what little you could see of it, was fixed on you now, and there was something… intrigued in it.

“and what if i told you you’re wrong?” he asked, his voice carrying an edge of amusement.

“i’d say you’re lying,” you shot back without hesitation, your grin widening.

the silence that followed was long but not uncomfortable. you could feel the weight of his attention now, more focused than you expected. it wasn’t threatening, though; it was the kind of silence that made you feel like he was truly studying you.

“no one’s ever said that to me before,” he finally said, his voice softer this time.

you raised an eyebrow, playful. “what? that you have blonde eyelashes?”

he shook his head, slowly. “that they noticed something like that.”

there was something about the way he said it that dimmed your smile for a moment. his words were quiet, almost hesitant, and they carried a weight you hadn’t expected. like he wasn’t used to being seen—not really.

“well… someone had to,” you replied, keeping your tone light, though there was a gentleness beneath it now.

ghost didn’t respond right away, but something in his posture shifted. his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, his focus sharper, more deliberate. it was like he was trying to commit this moment to memory—your voice, your expression, your words.

and though you didn’t know it then, that was the moment you carved a place in his mind. one he’d never let go of.

#modern warfare #cod #cod modern warfare #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader

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void-my-warranty · 8 months ago

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“Yer shoe’s undone.”

Ghost continues to stare at the one string that’s slipped the lacing, taking steady breaths to calm his heart rate after the last round of CQB. “I know.”

Soap gives him a dubious look, halting mid step as if he was about to walk past, but now feels the need to investigate.

Ghost was curious about that, if he would continue trying to avoid him for the rest of the day, or if old habits would work against Soap’s better judgement. It’s been just a few hours, but it’s had Gaz and Price exchanging curious looks a few times.

“That doesn’t bother you?” Soap finally probes, shifting his weight as if he’s thinking about joining Ghost on the bench.

Ghost flicks his gaze towards his friend, but in the back of his mind, he’s locked in on that shoelace. He focuses on the coarseness of it against his sensibilities, the out-of-place-ness grating and itching something inside him. “No.”

The shoelace is a tool. It’s serving its purpose, giving him an obvious evil to direct his attention towards. Because if he fixes the shoelace, then he’ll be tempted to straighten all his patches. And if he straights all his patches, then he’ll want to rebalance his helmet. And if he does that, then he’ll start obsessing over the shit that happened over the weekend.

Soap gives him a look that says he doesn’t buy it for a second, but he just continues walking, reaching up to grab his water bottle out of the wooden supports he stashed it in.

Soap’s got a fresh bruise on his upper arm, right under the hem of his sleeve. Ghost finds this odd, because he knows for a fact that Soap hasn’t been on base since he saw him last. He knows this, because he checked.

Shoelace.

That wasn’t Soap’a worst run, but it definitely wasn’t his best. He was rushing, and everyone knows that’s when mistakes happen. Ghost is pretty sure he’s the only one who noticed the way he fumbled a second too long for the chemlight, and he’s grateful they aren’t shooting live rounds today. Nervous fingers and bruises and rushing aren’t something to mess around with, even in training.

Shoelace. Crooked patches. Helmet pulling forward a hair.

Hot, velvet pussy, stuffed down on him, and sweet noises in his ear. He hasn’t jerked off since.

Shoelace.

“Five minutes,” Price calls from the rafters, smoking up there as usual. “Then we go again. And slow down, Soap.”

The rookie whose nose could use another break smiles to himself, leaned back on the other bench. That actually pushes past shoelace level in Ghost’s mind. It’s one thing to be a worthless fuck-up, but it’s another to find pleasure in someone else’s bad day. At least, someone as important as Johnny.

Ghost typically makes small adjustments in training, compensations to keep things running smoothly, and cover someone else’s misstep. But he suddenly finds it burdensome, as he curls his fist in fond memory of a specific crunch. He’ll give Price someone else to yell at. It’ll be easy.

———————————

“Out with it.”

Ghost finishes tugging off his gloves, then turns his head to eye Soap’s crossed arms. “Afternoon, Johnny.”

“I know you hate me, so let’s get it over with.”

Ghost turns his attention back to business, peeling off his sweaty vest with a loud rip of Velcro. “Don’t hate you.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Ghost levels him a bored look, tracing his eyes down Johnny’s body as if he’s not sure why he’s still in kit. “Not too fond of your fancy fingers earlier, but better here than combat.”

“Simon.”

Ghost silently takes a seat in the folding chair he has next to his gear space, reaching down to unlace his boots. “Johnny.”

There’s no one else around. It’s a pretty good assumption that they’re giving them space to work out the weird tension from today.

“Can’t be arsed to look at me?”

Okay, then.

Ghost stops what he’s doing, planting his half-laced boot back down on the ground. He stands up, getting to his full height and turning his body parallel to his friend’s terse shoulders.

Soap narrows his eyes a little, like he expected to see something behind the mask that isn’t actually there. “You don’t need me now. You’re doing great, and I’ll just be getting in the way.”

Ghost just blinks down at him, tilting his head and waiting for the rest of the bullshit to spill out.

“So I’m done,” Soap tells him, smacking a hand to Ghost’s shoulder. “It’s been fun, and I’m quitting while I’m ahead.”

“Alright.”

“You can, ahh, send my regards to the missus.”

“Sure.”

Soap keeps taking in a breath and holding it, like he’s bracing for something that never comes.

“You’re a good man, Johnny.”

That makes something like anger flicker in Soap’s expression for a moment, but he quickly smoothes it over. “I’ll be on my game tomorrow.”

“I know.”

Chronological Read-Through Path

#service dog johnny #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #dinnertime

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on-a-lucky-tide · 6 months ago

Text

Simon loves being Price's demonstration dummy. He loves the aftermath even more.

cw: sexual content, a horny lieutenant, body worship, oral sex, anal sex.

"Start by securin' a grip on yer opponent's arm with one hand, and use the other hand t' grab their collar or shoulder. Carrier vest works well too."

Simon stood at his captain's side, his body relaxed as he prepared to go airborne in the name of practical demonstration. He'd be lying if he said it wasn't his favourite part of the week... well, that and what always followed.

He watched Price from beneath low lashes, drawing deep, slow breaths through the fabric of his mask, if only to keep his bloody heart from thumping through the wall of his chest in excitement. Price's hands warm and firm against his body even through the cotton of his shirt, and his skin tingled in their wake.

