#yeyinde inspired

[deunmiu-dessie]

(unedited)

imagine being the babysitter for the price family, ur meek and quiet around john and mainly communicate with mrs. price. but ur absolute fun with the kids; they just adore u so much and ask about u all the time even when ur not scheduled to watch them :(

though u always thought john never cared for u in the first place— i mean, his wife said they needed a sitter while she went back to work and he provided the money. the two of u had never talked much before, small greetings and thank u’s but that was it.

but one day, out of the blue he comes home early when ur watching the kids, ‘nd he's touchy :(

his burly body caging you against the counter as u make something for the kids to eat. his hands at ur waist as he reaches to grab something from above u, brushing against u when u pass each other in the hall. ‘nd u swear u can hear him breathe in ur perfume when ya’ll are close, a rumble in his chest. but u didn't think much, mr. price was good man.

but then he becomes bolder, large hands groping at ur thighs, bulge pressed against the curve of ur ass, invading questions about ur sex life. ‘nd u should feel scared, disgusted, u should tell his wife– but he hasn't rlly done anything. i mean, he’s just teaching u how to kiss— his mouth dominating and tongue bullying ur own, saliva dripping down ur chin…. but it’s for later purposes, when ur in a relationship. just practice.

he hasn't rlly done anything worth telling. he’s just teaching u how to touch urself, how to work ur fingers on ur clit. just teaching u how to properly deepthroat, his balls flush against ur chin as he bottoms out down ur throat. just teaching u how to have sex the right way, the safe way— his thick cock, covered in a condom inching its way into ur sloppy, virgin cunt :(

[tiggerriot]

(my version of) street fighter!ghost (inspired by @ /yeyinde )

[konigbabe]

like real people do

Pairing: ID!Leon Kennedy x fem!teacher!reader | single dad AU

Word count: 5.8k

Tags/warnings: no y/n; fluff; eventual smut; p-in-v; slice of life; gendered female reader; gendered female anatomy; original kid Kennedy character

Summary: He's the sun, and you're the earth, drawn into his orbit; yet, he's your student's father. Handsome. Confident. Alluring. But off limits–at least he should be.

a/n: Inspired by @yeyinde’s ask. Also, canon ID!Leon is around 29 but Leon in this '"universe" is aged up to be in his 30s (age won't be specified but I imagine him to be in his mid-to-late 30s).

divider by @benkeibear [source]

series masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

The voice in your head keeps telling you to be professional, the thought of spending an evening with this man hard to resist; his confident, easy-going demeanor, the way he doesn’t give up easily– “So? It’s just dinner.”

The innocence of children always manages to brighten up even the darkest of days, their smiles and eagerness to learn contagious; filling your heart with positivity. It's a feeling that's hard to come by as an adult; life's challenges tend to chip away at your soul and slowly rob you of that childhood magic.

As the clock strikes five and your shift comes to an end, the school falls into an eerie silence. A lingering sense of relief washes over you when leaving the building; you've done your part in shaping young minds.

Walking out the front door, the warmth of the sun caresses your skin, its rays sliding around your bare arms like silk.

Twisting the key in the lock, your eyes catch a glimpse of slight movement from the corner of your vision. Turning your head, you see a little girl perched on the concrete steps below, her delicate features illuminated by the warm glow of the sun.

Her hair, a cascade of light brown waves, frames her chubby cheeks and the crown of her head is adorned with blonde highlights that shimmer like golden threads.

She turns to you when you address her, slowly stepping down to her level.

"What are you still doing here," you sit down, her small backpack creating a wall between your bodies.

As you sit side by side with the little girl, basking in the comforting embrace of the sunlight, she kicks her legs up; eyes up front, both of you watch the cars pass by on the street.

The Washington Spring air’s filled with the sweet scent of blooming cherry blossoms, carried on a gentle breeze that rustles through the trees. The distant sounds of children playing in a nearby park mingle with the honking of cars and the chirping of birds, creating a symphony of noise that signifies the arrival of spring in the bustling city.

"Waiting for daddy," she says with a hint of excitement in her voice.

The little girl looks up at you, her eyes full of wonder and innocence. You can't help but wonder about the mysterious Mr Kennedy and his absence; an enigma surrounding his name.

Like a forgotten toy left on the shelf, the girl's father remains absent from any involvement in her education. Despite several months passing since her admission to your class, there has been no sign of him. No parent-teacher meetings, no Father's Day celebration, nothing.

An enigma.

"Speaking of," your voice trails off for a moment, "How’s your daddy doing?" you question her. You shouldn’t; it goes beyond your job description to put a kid in situations like these. But still–

Her eyes, a vivid shade of cerulean, sparkle like sunlit water as she gazes at you; smile wide upon the mention of her father, the young kid toys with the straps on her bag.

"He’s busy."

A pang of understanding pinches your heart.

–his presence (or rather the absurd lack of it) keeps gnawing at your brain.

"He fights monsters," the girl adds after a moment of silence; her tone more serious. It's as if she's describing a mythical hero, fighting off beasts in some far-off land.

"He seems to be busy quite a lot," you smile to ease the topic; well aware that the girl, as bright as she is, surely catches on as you keep asking the same question every week, "is your mom coming to the parent–teacher meeting?"

The girl shakes her head before she speaks, "I don’t know my mom."

Oh.

You know you shouldn’t push more; well aware of the unprofessionalism you’re displaying.