"Step t' the side and lower yer hips while bringin' yer opponent close to ya," Price said, his attention on the new recruits gathered around the mat. Simon didn't resist as his captain drew him close, but he did breathe him in; sweat, deodorant and cologne, a deep musk that gathered at the back of Simon's throat, made his mouth water. Simon wanted to shove his nose into his ruffled hair, underneath his arm, across the ruff of his chest, for that scent to soak through to his bones.

"Yer shoulder should be positioned under their armpit. As ya pull yer opponent forward an' down, rotate yer hips and shoulders into them. Use yer legs t' lift an' drive yer shoulder into their body. Big fuckers like this? You gotta use their weight," Price moved and Simon's feet left the floor, "against 'em."

Simon's back hit the mat, punching a grunt from his chest, and he felt the familiar thrill unfurl down his spine as Price's body crowded over him. He studied the dark v-shape of sweat in the front of his shirt, the glisten of wet up his throat that disappeared into the scruffy stubble of his beard. Fuck, Simon wanted to lick it off him.

"As yer man's thrown, maintain yer grip t' control his fall and prepare for a transition into a dominant position or submission. Grapple, choke. Don't pause t' catch yer breath," he explained, half sprawled over Simon's body, his thick chest pressed to Simon's, so close that Simon felt the vibrations of his voice against him. "Any questions?" There weren't any. "Good. Pair up. Technique over strength."

The squaddies grabbed a buddy and headed to the other mats, and Price looked down at his junior officer's face. "You bulkin'?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. Had to put some welly behind that one," Price said, lopsided grin making Simon want to shove his tongue down his throat. Those blue eyes framed in scruff and laughter lines, the curves beneath his sloped collarbones, the effortless way he had thrown Simon's sizable bulk to the floor, his form perfect, the explosive power in his body exercised with trained precision; everything about him made Simon feral.

The captain rolled to his feet and Simon grabbed the arm he offered down. "Take the four over there. Positioning like that's gonna lead to somethin' tearin'."

"Rog."

Simon wandered over to correct the indicated trainees and Price observed another set. This latest batch were promising, but they were almost skittish in their desperation for approval. More likely to make mistakes and second guess themselves. They needed to relax into it, listen to their instinct over the noise in their head. Simon decided to break the ice with the next demonstration.

It was a simple manoeuvre that tended to be a whole lot of fun to finish the session; the ranger roll. Quick and snappy way to pluck someone from the field and leg it under fire. Price was a pro at it. Simon upped the difficulty by latching onto a nearby bench, locking his legs so that Price flailed on his back halfway through the roll, splayed over Simon's belly with an arm hooked under his knee.

"What the fu--?" Price glanced up, saw Simon's ploy and elbowed him in the gut in retaliation, smirking. "Ya bloody muppet." The recruits laughed, their stances noticeably relaxing as Simon shrugged apologetically. Ice broken. Price rolled to his feet and performed the move again. This time, he lifted Simon from the floor, and Simon draped over his shoulders with a soft, satisfied hum. Fuckin hell, he needed Price on his back, needed those strong thighs around his hips, needed to hear that gruff voice sex-rough, fucked raw.

Simon suffered through another twenty minutes of watching others perform pale imitations of Price, before the captain finally dismissed them to the showers, heading out of the gym to his room.

Simon stayed long enough to ensure no one lingered by the dumb bell rack before swapping out of his boxers and shorts to a pair of grey joggers; he wanted as little between him and his prize as possible. Hands shaking, he knocked at Price's door after pursuing him down the corridors, shouldering his way inside only when Price greeted him from behind it. "Feelin' impatient, Simon?"

Simon watched as Price stripped off, revealing damp curls of chest hair, the sweat-slick curves and slopes of his body, still pumped from exercise, thick and flushed. His mane of brown scruff was ruffled out of place, sticking up in all directions, begging for fingers to grab it, to tug until he was forced to show his throat.

Simon's cock thickened in his joggers, pressing out against the soft grey material, and he folded his mask up above his nose in anticipation. Price chucked his t-shirt onto the floor, standing there in his shorts and nothing else, built like a fuckin greek hero and begging to be defiled, blue eyes dark. "C'mon then, boy. Come get it."

Simon didn't need telling twice. He growled low in his chest and surged forward, barreling Price into his bed, his mouth pressing to his throat as he ground his hip forward between Price's thighs. "Mmf, fuck, yeah," Price moaned, fingernails snagging in Simon's t-shirt as he bucked eagerly.

Price arched, his body begging for worship even if his voice stayed stoic, understated. For now. Simon buried a hand in his hair and pulled his head back, sucking and laving biting kisses down the arch of his throat to his chest, mouthing thick muscle with desperate, wet licks, before sucking a nipple into his mouth with a grateful moan. Price tasted like heaven, raw masculinity and power, and Simon wanted to overwhelm him, overcome the strength roiling beneath his skin, possess it and feel it wrapped around his prick until it yielded to him.

Mine, mine, his mind chanted, his nose burying in Price's armpit as he forced one of Price's arms above his head. Simon ran the flat of his tongue into the groove of it, tip flicking over the veins in his bicep before he sucked kisses into that flesh too. Price gasped, a low, raspy sound deep in his throat, his erection pressing up into Simon's belly, and Simon sank off the edge of the bed as he worked lower.

There was a layer of plush on Price's abdomen and Simon nipped at it, tonguing the trail of hair that disappeared below the waistband of his shorts, before wrenching those down too. Price's full cock bounced free, the slit wet with precum, but Simon ignored it to bury his face in the dark curls around his sac, inhaling the deep musk of him with a feral, half-wild growl.

"Filthy git," Price said through a throaty laugh, only to dissolve in a low moan as Simon sucked, wet and open mouthed, at his balls, teeth threatening tender skin in a way that made Price's cock twitch and throb with arousal. Simon didn't leave him waiting too long, swallowing the thick bulb of his glans to the back of his throat, tongue writhing and wriggling beneath his shaft. Price arched, strong fingers scrunching at Simon's mask and then dropping to grip the blonde tufts that escaped the back of it.

Simon let him fuck up into his mouth, his arms curling around his thighs to pull them apart, Price's heels nudging the backs of his shoulders. It was erotic, the way Price's body moved in search of pleasure, even splayed and vulnerable. His command didn't falter. "Nnh, Simon, fuck, fuck... Yer mouth's a bloody treat, sweet'eart."

Simon growled and pulled off, leaving strings of saliva and cum to trail down his chin to the tip of Price's cock as he stared up the naked length of him to the mischievous blue eyes watching him. Price knew what he was doing. Knew how he was baiting Simon to fuck him until his legs didn't work and his throat was raw from the moaning. Simon's cock ached, the brush of soft fleece enough to make him rut forward against the mattress in search of pleasure. "C'mon, Simon. Fuck me," Price snarled, strong thighs testing Simon's grip on them.

Simon surged up his body to smash their mouths together, teeth catching chapped lips, the taste of copper between them as he snatched the bottle of lube from where Price had chucked it in full anticipation of the railing he was about to receive. Simon squirmed out of his joggers, thick cock rutting into the sweat and spit slick skin of Price's hip, fisting the bed sheets with one hand as he gathered enough self control to tilt to the side and soak his cock in lube. A messy fist smoothed the gel down to the base before gathering Price's legs up his torso, his tip pushing into the snug grip of Price's hole.

"Mmf, fuck, slow, slow... Fuckin hells," Price snarled, nails biting into the side of Simon's neck as Simon quivered under the strain of self control. He rolled his hips in short, measured thrusts, easing in slowly, hunching down to kiss the grimace of concentration off of Price's face.

Simon was a decent length, nothing to sniff at, but it was the girth that truly satisfied, left people wrecked. It had taken previous lovers time to work up to and even Price, practiced and experienced, huffed deep breaths as his body yielded to it. "God bloody fuck, mm..." Price cussed, pushing his head back as he rocked up to meet Simon's hips, sliding himself up and down the full length of him. "Yeah, tha's it, right... Ah, right there, Simon, fuckin... Ah."

He was fucking beautiful like this. Beautiful. There weren't a word that fitted better. Blue eyes misty, his head thrown back, the flush of pleasure down his neck, splashed across his furred chest. His legs spread wide and wanton as Simon's fat cock sank into his greedy hole. Simon wanted to look, but he also wanted to taste, his teeth scraping through the scruff of Price's beard on their way to his neck. The pace was sweet torture, the pleasure curling up his spine, his balls pulled tight, sinking in all the way to the hilt, hoping Price'd be able to feel him in his guts if he thrust deep enough.

"G'wan, fuck me proper, boy," Price rasped, rewarded almost immediately with a firm thrust that startled a yelp out of him. It was all the encouragement Simon needed, gathering Price's legs to his shoulders as he began to piston his hips at a relentless pace, fucking hard and fast into the warm, wet clutch of Price's body.

Simon loved making Price loud, his bitten off cusses peppered with lower moans, gasps that almost bled into whines when Simon found the right angle. It was a complete and utter fracture of his iron control, and Simon revelled in it. His own noises ran away with him; snarls, growls, Price's name, his title, sir. The dizzying pleasure unspooled through him from head to toe, the day's tension burning out of his muscles with every pant of exertion, Price's body milking his cock with the most delicious friction.

Price didn't touch himself. He never did at first. He liked being fucked; liked the way a thick cock felt as it spread him open and pounded his prostate, his hands fisting the bed sheets as he met each thrust, demanding. When Simon shifted onto his feet, curving Price's hips up until he was fucking down into him like an animal mounting a mate, deeper, harder, than before, Price finally fisted his cock in search of his building release.

Simon lost track of anything but the heat of Price's hole, the pulsing clutch of it around his prick, the increasingly desperate noises each of his thrusts punched out of Price's chest. His orgasm curled up his spine, pulling taut in his muscles, his balls high and tight as he held off until the end he desired.

Price's hand stuttered and then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum splashed over his chest and neck, his impressive cock throbbing and flicking in the circle of his fingers as he teased himself through the aftershocks. Simon went to pull out, but Price snarled, "Don't you... fuckin dare. "

It flicked a switch in Simon's head, cut the final thread of a chord that had kept him tethered, and he began to rut like the animal he was. The wet slap of his hips grew louder as he chased his high, Price's groans broken around the pain-pleasure of overstimulation, his hole more lax post orgasm, relaxed, sloppy with lube and precum, the noise of Simon's cock fucking into it as obscene as his command to be bred full that punched out in the next breath. "Fuckin... breed me, Simon."

Simon came with a bitten off shout, grinding down into Price 's body as his balls emptied in hot, heavy pulses. Price moaned, pressing up into Simon's hips, rocking slowly as Simon's stuttering thrusts ended with him staying as deep as he could until his cock had stopped twitching, brimming Price with a week's worth of frustrated build up.

"Fuckin hell," Simon rasped, slumping down onto his elbow as he drew out, satisfied by the wetness that covered Price's thighs in the aftermath, and the puffy redness of his fucked out hole.

"Hope they do," Price murmured, shaking legs dropping off the edge of the bed. Simon slumped onto his back, and Price rolled onto his side, following him. "You broken?"

"Nah. Fuckin knackered."

Price barked a laugh. "Simon 'One Nut Wonder' Riley."

"Fuck off," Simon blustered through a laugh of his own. "Aren't you meant to be gettin' a limp dick at your age anyway?"

"Watch it," Price shot back, but without heat. He patted around blindly for his cigarettes and lighter, striking one up between his lips. He took a toke before passing it across to Simon, who puffed smoke at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"Surprised maintenance haven't beasted you for that smoke alarm yet."

"They'd have to catch me first."

"Wiley bastard."

Price smirked as Simon passed the cigarette back, smoke curling from his nose as they both gazed thoughtfully into the dark above them, comfortable and quiet in the afterglow.

They fucked again a few more times that night; slower, closer to lovers than the raw fuck of earlier, and Simon spooned up behind his captain, thrusting into him as he tenderly kissed his neck, drawing out softer moans and praise. "Yeah, Simon... Mm, fuck, that's, ah, ah, please..." The way Price arched into him, muscular body spreading itself eagerly to be pleasured, gravelly voice demanding and pleading in equal measure, made Simon heady with lust and adoration.

Simon wasn't sure what the fuck they had, what it was called; he knew it was wrong by the standards of the service, but they'd have to pry it out of his cold dead hands.

#captain john price #simon ghost riley #ghostprice #priceghost #cod #call of duty

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sai-int · 3 months ago

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How about having a steamy shower sex with a pent up and touch starved Johnny McTavish after a long deployment, the hot water cascading on their body as he hoist reader up and pressed her against the glass wall. If you write about it I'll def read it

HOMECOMING | johnny mactavish

2.4k words, johnny x fem!reader cw: unprotected piv, shower sex and all that comes with it

the front door creaks open, the sound barely audible over the hum of the fridge in the kitchen. you freeze mid-step, your heart leaping into your throat. no one was supposed to be here. you reach for the bat leaning against the counter—always in arm’s reach since Johnny left—gripping it tightly as you inch toward the sound.