"The woman who picks you up–"

"–aunt Claire," the kid corrects you, "I’m sorry for interrupting, miss teacher."

You smile, trying to put her at ease. It's clear that she's been brought up with good manners.

Lost in how to answer her, you almost don't hear the sound of a car approaching. The girl jumps up, her face alight with excitement. A low rumble reverberates through the air as a sleek black SUV glides up to the curb, its shiny exterior reflecting the warm rays of the sun.

The tinted windows obscure the view inside the car, adding an air of mystery to the vehicle. As the car comes to a stop, the quiet hum of the engine fades to a gentle purr, and the driver's door swings open.

The girl grabs her backpack at the same time a man steps out of the car; you’re able to only see the light brown hair decorating his head.

"Daddy," the girl yelps in excitement. You stand up, dusting the invisible dust from your jeans.

He stands tall, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of the crisp white shirt, tucked tightly into the blue dress pants. A single button undone on his collar, revealing the curve of his clavicles. The sun glints off his aviator sunglasses, hiding his eyes from view. He approaches the little girl with a warm smile as she runs into her father, you presume; standing still, watching the situation unfold before your eyes.

Lowering himself to her level, he extends his arms, inviting her in. She eagerly accepts, wrapping her little arms around his neck in a welcoming embrace.

"Hey there, pup," you manage to hear his voice; low and soft. Gentle. "Sorry I’m late; got held up by paperwork. Y’know the drill."

The kid chuckles before pulling away, a sound so pure and innocent it brings a smile to your face.

Standing back up, his face turns towards you. You're struck by his imposing presence, the way he commands attention without even trying. His chiseled jawline is dusted with a light stubble, giving him an air of ruggedness. He moves with confidence towards you, one hand enclosed with his daughter’s.

The girl tugs at the sleeve of his shirt, introducing you before he even reaches your standing point–to which he smiles gently.

"Well, nice to meet you," his hand extended in greeting, "I’m Leon Kennedy. Her dad," he nods towards the girl.

"Mr Kennedy," you murmur, taking his hand in yours; noting the callouses on his palm.

As your eyes travel up his arm, they catch sight of a fresh bandage peeking out from under his slightly rolled up sleeve. But it's not until you look up at his face that you see the true extent of his weariness. Small scratches mark his jaw, subtle hues of purple and yellow decorate his cheekbone like a watercolor painting.

It’s clear that he's been through a rough patch. Makes you wander back to the girl’s words–

("He fights monsters.")

–and maybe he does. In some twisted sense.

"I actually wanted to speak with you," you release his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin lingering on your fingertips., "are you free next Tuesday? Around one PM?"

"Am I in trouble," he chuckles; the stretch of his lips exposing a slight scar on his lower lip.

The girl tilts her head, eyes studying you intently. You can't help but notice the slight beauty marks across her neck, the softness of her features, the way she looks up at her father with curiosity.

"Not really; I just need to discuss some matters with you."

"Okay," he responds, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, yet he remains stoic. Posed. "Sure."

"I’ll see you then," you nod and take your leave, but not before stealing a few glances at his back as he turns away from you. It’s impossible not to notice how his broad shoulders strain against the fabric, or how his hair cascades over his forehead; tousled yet somehow perfectly in place.

The weekend flies by, the days blurring together until suddenly it's Tuesday.

Despite his daughter's reassurances from yesterday that he'll be here, the uncertainty of whether he'll actually show up still grips you tightly.

A knock on the open door disturbs your grading.

"Mr Kennedy," you remark upon his arrival. The pen falls onto the desk with a clunk; back straighten, you invite him to sit on the chair prepared for him beforehand.

He’s dressed more casual–the black, expensive looking leather jacket squeaks against the wooden chair as he sits down after a simple "Hello". The faint but distinct aroma of sharp, citrusy notes wafts from his collar; the refreshing and invigorating aroma that catches your attention before your eyes trail to the bandage on his wrist.

Clearly seeing the way your eyes subconsciously linger on the piece of medical tape, Leon puts his other hand over it, shielding your view. Silently focusing your attention back on his eyes; the same blue hues as his daughter’s.

Sitting before you, legs spread apart, the undeniable similarities between him and his daughter are glaringly apparent. The way he holds himself commands respect, his posture erect and confident.

"Mr Kennedy, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you in person."

Fingers interlocking as you lean on your elbows, his gaze following your every movement like a predator stalking its prey; almost as if he’s sizing you up. His eyes watchful.

"Okay," he responds casually, a hint of question behind the simple word.

You clear your throat before continuing. "Your daughter is a remarkable child," a small smile accompanying your words. "She's well-behaved, intelligent, and often surpasses her peers."

Leon nods, lips pressed together.

"Got that from her mother, probably," he remarks. Almost bites back. Jaw tightening.

Leaning back, your fingers drum a quick rhythm against your desk.

"But we’re not here to evaluate your daughter; but you, actually, Mr Kennedy."

Leon’s brows arch up, highlighting the soft surprise that flashes across his face. The subtle shift in his expression does not go unnoticed by you.

"Didn’t know I was being evaluated," his voice trails off.

You nod in acknowledgement, sensing the man's confusion.

"You’re aware of our school assemblies, right?"

His face remains stoic, so you continue.

"Father's Day, parent-teacher meetings, career days, sports day," you list a few, hoping to spark the idea in the man’s mind.