“who’s there?” your voice wavers, the question a mix of fear and adrenaline.

there’s a heavy pause, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots scuffing against the hardwood floor. you raise the bat as you round the corner into the foyer, your hands trembling as you prepare to swing. but then, a voice cuts through the silence, low and familiar.

“'a'm home, lass,” he murmurs, stepping into the light. “it’s me.”

you blink, the bat slipping from your hands and clattering to the floor. johnny stands there, still in his tac vest, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. his hair's grown out, messier, and there’s a shadow of exhaustion under his eyes. but he’s here, real and solid, and the sight of him hits you like a freight train.

“johnny?” you whisper, your voice breaking on his name.

“aye,” he breathes, dropping his bag as he closes the distance between you in a few long strides. his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. the familiar scent of him—sweat, gunpowder, seafoam—floods your senses.

“you aren't supposed to be back for another week,” you manage, your words muffled against his shoulder.

“couldn’t stay away,” he replies, his voice rough and quiet. his grip tightens like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. “needed tae see ye.”

you pull back to look at him, your hands cupping his face. his blue eyes, though tired, are bright and alive.

“you look like you’ve been through hell,” you say softly, your thumb brushing over the faint scruff on his jaw.

“been worse,” he replies with a crooked smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “just need a shower an’ some time wi’ you.”

he doesn’t wait for your reply, scooping you up in one swift motion that makes you yelp. “johnny—!”

“shh,” he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. “need tae wash the dirt off before i can touch ye proper.”

the promise in his words sends a shiver down your spine, your protests melting into anticipation as he carries you to there bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

he sets you down, his hands lingering on your waist as his gaze roams over you. there’s an intensity in his eyes, a hunger barely restrained, and it makes your skin prickle with anticipation. the bathroom feels smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the counter.

“you’re filthy,” you tease, though your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“ye’ve no idea,” he replies, his tone laced with something deeper, something that sends warmth pooling low in your stomach. dirty minded fucker.

he turns on the shower, the spray hitting the tile with a steady rhythm. you start to undress, but johnny’s hands cover yours, stopping you.

“let me,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your heart skip.

his fingers work with deliberate care, peeling your clothes away layer by layer. his touch is reverent, as though he’s committing the sight of you to memory, and by the time you’re bare before him, the weight of his gaze makes your cheeks flush.

he doesn’t rush. his own clothes come off piece by piece, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sheds the layers of deployment—sand, grime, and the heavy weight of duty. when he’s finally standing before you, fully exposed, you can’t help but drink him in. scars you’ve memorized and new ones you haven’t trace stories across his skin, each a testament to the man before you.

“beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes dark and full of adoration.

he steps into the shower first, holding out a hand for you. the water cascades over his broad, muscular shoulders, slicking down his hair and catching on the sharp lines of his jaw. you take his hand, letting him pull you in, the heat of the water a welcome contrast to the cool air outside.

the sound of the water drowns out everything else. johnny pulls you close, his hands finding your hips as the spray washes over both of you.

“missed ye,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. his voice is low, almost reverent. “missed this. missin’ ye damn near got me killed”

“god... don't tell me that... at least you're here now.” you reply, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

his lips find yours, and the kiss is everything he hasn’t said, everything he’s felt in the long weeks and months apart. it’s slow and all-consuming, becoming a tangle of heat and need that leaves you breathless.

his hands wander, mapping out the curves of your body as though reacquainting himself. his touch is possessive but tender, a silent promise in every brush of his fingers against your skin.

“jump,” he whispers against your lips, his voice thick with want as he taps your thighs. .

you obey without question, you lift your legs and he catches them as they wrap around his waist. a shiver runs through you as he wraps his arms around your waist and rear, holding you steady.

each of johnny’s thrusts slams your body against the glass wall, the pane trembling under the force of his movements as if it might shatter from the intensity. the cool surface bites against your overheated skin, a contrast to the heat radiating from him. every inch of his body feels like a live wire, coiled tight, sparking, and setting you on fire.

he moves with an unrelenting rhythm that leaves you breathless, his need palpable in the way his hips snap into yours, precise and consuming. his mouth laves on you—your neck, your jaw, your lips—branding you with a promise that the water can’t wash away. the glass fogged long before the steam had a chance, each breath adding to the haze as your breaths mingle in the humid air.

his hands are firm on your ass, lifting and holding you with an ease that speaks to his strength. his fingers dig into the soft flesh with a bruising grip, grounding himself in the reality of you, here, wrapped around him as you suffocate his cock. there’s desperation in his touch, but beneath the ferocity, there’s tenderness—a thumb stroking your skin, a whispered affirmation against your ear that steadies your racing pulse.

“fuckin’ perfect,” he groans, his voice raw and needy as he licks at the crook of your neck. his words, spoken more to himself than to you, send a shiver through your frame. his hips slow to a steady, deep roll, nudging your g-spot with his mushroomed tip while the thatch of hair at the base of his cock teases your clit.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters against your skin, “ye’ve nae idea how much i’ve needed ye, lass. thought about ye every fuckin’ day, every fuckin’ night.” his teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear, pulling a borderline pornographic moan from your lips as your walls clamp around him, dragging another groan from his chest.

“oh- oh fuck... j-johnny-” his name falls from your lips in a broken whimper, and it’s enough to let him know that you're close, his forehead dropping to yours. his breaths come heavy and uneven, his body trembling as though holding himself back takes every ounce of control he has left.

his hands shift, one cradling the back of your neck, the other anchoring your hip against the glass. his eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide, his gaze dark and unrelenting. “say m’name again,” he rasps, his voice low and raw. “need tae hear it. need tae know ye’re here wi’ me.”

you thread your fingers into his damp mohawk, "l-love you, johnny-" he smashes his lips against yours before you can finish and you're sure he knocked a tooth loose.

he picks up the pace, each thrust forces out a mewl that he swallows down greedily, his groans vibrating against your lips. his hands tighten on you as he drives into you, your nails dig into his muscled back, drawing faint streaks of crimson that the water washes away.

his lips leave yours, kissing and sucking down to your collarbone, your shoulder, the hollow of your throat, followed by the scrape of his teeth and the press of his tongue to soothe the burn.

he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “fucked m’fist tae that dirty little polaroid ye left in m’wallet,” he taunts, his tone teasing but laced with something darker. his eyes gleam as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “what? didn’t think i’d notice, did ye?”