"So," he leans back against the chair, arms folded on his chest.

With an exhale, upon your failed attempt to make him take the hint, you resolve to explaining the school rules to him.

"Our school mandates that the child’s parent or legal guardian be present at at least three of those assemblies per school year. You haven’t been present on any of them, not even last year."

He lifts his chin slightly and raises his eyebrows, eyes fixed on you with a look that suggests he's waiting for more information or an explanation.

"There’s actually a policy within out school that allows teachers to prohibit the child from participating in certain activities or events if a parent is not present–"

"–you’re kidding," Leon interjects, his tone laced with disbelief.

Raising your hand, you stop him from continuing, "and your daughter is a great student, so I don't expect that to happen to her. But with your continuous absence, she's at risk of being excluded from certain activities."

"My job keeps me busy. And I don’t really have a say in it," Leon retorts.

Arms still folded across his chest, his brows furrow in frustration. Defence sets inside his flesh; jaw slightly twitching, his eyes bore into yours.

"Maybe her mother could–"

"–not an option," he stops you before you manage to finish the sentence.

You nod in understanding. Leaving forward, you hope to appeal to Leon’s sense of responsibility a little more.

"In that case; we’re having a sports day this Friday. If you could just show up to support your daughter, I could mark it as you being present."

Leon chuckles, his voice smooth. Looking out the nearby window, he stares into the field right next to the school for a moment, deep in thought. The sunlight filtering through the window casts a warm glow on his sharp features, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.

Silence passes before he speaks up, "Wouldn't a dinner suffice instead?"

You clear your throat and try to compose yourself, feeling your heartbeat pick up at the unexpected request. "That's not very appropriate, Mr Kennedy, " you say softly, attempting to hide the fluttering in your chest. "Let's see each other at the soccer match."

"Sure. I’ll see what I can do; is that all?" he asks, head turned to the side. You gaze upon the now exposed wound on his jawline, vaguely resembling a cat’s claw scratch. The bruise colors on his cheek faded over the past few days.

"Yes," you assure him.

"Y’know, this whole thing could’ve been an email."

You smile wryly, "Would you react to that email?"

Looking back at you, there’s a flicker of mischievous dancing in his eyes. Leon's gaze holds yours for a moment longer, and you find yourself drawn to the subtle crinkles at the corners of his eyes, evidence of his amusement.

"You got me there."

The sun blankets the field in gold, casting elongated shadows of the children as they scamper around in pursuit of the ball. It’s still quite early. The air’s crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and; sound of excited cheers and shouts echo throughout the surrounding area.

It’s comforting. Soothing in a way.

With a group of teachers, you watch the little girl darting across the field, her movements resembling that of a graceful gazelle as she expertly maneuvers the ball. She weaves in and out of the other players, a look of determination etched on her youthful face.

A chorus of her name echoes across the field, drifting like a wispy trail of smoke. The other kids cheer her on as she makes her way towards the goal, her tiny frame seemingly defying the laws of physics with her quick and nimble movements.

A round of applause erupts when the ball meets the back of the net. You watch as the little girl’s teammates rush to congratulate her.

"And who is that," a woman’s voice tears your gaze away from the cheerful moment, hands stopping mid-clasp.

Curious, you look at her. The other teachers already gazing to your right. To the parking lot.

Leaning against the sleek car, its design demanding attention; even from further away, he exudes an air of quiet confidence that's impossible to ignore. Eyes covered by another set of sunglasses, the same leather jacket strains against his folded arms.

Mr Kennedy.

Leon Kennedy.

Something about him always seems to draw attention; to captivate anyone who catches a glimpse of him.

It’s odd. Uncanny–

You should know better than to think in such a way about your student’s father.

–and you wonder if it’s just you who feels that way.

As the group of teachers chatter, a voice pipes up, "Is he someone's father?"

"He has to be," the conversation carries on, "or he wouldn’t be here–"

"–or he’s a creep."

Turning to face the person who said it, you scoff at the teacher before speaking up.

"He’s her dad," You nod in the direction of the girl with a beaming smile on your face, as she energetically waves at Leon. His response, though polite, is less enthusiastic, evident by the restrained movement of his hand.

Escaping the gossip, you follow the white boundary lines of the field towards your target, the soft grass crunching beneath your feet. Leon's eyes are fixed on the field, his sharp features softened by the spring glow.

But he's quick to notice your approach, turning his head ever so slightly to the left. It makes you feel naked as he shamelessly watches you coming closer.

"Mr Kennedy," you greet him.

As you approach, the warm spring breeze ruffles your hair, the sweet scent of blooming flowers mixing with his heady aroma. Posture relaxed, his broad shoulders almost blend with the darkness of the car behind him.

"Just call me Leon."

Eyes back on the field, a tinge of carelessness in his voice, a small tug on his lips. Hesitating momentarily, you put your hands in your pockets.

"I’d rather stick to being professional."

It makes him chuckle; voice rumbling with amusement–

"You’re making me feel old," he teases.

–making your chest tighten. His words brush against your ears like the gentle rustling of leaves on a cool autumn breeze.

The lightness in his tone, the hint of playfulness, stirs something deep within you.

It’s your turn to return the light laugh. The sound mingling with the chirping of birds in the distance.

"It’s good that you’re here. Your daughter seems to appreciate it as well."

Leon's eyes flicker to his daughter, still surrounded by her teammates; a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Yeah," he says, the warmth in his voice evident, "she’s been talking about this game for a week."