your response is lost in a gasp as his pace quickens, his thrusts growing erratic, pounding deeper and harder, his cock bruising your cervix with a burn that devolves into pleasure.

his forehead presses to yours, his breaths heavy and uneven, mingling with your own. “you’re so fuckin’ sexy, fuck,” he rasps, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. his eyes lock onto yours, dark and full of emotion, as if he’s holding onto this moment, burning it into the back of his mind.

your nails dig into his shoulders as you feel the coil tighten, heat pooling in your belly as you tense, “johnny… oh go- fuck! don’t stop, please,” you gasp, your voice breaking on the words. “i’m so close. please, don’t stop.”

his left hands grip on you tightens, and his right thumb slips between your bodies, drawing tight circles on your clit, a sharp yelp from your lips as your hips buck. “never lettin’ ye fall, love,” he groans, his voice rough and raw. “come f'me. let me feel that cunt gush 'round me.”

your body arches toward him as the coil snaps, a wave of pure, blinding heat that tears through you. you cry out, your voice trembling as you clench around him, sucking him in keeping him there.

“that’s it, baby, milk my fuckin' cock,” he murmurs, still pistoning his hips into you, your eyes rolling to the back of your head in overstimulation. his lips brush against your temple as he stops you from squirming. “fuckin’ beautiful… that’s my girl.”

his hips stutter as he chases his own release, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “fuck, lass, ye're squeezin’ me so tight,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder, sucking a bright red blotch that'll fade to purple.

you thread your fingers into his hair, tugging gently to bring his face back to yours. his hips begin to stutter when he looks in your eyes, “let go, baby. i’m here. i’m yours.”

with a final, shuddering thrust, he spills into you, his hot seed filling your cunt and dripping down his legs, onto the shower floor, “jesus… fuck,” he rasps, his voice breaking as he collapses against you, his arms locking around your waist.

johnny shifts, carefully lowering you to the shower floor, his strong arms still wrapped around you as if afraid you might disappear. the water cascades over both of you, cooling the feverish heat left in the wake of your passion. he leans his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the steamy, wet cocoon you’ve created together.

“you okay, love?” his voice is soft now, a tender rasp that pulls you from the haze of your climax.

“yeah,” you whisper, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest, feeling the strong, steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “better than okay.”

his lips curve into a small smile, and he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering as if to savor the moment. “good. because a’m no' sure how i’ve gone this long without ye.”

you manage a soft laugh, your fingers brushing through his damp hair, pulling him close until your foreheads touch. “you’re a sap, johnny,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

he grins, the tension melting from his face as he cups your cheek, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin. “aye, maybe. bu' a'm yer sap.”

the tenderness in his eyes makes your heart ache, the intensity of the moment softening into something sweeter. he shifts slightly, holding you closer as the water falls over you both, washing away everything but the feeling of him, solid and steady, against you.

“a'm nae leavin' ye again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight kiss. “promise.”

you nod, your arms wind around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. he kisses you again, slower this time, as if savoring every taste you have to offer. when he pulls away, he moves to turn off the shower, the sudden quiet amplifying the intimacy between you.

“let’s go tae bed,” he says finally, his voice low and warm. “want tae hold you proper.”

you nod, letting him guide you to your feet. the love in his eyes is steady, unshakable, a quiet promise that no matter how far he goes, he’ll always find his way back to you.

mlist

#𓄧 angel’s asks #♱ angel’s writing #soap mactavish #soap #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #call of duty #cod #john mactavish x reader #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley #ghost cod

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rainyfestivalsweets · 2 years ago

Text

9/13/23

Dudes. I DID 2 RUN/WALK WORKOUTS YESTERDAY.

Here is the other one:

It was Wednesday now and I am:

Standing at my desk

Wearing my waist trainer

Focused on my goals

Ready to kick ass

My waist trainer went on much easier today. Much much easier.

🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

Downloading sexy beast mode.....

[.... ... ....]

And did I mention I was able to get the dress on?

So I am not weight focused right now, I am habit focused. If I just focus on my daily activities, I can't go wrong.

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zerosbubble · 1 month ago

Text

Not my kid!

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

Summary: When Angela and Lucy are wholeheartedly convinced that you and Tim have the most ‘I don’t get paid enough for this shit’ father to ‘I love making Tim’s life harder!’ child-like dynamic in the precinct, Tim is stuck with the fact that they won’t shut up about it.

Tim Bradford had been through a lot in his years as a cop. He’d survived war zones, worked under some of the worst training officers the LAPD had to offer, and somehow managed not to strangle Aaron Thorsen on a daily basis. He’d seen it all.

And yet, nothing in his career had prepared him for you.

“Kid, I swear to God—”

You guided the criminal into the backseat of the shop with a grin, entirely unfazed by the exhaustion in his voice as you shut the door. “I got the guy, didn’t I?”

Tim exhaled through his nose, standing on the curb and leaning against the shop. “You got the guy by jumping off a dumpster, nearly breaking your neck, and landing on top of him like some kind of rabid squirrel.”

“Worked, though.”

“You are going to give me a stroke.”

“Eh, you’re too tough for that.”

Tim turned his head just enough to shoot you a look—one of those deadpan, barely-contained irritation looks that had made rookies before you crumble under the weight of his judgment.

But you? You just smiled, perfectly comfortable in the way you leaned back against the shop like this was just another normal day.

Meanwhile, Lucy and Angela were having the time of their lives eavesdropping into you and Tim’s conversation as they walked towards youse.

“I mean,” Lucy mused, arms draped over the front seats like she was settling in for a show, “it’s kind of impressive. You have to admit, Tim—”

“I do not.”

“—that it was a solid takedown.”

Angela, arms crossed but clearly holding back a smirk, nodded. “If a little reckless.”

You lifted a hand, like a lawyer presenting evidence in court. “A calculated risk.”

“Bullshit,” Tim and Angela said at the same time.

Lucy snorted. “You’re getting soft, Tim. Back in the day, you would’ve—”

Tim’s glare cut through the air like a warning shot. “You wanna ride with me for the rest of the month, Chen?”

Lucy grinned but lifted her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, it’s funny.”

“What’s funny?” you asked, head tilting in curiosity.

Angela smirked. “The way you two act like a single dad with a hyperactive kid.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

Tim groaned. “No.”

Lucy’s eyes lit up, her smile downright smug. “Absolutely. He’s all rules and structure, and you’re just out here doing parkour, making his life miserable.” Her expression practically screamed, ‘Did I lie, though?’