"She’s really talented in sports."

A cool breeze brushes against your skin as he removes his sunglasses. Eyes reminiscent of the clear waters of a mountain lake–the color seems to deepen and intensify as he looks at you, drawing you in.

"That she got from me," the corners of his mouth curve up into a charming smile. His voice deep and smooth, like a glass of well-aged whiskey. You can sense his confidence, the way he carries himself with ease, and it's hard not to be drawn in.

It's alluring. The way he exudes a sense of self-assurance.

Smiling lightly, hand resting on the cool hood of his car, you both watch the children race each other. Cheers fill the soccer fields.

Even in momentarily silence, it’s comfortable–

"Well, she certainly inherited some good genes, Mr Kennedy."

–there’s no awkward cluster around the two of you. It’s natural.

It draws Leon’s attention back to you. Arms folded, his fingers sneak around his bicep, gripping gently as he shamelessly looks at you. His face a canvas of chiseled features and sharp lines. reminiscent of a Greek statue carved out of marble. A faint scent of musk and cologne lingers around him, blending with the sweet aroma of blooming flowers in the air.

"Just so you know, miss teacher," his voice soft melody that lingers in your mind, "the dinner invitation still stands."

It’s tempting.

The words hang in the air, tantalizingly close.

A whistle cuts through the sounds of the soccer field, interrupting the moment. Leon’s attention briefly flickers towards his daughter, checking as the little girl sprints towards the two of you, before returning to your face.

"And I should remind you, Mr Kennedy, that it’s not very appropriate to ask your daughter’s teacher out."

The voice in your head keeps telling you to be professional, the thought of spending an evening with this man is hard to resist though. His confident, easy-going demeanor, the way he doesn’t give up easily–

"So? It’s just dinner," his tone is almost conspiratorial, as if he's sharing a secret with you.

–it makes you feel alive.

(Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not strictly forbidden.

Only frown upon. Harshly.)

It's like he's the sun, and you're the earth, drawn into his orbit.

"Daddy," his daughter doesn’t hesitate, jumping straight into her father’s arm; yet Leon isn’t phased at all, hoisting her into his arms, "Did you see my goal?"

"I did, pup," arm sneaking underneath her knees, you notice the bandage gone, "you killed it."

"Miss teacher," the kid addresses you, hand sneaking into her dad’s hair to hold him tightly while looking up at you with bright, curious eyes, "Did you see me? Did you see my goal?"

"Of course," you answer with a warm smile, "you did great. Seems like you got good genes for it."

The little girl beams with pride, hugging her father even tighter. Leon chuckles, the sound low and rich, and nods his head in agreement.

"I’ll see you on Monday then; pleasure seeing you, Mr Kennedy," as you turn to leave, you can't help but feel a twinge of regret.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by occasional laughter and the clink of glasses. The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the wooden booths and bar, giving the place a cozy feel. The smell of fried food and beer lingers in the air, adding to the ambiance of the traditional American pub.

From a corner, a live band plays classic rock tunes, and the patrons nod along to the rhythm, singing softly under their breaths. It's a perfect spot to unwind after a long workday, catch up with friends. Or even make new connections.

Your little freedom.

Away from responsibilities. From the stress of daily life.

This is your escape, your sanctuary, where you can let loose and just be yourself.

Coming to the bartender, you order another round for the group you’re with, only to be taken back by a familiar voice saying your name.

Turning to look at the man by your right, the white stripes on his jacket contrast against the dim, warm ambiance of the room. Fingers tapping on the rim of the glass of whiskey, he takes a sip, his gaze fixed on you; the amber liquid catching the light, casting a glow across his features.

"Mr Kennedy," you exhale, almost in disbelief by the sudden situation.

Mind whirling with surprise and curiosity; the bar is chill against your exposed arm as you lean onto it, turning to look at the man by your side.

"Wouldn’t expect a teacher to be in a bar on Friday night," he smirks, the corner of his lips curving up in amusement.

"We’re not as frigid as people have us to be," you replied, feeling a smile tug at the corners of your lips.

Voice like a smoldering flame, waiting to be ignited, he tilts the glass towards you, "Oh, really."

The allure of his presence tangible.

A gravitational pull.

"Well, Mr Kennedy," the words roll off your tongue smoothly, "I suppose we all have our ways of letting loose after a hard week."

He chuckles, the sound deep and throaty; making your pulse quicken, heartbeat pick up. "I couldn't agree more," he says, taking another sip of his drink.

You study him for a moment; taking in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, how his hair fal across his forehead in a disheveled yet stylish way. There’s something undeniably attractive about him, something that draws you in against all odds–

–like a moth to a flame.

Life has a funny way of working out.

You should stop.

But ‘should’ doesn’t exist in the moment of impulse. In the realm of desire. Pure, unblistered passion. The temptation to follow desire is too strong–

The world falls away.

–and all thought of 'should' dissipates.

Leon's hands slide around your thighs, gripping the flesh firmly as his body pushes against yours. Pinned to the wall; his lips trail the pulse of your neck. The tip of his tongue leaving wet patches on the heated skin.

The sudden intrusion of reality makes you gasp,"What about—".

It’s Leon’s hand on your breast; squeezing, teasing the clothed flesh through the thin material, thumbing at the erect nipple, that earns him a moan. His daughter’s name spilling over into a sound so soft. Inviting.