Angela tilted her head, considering. “And yet, if anyone else tried to parent them, they’d end up in a ditch.”

You turned to Tim, expectant, eyes bright. “Sir?”

Tim exhaled sharply, staring dead ahead like if he ignored the conversation long enough, it would cease to exist. His jaw tensed, hands gripping his vest as he muttered under his breath—

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Lucy let out a delighted laugh. “Oh my God, that was the most dad thing he could’ve said.” She exclaimed to Angela, the two of them borderline snorting of laughter as if you and Tim weren’t there.

Tim made a mental note to start requesting solo patrols.

Meanwhile, you were still grinning like you’d just won the precinct lottery, leaning into your seat with the kind of self-satisfied energy that made Tim’s eye twitch. “So does that make Lucy the fun aunt?”

Angela snorted. “She wishes. If anything, I’m the cool aunt, and Lucy’s the big sister who has to keep you alive while Dad’s at work.”

Lucy gasped, clutching her chest like she’d just been hit. “That’s… painfully accurate.”

Tim groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically wipe away the conversation. “You’re all insufferable.”

You, unfazed as ever, nudged his arm with your shoulder, practically radiating warmth and mischief. “C’mon, sir. You know you love us.”

Tim had been a cop for a long time. He knew how to lie. Knew how to keep a straight face. Knew how to bluff his way through situations that should’ve killed him.

And yet, when you said it like that, with all the unshakable confidence of someone who had already decided he was stuck with you, Tim didn’t have it in him to argue.

He sighed instead, looking into the shop windows as if there was something more important to focus on besides this conversation, and muttered under his breath.

“Not my kid.”

Angela leaned against the shop, arms crossed, the smirk on her face downright smug. “Oh, please. You act like it’s just us seeing it, but literally everyone knows.” She said, holding a hand up as if to say ‘Oh, you don’t get to talk just yet.’ when Tim opened his mouth to protest.

“Grey watches you suffer on purpose. Nolan says you remind him of when he first became a dad,”

“Lopez, shut the hell—“

Angela only continued, “West told me he once saw you instinctively put an arm out to stop them from stepping into traffic—mid-lecture—like a stressed-out parent.” Her voice laced with a knowing tone as she crossed her arms, “And me? I’ve personally witnessed you yank them back by the collar when they tried to chase a suspect barefoot because, and I quote, ‘I had to know if I could.’”

A small ‘Ohhh, I remember that.’ left your lips, huffing a laugh at the memory that was personally hilarious to you, but excruciating to Tim.

“Not to mention, just last week, you scolded them for getting blood on their uniform like it was grass stains on a kid’s soccer jersey.” Angela raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “So tell me again how they’re ‘not your kid.’”

Lucy whistled, “Damn, Wesley been teaching you a thing or two.” she smirked.

The sidewalk fell into a momentary silence, save for the hum of the engine and the distant chatter of dispatch over the radio.

You, still grinning like you’d just won some unspoken battle, hopped into the shop and settled into the passenger seat, clearly pleased with yourself.

Lucy exchanged a knowing look with Angela, both of them reveling in Tim’s suffering as they walked back to their own shops.

And Tim? He just exhaled slowly, staring at the road like it held the answers to all of life’s problems—like if he focused hard enough, he could pretend he wasn’t stuck in a moving circus.

But deep down, buried beneath the exasperation and the ever-present headache that came with being responsible for you, he knew the truth.

He’d never admit it out loud, but he was stuck with you. And worse? He didn’t actually mind.

taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty

#platonic #the rookie #fluff #found family #oneshot #tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #lucy chen #angela lopez

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leyavo · 2 months ago

Text

The Hood

Sergeant!reader x TF141

Summary: it’s been nearly a year since the incident and you’ve been slowly grappling with the trauma of your first solo mission that went south.

Your team take you to the marines base so you can finally tackle the problem and fight your way through what went wrong. Training drill.

TW: violence? Longer than I thought it’d be. 2477words. [masterlist]

Captain John Price stood at the edge of the shore, hands tucked into his tactical vest. “Keep going Gal,” he shouted, chest puffing as his boot slipped slightly on the slick jagged rocks beneath him.

The wind nipped at your cheeks sending the salty spray of seawater into your face. Soap waded in the crashing waves beside you, head nudging for you to follow the captains orders.

“I got ya, don’ worry,” Soap said, teeth clinking together as he spoke. His gloved fingers wrapped around the crook of your elbow, stopping you for a second. “Thigh tap remember.”

How could you forget? You’d do everything in your power not to use the easy way out. Today and every other, you’ll need to fight. No different than before.

The only thing weighing you down was the full tactical gear strapped to your body, the gun on your back and the knife on your thigh.

Everything the men screamed at you whilst you crawled up the ranks went against you that day. You weren’t too short, but you weren’t as tall as some of your teammates something that worked in your favour when you needed to hide.

The weight or muscles you’d built wasn’t a match for three men and the sea. Something had gone horribly wrong, intel wrong and it nearly left you at the bottom of the sea, rotting away. Nothing but fish food.

A high pitch whistle sent a tremor down your spine. The waves pushing at your torso, not quite as high up against Soap’s body.

“Just a training drill, you can stop whenever you want.” Soap’s furrowed brows softened, hand landing on your shoulder as he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

No, this wasn’t that day. You didn’t have a bullet in your shoulder or a beat up body. Instead of being dragged through the shore, you were treading the water with Soap and overlooked by the others on your task force.

You didn’t want to torture yourself anymore. Didn’t want to let the past have so much control on how you felt or reacted. No, today you were taking it back.

“Don’t go easy on me Soap,” you said, gaze sliding to the boat bobbing by the concealed cave. The white of the skeleton mask standing out against Ghost’s face.

“Would never dream of it.” Soap smirked, he raised his fist signalling for the go ahead.

“Thigh tap remember,” you said, repeating Soaps words back to him.

The smile on Soap’s face fell, his fist jabbing towards you. You dodged it. Your knuckles connecting with his ribcage that he left open. His knee surged above the waves, hitting you in the jaw. You bit your lip tasting the metallic tang of your own blood.

No going easy eh, Soap.

You grabbed the back of Soap’s knee before he could lower it and pushed him under the water. His elbow came down on the crown of your head, not once, but twice. The impact making you let go of him, you shoved him back and stood up.

The sea pushing you back a few steps and birds cawing above you. So bloody cold.