Like a hummingbird.

A content hum echoes in his chest; pressed tightly against yours. Feeling the muscles contract beneath you, respond to your movement; to the way your hips press against the growing bulge in his pants.

"—she’s stayin’ at my friend’s," he mumbles against the curve of your collarbones, teeth grazing the firm area.

With a strong grip, your fingers entangle in his hair. The texture soft and silky, like running your hands through fine threads of spun gold.

"Isn’t she young for sleepovers?"

It makes him look at you. Eyes glazed over; hungry. Primal–

He pulls you into an embrace, arm wrapping around your back, his palm cupping your ass. The heat of his body seeps through your clothing, searing your skin with its intensity, his breath ghosting over your lips as he whispers, "I really don’t wanna talk about my kid right now."

It’s a command rather than anything else.

Followed by your clothes.

He has you bare before you make up your mind.

–causing your skin to crawl.

With every touch, every whisper, every breath, he leaves you feeling more exposed, more vulnerable.

Limbs tangled together, lips pressed against each other; there’s no beginning and no end. When one begins, the other follows, like an unbroken circle of passion and desire.

Utter consumption by the fire inside you.

Leon’s hands feel scorching. Each stroke branding your skin.

He splits your apart, fills you to the brim. The head of his cock kisses the innermost parts of you as you stay seated on top of him. Nails scratching the firm muscle of his breastplate; he grips your sides. Digs his fingers into the soft, plump flesh there.

Teeth nip at your chin. Gently nibbles accompanied by your hips circling on top of him.

Cascade of groans, grunts and moans echo throughout Leon’s bedroom; each sound building on the other to create a crescendo of pleasure. The mattress beneath you creaks and strains under your knees.

Lost in the feeling.

His words a salacious melody; sung in a sultry whisper followed by his teeth, nibling at your earlobe; securing your grip on his shoulders feeling the strength of his muscles as he guides your moves.

Up and down. Up and down.

Circle your hips when your pelvis meets his. When your ass touches his thighs; when his fingers dig into the round flesh.

The rhythm builds, the tension mounting with every breath. The ache of desire deep inside, a longing that can only be sated by him. With each movement, you feel closer to the edge, your body aching for release.

Leon whispers encouragement, his voice like a caress against your skin. Head buried in the crook of your neck, your arms tighten around his shoulder. Face buried in the top of his head, the scent of him fills your senses; a heady, intoxicating aroma that envelops you in its warmth.

You breathe him in, savoring the subtle notes of bergamot and spice, the rich undertones of musk and earthiness.

Leon’s name leaves your lips in a soft, breathless moan, a prayer to the god of pleasure.

His lips brush against your collarbone, lingering there for a moment before trailing lower, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Skin erupting in goosebumps as his breath tickles your chest, your body bows like a taut bowstring, a supplication to his touch. Offering yourself up to him completely.

Hands roam over your body, tracing the curves and planes of your skin with reverent fingers. As if he knows just where to touch you.

With a strong pull and push, your back meets the hard mattress. His hands move over you like a painter's brush, each stroke bringing out a new hue of pleasure. Hips grinding against yours.

Pressing your body closer to his, chest to chest, he rocks against you. The intensity of his movements leaves you gasping for air, a low moan escaping your lips as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your skin as he continues to rut into you.

Long lost is the slow motion–

Your pelvis meets his in a harsh, demanding thrust.

–now he’s chasing his own high. His own release.

His hand slides to cup your jaw, grip your shoulder, eyes boring into yours; intense and unwavering, as if he’s trying to read your thoughts through the depth of your eyes. Consumed by the heat of you.

Head thrown back, you close your eyes; unable to match the fire in his as he grinds against you; his breaths ragged gasps, the only sound in the room the soft rustling of sheets and the slapping of skin against skin.

Leon knows he won’t last long. Not with the way your mouth remains agape, nails digging into the firm tendons of his biceps; heels digging into the flesh of his ass, pushing him deeper. Demanding him to go harder.

You just look so pretty underneath him.

Fingertips trace the warm flesh of your curves. They move slowly, mapping the supple contours of your body with precision; each touch deliberate, a way of committing the curves of your form to memory.

The sensation is electric, every nerve ending on high alert.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with teasing precision, a feather-light touch. Pushing your hips into his, he obliges your silent demand – adding a bit more pressure with each pass. The slow, steady rhythm of his touch in bright contrast to the sharp thrusts.

Building the tension inside you, until you feel like you might burst. But he doesn't let up, not yet. He's savoring every moment, enjoying the way you writhe beneath him.

Your breath hitches, body tensing as he works you with an almost clinical precision. The ache between your legs grows, spreading through your entire body. He watches you, gauging your reactions, and adjusts his touch accordingly.

The way he focuses on you, with a singular, unwavering intensity, is both thrilling and terrifying.

As for Leon, every movement, every sound, is calculated. He wants to make this last. He wants to make you lose control.

His muscles tense as he drives into you, each thrust bringing him closer to the edge. His breaths come in short gasps, matching the rhythm of your moans. The heat between you intensifies, a physical force that binds you together.

With one final push, final flick of a thumb, he takes you over the edge, his name on your lips.

Clenching around him, walls fluttering, his thrusts grow slow. Leisurely.

As if he’s tantalizing himself. Savoring the feel before he lets go with a groan; a guttural sound that echoes through the bedroom; body spasming. The two of you entwined in a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

There should be some sort of regret.

Standing by the foot of Leon’s bed, still searching for your clothes amid the scattered chaos of the apartment, covered by a random shirt you’ve found on the ground (that’s definitely not the one you’ve come with), you can’t help but be drawn to the sleeping man lying before you.

The sheets barely cover the curve of his lower back, and even in slumber, the muscles of his back remain visible; the outline of his physique remains defined and sharp, even in relaxation. The memory of his back muscles beneath your palms lingers on your skin, as if he were still present with you in that moment.

There’s no regret.

Exiting the bedroom, you walk past the kitchen into the hallway. The emptiness of the space is palpable, with nothing adorning the plain white walls; no family photos or decorations to add personality. Only the essential pieces of furniture remain. The floor creaks beneath your bare feet as you open the door closer to you–

(It’s almost like he doesn’t have anyone.

A sense of desolation creeps in you.)

–and are met with a blinding contrast to the rest of the apartment. Rainbow colored sheets neatly tucked into the small bed, pillows in shape of various animals. Light furniture covered in school supplies; and a photo decorating the nightstand.

You pick it up, immediately recognized the two people. It might be the first time you’re seeing Leon actually smile, wide and bright. Happy; with his daughter tightly wrapped in his arms. Faces pressed together, smiling at the camera.

"I hope you're not trying to steal anything," Leon's voice interrupts your reverie; low and husky, still laced by the morning sleep, "I don't have much, y’know."

As you pivot to face him, you can't resist noticing how his bare feet stand out against his fully-clothed form. Hair tousled and messy, only adding to his rugged appeal.

An irresistible wave of attraction washes over you as you scrutinize his appearance, and his playful tone only adds fuel to the fire.

"Don't worry, I'm not after your prized possessions," you reply with a smirk, feeling emboldened by his proximity.

Leon's eyes twinkle mischievously as he steps closer to you, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. "Well, in that case, what’re you after?"

"I was just looking for a bathroom."

Leon's gaze lingers on you, lips curled up in a half-smile. "The bathroom’s down the hall to the right," he points with a nod of his head.

You nod back, trying to ignore the electric sensation that courses through you at his proximity. "Thanks," you say, stepping past him towards the direction he indicated.

As you walk down the hallway, you can't shake off the feeling of emptiness that you felt earlier. It's clear that Leon lives a minimalist lifestyle, but the lack of personal touches leaves you with a sense of melancholy.

Entering the bathroom, you take a moment to splash water on your face, trying to compose yourself before facing Leon again.

His voice echoes through the small apartment as you make your way towards his voice, entering the kitchen; you're struck by how immaculate it is. Everything’s in its place, and there isn't a single dish out of place. The countertop is spotless, the sink free of any debris, the stainless-steel appliances gleam in the light.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air with the morning sun streaming through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room.

"I’ll pick her up in an hour," Leon stands in front of the refrigerator, two mugs in one hand, bare feet making a soft thumping sound against the linoleum floor. His hair’s still tousled from sleep, his t-shirt is wrinkled, clinging to his muscles as he holds the phone to his ear.

There’s a certain charm to his disheveled appearance that you find appealing.

Looking at you, he makes no effort to stop the call, instead a playful undertones his voice as he hands you a mug and motions towards the coffee machine, "yeah, just woke up. Had a long night."

Shaking your head at his words; he watches you with a small, amused smile, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

"See you then. Bye, Claire,” he ends the call, turning his full attention to you.

"Y’know, miss teacher," he pours himself a glass of water, "if you just wanted to skip the whole dinner thing, you should’ve just said."

[cookiepie111]

Inspired by @yeyinde got me thinking about regency era simon . I blacked out and wrote this. Simon x black reader. Not proofread

That questionable man that follows Mr price everywhere, the one that spoke 3 times in house when Mr. Price and his wife were away, managed to somehow disgust all the maids and servant men.

It seems you got the short end of the stick. You're the one he needs something. A drink, finding a room, a cut arm.

He's Got you cornered at the edge of the servants kitchen, presenting a bleeding hand. The servants dont make it past the door when they see his back, opting to leave him and the poor you pressed up against him.

The man's cut all over from things worse than severing knife, he'd be fine, just wrap some cloth around it. But that's no good he wouldn't have your soft hands pressing down a little too hard on the wound, wouldn't get to sit so close to you taking in all the shades of brown in your face and the smell the sweet orange perfume Mrs price gave you. He thanks you with a kiss to neck, something you told him to stop too many times before.

He's safe, it's John's maid he's messing him, if ghost asks, john will present you so nicely to him and even pay for the wedding. Only he's wrong, your Mrs. Price maid so when you cry to her about the nasty man who won't leave you alone, she's wringing John's ear out.

"Tell your dog to keep his grubby hands off my maid!"

"come on now he just being nice."

[eowynstwin]

playing the quiet game

Pairing: Price x f!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 2.9k Warnings: Dominant/submissive dynamics, established relationship, implied kink pre-negotiation, a LOT of fingering (f!receiving), a lil Price angst Tagging: @dilfconisuer who I teased with this a while back, and fellow Price simps @yeyinde @guyfieriii @alittleposhtoad Author’s Notes: I shit you not, the clock struck midnight January 1st and fireworks started going off in the middle of writing the orgasm. Happy new year! Enjoy the smut.

Now on AO3!