Sucking in a breath, the air stung the back of your throat. The gear weighing you down, knees buckling. You kept moving, circling where you stood but couldn’t see Soap’s shadow through the violent waves.

The wind roared in your ears, throbbing pain pulsating at the crown of your head. You couldn’t think of that though, had to keep going. Soap yanked you under the water, wave curling over you as you kicked your legs free from his grasp. Your boot slamming into his shoulder.

Seaweed danced in the current, achingly similar to the fluid movements Soap had used to retreat. You had to keep going.

Your fingers traced your thigh, knife lost from its holster. Something seized the gun on your back, yanking you through the water. Your head dipping above the waves, sputtering water whenever you managed to get some air.

The birds cawing as if they were mocking you.

Two pairs of boots splashed through the shallow water, another set of hands going for your ankles. You let the two lift you from the jagged rocks, kicking Soap in the chest. He stumbled back, giving you the opportunity to twist in the second persons hold.

You didn’t get to see who though, the scratchy fabric shoved over your head as you turned. Darkness. The sound of your blood rushed in your ears, breath faltering as the hand at the back twisted the mask in its grasp.

No, no. You had to keep it together. No tapping out. It’s just a drill. Not real.

You needed to do this.

“Ready to kick it up a notch?” Ghost’s raspy voice drew a flinch out of you as his nose nudged the side of your face. He tugged the back of the hood, your hands scrambling to the hem trying to release the pressure around your throat. It dug in, skin burning as you thrashed against his hold.

The hood, the one thing that nearly ended your life. You grunted, your anger and frustration driving your head back, but it smacked into Ghost’s firm chest.

He chuckled at the attempt, dragging you back. The heel of your boots scraping along the rocks, slipping and sliding as you tried to find something, anything to push some power into and overthrow him.

“Fuck you,” you snarled, against your better judgement. The hood tightened around your throat, your mouth opening as you struggled to breathe. The itchy fabric scratching your lips, the salty taste burning your tongue.

Your heart hammered against your chest, body trembling. The cold seeping into your bones, you were trained for this. You’d done this before, trudged through the seas with your gear pulling you down. You’d done it then, you’d do it now.

The scars lining your body were proof that you had survived. That you could count on yourself.

Anger kept you motivated. Anger for yourself. For who ever set you up over a year ago. For the sea that created and destroyed whatever it held.

You just needed to pick your moments and reserve your energy. Hushed voices murmured around you, if Ghost was on your six, Soap would be four and Kyle at seven. Price at twelve, watching over you all. The clock ticking, you just needed to wait for an opening.

Ghost stopped, setting you up on your feet. Knot tightening at the back of the hood, cable tie circling your wrists in front of you. You’re lifted off the ground, the tactical vest digging into your stomach telling you that Soap had hoisted you over his shoulder. You took the opportunity to breathe, calm your nerves.

You’re dumped to the ground, thick netting brushed the exposed skin at the nape of your neck. The fishermen’s boat. You feel like you’ve just been fished out of the sea, ready to be gutted.

Something sharp dug into your thigh, you patted the area and picked it up, closing your fist around it. You don’t get a chance to scramble back before you’re forced to stand again.

Bringing your knee up, you send it right in between their legs. They groan, but you don’t stop. Your shoulder barreling into them with all your strength. You hear the satisfying sound of a splash, feel it against your bound hands.

“Use ya’ ears!” The Captain yelled.

Your head snapped to the side, distracted by his instructions that you missed the clashing of metal jingling together. You’re swept off your feet, back of your head knocking against the ground.

If death wasn’t calling, you don’t what is. There’s a moment where you just want to stay down, but your mind’s screaming at you to get up. Do anything.

It took you a second to react, your back sliding to the side as the waves pushed against the boat.

Ghost tugged you, hesitating for a second. The heavy chain wrapping around your ankle. “Tap out,” he snarled, but you shook your head.

The netting beneath you trailed along with you. You’d been biding your time, waiting for them to get closer and if you’d calculated right, you’d be able to get out of it alive. Training drill or not, there’s no giving up for you.

You’re forced to sit on the edge of the boat, tied hands resting in your lap. Ghost’s hand grabbing your throat, angling you over the side. You can feel the waves at your back, as if they’re trying to snatch you.

“Kyle’s waiting down there, you’re not alone.” Ghost’s fingers pressing into the side of your neck, as if he didn’t want to let go. Didn’t think it’d go this far, but he let go and flung your legs up and over the edge.

Lifting your arms, you pinched your shoulder blades together and drove your arms down. Breaking free from the cable ties, just as your body plunged into the cold water.

The fishing hook in your closed palm pierced through your glove. You flicked it in your grasp and sliced it through the hood. A line of red floating in front of you, the skin of your neck and jaw burning. The hood carried away by the tide.

The chain around your ankle kept going and going, the weight plummeting to the bottom, pulling you down with it.

Kyle’s figure off to the side monitoring your movement, the oxygen tank on his back in case you needed assistance. He hung back, giving you the chance to work it out.

You give him an ok. Swimming down to the bottom, the link of the chain padlocked to a weight. A marker that’s normally used to show divers where they’ve already searched. It’s easily removable if you know how. The spiralling padlock needing to be twisted free. You turned the padlock, turning and turning. Pushing up as soon as you’re free, the chain following behind you.

The shadow of the boat above you moved, anchor disappearing above the water.

Your limbs sore, one shoulder shuddering each time you pumped your arms through the water. The waves picked up, the sound of them crashing against the boat helped you break free to the surface without any attention.

Kyle stayed below the water, not giving away your position. Ghost at the wheel steering the boat.

Diving back under the water you made your way to the wooden platform near the boat. Soap’s back wandering down creaky boards, gun in hand as he swept the entrance of the cave. The first place you’re expected to go and rest up, or draw them in.

You hung back, hiding beneath the platform. Waiting for him to enter the cave. You trudged out of the water, twisting the silencer on the end of your gun. The barrel pointed at the caves opening. You gather up a bunch of pebbles in your fist and chuck them over the other side of the rocks. If you didn’t know any better you’d thought someone had fell.

Shrinking back into the shadows you wait. Soap waded through the water checking out the noise. He didn’t get a chance to scope out the whole perimeter, the rubber bullet from your gun shooting him in the back of his head.

“Soap’s dropped,” you whispered to yourself, a little reminder that it was just a training drill. No real threat.

Soap staggered forward, almost dropping his gun. He spun around, splashing through the water as he rushed to you. Gloved hands reaching out.