The world is soft and cozy as you come back into it, a little fuzzy from over-washing and dyed in the cool tones of early morning. You’re in that delicious place at the edge of sleep, mind swaying between dreams and reality, body languid and draped on your side across the bed. Touch is the first sense that comes back to you—a warm weight at your back, hips flush with your rear and legs bent along the contours of your own. You shift a little, to give yourself an excuse to settle against it.

“Mm,” John murmurs as he notices you stir, mouth against your neck, nuzzling you slowly with the wiry brush of his facial hair. The hum of his voice is low enough to vibrate between your shoulder blades.

“Mm?” you respond, scent returning next. The new detergent he’s using, gentle and mildly floral, and the fresh pine of the shampoo he washed his hair with last night. The ever-present smokey molasses that’s permanently seeped into his skin. You keep your eyes closed, saving sight for later, imagining that as long as you see nothing, John and the sheets you’re both wrapped up in can be the only thing that exists.

His hand rests on your ribcage, and smooths its way down your hip and thigh. It travels back up again, then retreats—rhythmic, even, fingers dipping and spreading at the curves and valleys of your body. It’s at the same tempo as your breath, which is normalizing as more of your mind picks reality to set up in. You can feel him breathing, too, chest rising and falling against your back, warm exhales fanning across the bare expanse of skin he’s claimed with his mouth and mutton chops.

Down your ribcage, along your hip, and back up. His other arm, you discover as you shift again, is propping him up, forearm wormed into the wedge of empty space between your neck and shoulder and the bed. His knee nudges the back of your thigh.

He paints another soft, prickly kiss on your neck, and rubs his chin and cheek into your jaw. You don’t hide the moan it inspires.

“Keep it down,” he whispers. His hand splays on your thigh. “Thin walls, love.”

You make another noise, lower, somewhere in your throat. His hand is warm on your bare skin, soft and sturdy as it travels along your body, not quite kneading but giving enough pressure to sink in, to meld your flesh like clay with every pass.

“John,” you murmur. “Mm. John…”

“Shh,” he breathes into your ear.

You feel his lips on your neck again, feel his hand divert from its established path to smooth across your belly. The spread of his fingers is wide enough to graze the underside of one breast, and you can’t help the little inhale of anticipation you give. At the same, even rhythm, John drags the flat of his hand down your stomach to its lowest border, and you forget to breathe at all for that little minute before, once again, his touch retreats from whence it came.

His mouth parts on your neck. The hot graze of his tongue meets your skin before the press of his teeth claims the space, and his hand travels just a little lower with the next pass.

Some part of you wonders if you should figure out what John has in mind right now, compare it to what you actually have time for. Off-duty or not, you’re still on base. But then the top of his thigh aligns flush with the back of yours; and you realize, the thought settling into the soft place in your mind between sleep and waking, that he would be doing none of this if he had cause not to. He already knows that you love waking up like this. He knows what circumstances in which he should not wake you up like this. When it comes to you, John Price remains in comfortable, considerate control—and leaves you only with the task of saying yes, please or not now, thank you. He has never asked you to figure out the right place or the right time.

You don’t have to worry about anything. John has already worried about it for you. Your head feels light, airy; you’d think you were slipping back into sleep, if it didn’t suddenly feel like your skin was electrified. It’s a feeling that always comes with letting go and letting him be in charge.

“John,” you murmur again, the breath in your lungs escaping, the sigh mimicking the same one he always draws from you when you finally surrender.

The seal over your skin he has with his lips and teeth gives a sharp pull. “Someday I’ll figure out how to keep you quiet,” he says, low and amused as he disconnects.

The smile that rests against your skin sends sparks dancing across your scalp.

“Don’t stop,” you say, the quiet tone of your voice laced with a yearning you can’t conceal. “Please, John…”

His palm crests the jut of your hip and glides back inward, downward, fingertips skimming the crease of your thighs. The nerves there jump to meet him, buzzing suddenly with too much energy for your still half-asleep mind to moderate. He seals his mouth over a new spot on your neck, dragging the flat of his tongue, blistering hot, along your skin.

“You’re going to leave marks,” you breathe.

“The gear covers them up,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety purr. “Be good for me, love.”

Euphoria blooms hot across your face. “Yes, John.”

He growls a little, pleased with you, and his fingers dip into your panties and between your folds.

The jerk your leg gives is involuntary. John curls his leg further inward to meet it, to keep it pushed upward, as the heat of his broad hand cups your sex. You feel the tip of one finger trace along your perineum, and a whimper makes its way out of your throat before his other hand wraps around your jaw, tilts your head backward. His mouth finds your ear, the stubble pricking at delicate cartilage.

“Not going to tell you again,” he murmurs, just a little bit of the Captain leaking into his tone. “Quiet down. Aye?”

A shiver races down your spine, makes a home in your sacrum. You nod, as much as you can in his grip. You understand the shape of his control, the intention of it; he’s not looking for a verbal affirmation, and to give one would incur consequences. You’re not opposed to his consequences—often, they’re as sweet as his rewards. But right now you want to bask in this submission, want to earn what he’s already set on giving you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tracing your lips with his index finger. His other hand kneads your pussy, that same up-and-down motion that he woke you up with, and his mouth returns to your neck, teeth sinking into another sliver of unmarked skin.