“Not over yet,” you said, shaking your head and retreating from his outstretched arms. His gaze flitted to your jaw and neck, but he understood.

“No tapping out now,” he said, palm slapping against his own thigh. Smirk playing on his lips.

One down, a bigger one to go. Surprise would be your best form of attack, but even that was difficult when it came to Ghost. When you exited the cave, the tide had rose. The wooden platform lost under the waves.

The temperature had dipped, sky deepened to an inky blue. The darkness being your best friend, the freezing water not so much. Numb tingles spread over your face, lips chapped and split.

Lanterns dangled from the trawler boat, yellow balls of light bouncing in the wind. You swam out, keeping close to the stern as you approached it. Your head half out of the water as you trailed along side it.

You wondered if the Captain was still on that rock, binoculars stuck to his eyeballs as he watched over the training drill.

Footsteps echoed the metal deck, your back pressing against the boat and your head tilted up in case the lieutenant peered over the side. The anchors chain was the only way up, the ladder on the other side too predictable. By the looks of it, they hadn’t pulled the anchor all the way up, you were able to reach the curved metal and hoist yourself up to climb the chain.

You’re nearly at the top, but you paused to check through the gap. During storms the water would be pushed back out of these missing panels. The only thing sinking should be the anchor.

Ghost paced the deck, finger hovering over the trigger of his gun. You counted his steps back and forth, climbing the chain as you counted back.

Just as Ghost turned back round, you shot him in the forehead. The rubber bullet bouncing off his helmet.

“Dead, LT,” you shouted, shooting his chest with another bullet.

“What the hell took you so long?” Price said, blowing smoke from his mouth. Cigar balancing between his fingers, “did good, let’s get you checked over.”

The boat swayed, Price sliding along the bench. You let the momentum take you, stumbling into Ghost’s arms. He caught you, guiding you to sit and lean against the side of the boat.

“Aye, knew you could do it lass,” Soap said, kneeling down beside you. “Got me in the back of the head, LT.” His gaze wandering Ghosts body for a clue on where he’d been hit.

A small dent in Ghost’s helmet and one still stuck in the tactile vest over his chest.

“A gamble, but you did well Sergeant,” Ghost said, lifting your arm and putting your hand over the gauze on your neck.

He didn’t look you in the eye though, busying himself with tending to your split lip. Soap helped you up, draping a blanket over your shoulders, guiding you to the cabin to change out of your clothes.

“Where’s Kyle?” You said over your shoulder, brows furrowed at the lack of diving gear and him.

“Fuck, get Kyle out now,” Price said, rushing to peer over the side. Cigar wedged between his lips and hat flapping in the wind.

Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it. This has been edited, but I am dyslexic so my work may have errors and spelling mistakes etc. - Leya

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gummyfang · 2 years ago

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♡♡♡ | ˗ˏˋ FULL GEAR WORKOUT ´ˎ˗

➳　【 K ö n i g　ｘ　Ｒｅａｄｅｒ】

❧ Warnings: 𝟏𝟖+, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭, 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰, 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛 / 𝐠𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯, 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: man idk what this is i needed to get my gear kink out of my system lmao. konig fucks u in full gear that’s all. this is a mess. sorry no capital letters in this one my wrist hurts and pressing shift hurts womp womp :(

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 ♡

“fuck, oooh scheiße, i can’t...” könig’s guttural babbling slowly died down in his throat as he groaned loudly, hips smacking against your pelvis with a noisy squelch. your back arches off the freshly cleaned bedsheets as his cock pistoned into your spongy cunt deliciously, but his gloved hands kept you from twisting away from him. this had all started as a joke. an offhand remark. as you’d dropped by könig’s barracks only to find him suited up in full combat gear, earning a look from you. he just explained it was for training purposes. his body had to stay used to the gear, as he had no time to grow comfortably accustomed to the weight and heat out in the field every time. clearly, he’d taken your joke about him fucking you raw in it for practice very seriously. your legs wrapped around his hips clumsily as könig continued to pound into you, the fabric of his combat cargo trousers causing your legs to slip down a little. although you were convinced könig was completely lost in the feeling of being enveloped by the feeling of your warmth sucking in his dick further with each thrust, you felt his gaze move down to look at you. his gray eyes were sultry and pooling with lust from beneath his sniper hood, his gaze just barely meeting yours through the holes in the cloth. “you need some help?” he laughed breathily. before you could groan out a response, könig moved his leathery grip from your wrists. you whined as the comforting pressure of his tactical vest left your abdomen. however, your whines quickly turned to loud moans as könig hoists your leg over his shoulder and starts thrusting his cock into you at a heightened angle. ohhh fuck. your head twisted itself back into the pillow, mouth agape as you watched your boyfriend fuck you. the glinster in his eyes told you he was thoroughly enjoying seeing you like this. “i should fuck you like this more often, engel. you look gorgeous.” könig growled. while his muscular right arm locked your leg in place over his shoulder, his other hand started exploring your body, fingers grazing over your clit. könig groaned deeply, his hips stuttering a little as his finger traced your bare skin. his cock twitched inside you, the sight of your naked body at the mercy of his fully clothed one seemed to do something to him he had never realized he loved. he pulled out of your cunt suddenly, a string of slick still attaching you to his erect cock. without any effort, he grabbed your hips and rolled you over onto your stomach, before reentering you from behind. you cried out as he picked up his pace brutally. könig’s eyes flashed with caution as he instinctively leaned over, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pushing your face into the pillow. “careful, now, engel. someone might hear us.” he growled, followed by a soft whimper. he wasn’t going to last much longer. your eyes rolled back into your skull as you felt the hard, icy metal of the canisters and tubes of his vest press into your back. it was painful, but it hurt so good. something about that sensation sent you over the edge. “könig!” you cried his name into the pillow as your body spasmed, your puffy walls tightening around his cock deliciously as you came. könig groaned loudly as his body lurched forward at the sensation, feeling his gear press you into the bed even further. his hips stuttered as he moaned into your ear deliciously, before his cock spurted hot ropes of cum deep inside you. slowly, könig fucked himself out into you, before his hips finally came to a halt. you felt the draping fabric of his sniper hood brush against the back of your neck, damp with his sweat and breath. you felt his hand gently pat your hip twice before he pulled out, chuckling softly. “i think i just found my new favorite workout routine.”

#wrote this while cool cat saves the kids played in the bg #♡.nsfw #♡.mlw #könig #könig x reader #cod #call of duty #konig #konig mw2 #cod mwii #gummyfang #konig x reader #cod modern warfare

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