You settle into him, push your pelvis forward just a little, hoping he sees it for the offer it is rather than the demand it could be mistaken for. He chuckles against you, and teases one finger between your labia, brushes your entrance before flicking upward to surprise your clit. It makes your leg jerk again, and John only takes the opportunity to wrap around you more tightly. You feel him then, against your ass, in the cleft of it—he’s hard as iron, and ramrod-erect.

You suck your lips between your teeth, swallow, exhale a shaky breath from your nose. Pleasure radiates from the tips of his fingers, from the flex of his palm, as he traces the outlines of your sex at a pace too leisurely for early-morning sensitivity to handle. But you won’t make a sound. You’re going to be good for him. The ache between your legs begins to throb, and John must feel it, because finally he presses the pads of two fingers against your clit.

Your hips jerk against him. Sound almost makes it out of you. A gasp, a sharp inhale, but you swallow it down, and John smiles against you. He releases his teeth from you, presses a soft kiss beneath your ear, and takes up the same rhythm he’s been maintaining this whole time, a slow, steady caress that you want to whine at. His hand slides down to your throat, dwarfing the breadth of your neck—not squeezing, but monitoring. He’ll be able to feel any noise you make.

“I didn’t say you had to be silent, love,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down from your clit to swirl around your entrance—and squelching loud enough to let you both know that you’re drenched. “You just need to remember who that noise belongs to.”

You gasp when he slides a thick finger into you with not a moment of warning. “You—ah—you have to be specific, John,” you whisper, hyper-aware of your walls fluttering around him as he languidly pumps in and out of you. “I can’t be good for you if I don’t know the rules—ohh.”

He pushes in to the knuckle, curls his finger against the spot that has black spots dancing across your vision. Before they can blend together, overtake you, he withdraws, pulls out to circle your clit again, and you only wonder for a moment if this is the new rhythm before he gives the bundle a hard tap before pushing back in again.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, mouth open on your jaw, slipping a second finger into you. You have to clench your teeth to keep your mewl from becoming a moan. “And I did just wake you up, didn’t I?”

The stretch, the burn of new fullness, steals your ability to respond. The slow thrust of his hand picks up just a little, as if he wants to make it even harder for you to reply, but you’re determined. “Mm, John,” you breathe, “Let me be good for you.”

He goes still for a moment, fingers halting inside you, body tense as a drawn bowstring, and then his hand suddenly tightens around your neck—not cutting off your air, but utterly possessive, and he hooks his knee under yours to spread your thigh outward. Immediately he’s pistoning his fingers into you alarmingly quickly, and you only remember to stifle yourself at the last moment, turning a surprised shriek into a series of quick, high-pitched mewls. He thrusts against you, grinds his cock against your ass.

“You’re always good for me,” he growls into your ear, shoving in to the knuckle, flicking wildly against your g-spot. “Even when you’re not. I don’t fuckin’ deserve you, love, not a single thing you do for me.”

You want to refute him—want to tell him everything you give him is just a return on what he’s given you. But you can’t, and the only reason you can’t is that he’s fucking the breath out of your lungs with nothing but his goddamn fingers, meanwhile his cock tucked against your ass is so hard you can practically feel the throb of blood running through it.

And anyway, he doesn’t want you to tell him. This is no morning confessional, no whispered prayer to absolve his greed for you. He isn’t saying this because he thinks he’s taking advantage of you—it’s just the naked truth of what John believes, laid bare as if in offering. It’s the best way he knows how to tell you he adores you.

He’s explained all of this. You’ve told him he needs therapy. He’s laughed, and he’s agreed.

“Just don’t stop taking any of it,” you whisper, turning your head, finally opening your eyes to see his face, to drink in the muss of warm brown hair and the fray of uncombed beard. A gentle blue gaze, incongruous with the furor of his hand between your legs, meets yours. “Just don’t stop taking me.”

Dark brows draw together, etching a crease into his forehead. That blue becomes electric. “Never,” he growls, and takes your mouth with his.

His hand leaves your throat to join the other, and a third finger enters you as he resumes the massage on your clit that he’d left off. His tongue sweeps along the ridge of your teeth, probes inward to dance along your own, and at the same time he spreads his fingers inside of you, stretching you so far that you don’t think there isn’t a place in you that he isn’t touching. You think he’s filled your entire body with just his fingers, because there isn’t room in you anymore for your lungs to expand beyond shallow, whining breath. Your legs are shaking of their own accord, muscles twitching every time his fingers brush just the right spot on your clit, and you know he’s realized what he’s found when the flicker of his touch does not leave that spot.

You moan, low and breathy, keeping the sound in the back of your throat. You feel nothing but John, know nothing but the warmth of his arms caging you against his body, the searing burn of his fingers stretching you almost as wide as his cock can. His body is moving with yours, his hips pressing yours forward, shoving you farther into his hands and onto his fingers. The sheets are a mess of wrinkles around your moving bodies, and you finally remember your own arms, your own hands as they’re gripping the fabric without your input.

When your touch finds his forearms, when your nails dig into the broad muscle of them, you feel it coming fast. It’s fluttering around his fingers, pulling tight against the muscles in your thighs. Foreshocks have your body undulating against his, and you know, when his fingers thrust deep and stay there, that he can feel it coming, too.

“That’s it love,” he growls into your lips, kissing you between words. Three fingers curl into you, and you wonder if your body can break apart from the pleasure of their simple pressure behind your clit. “You’re being fucking perfect—I can feel it, fuck—come on, you’ve more than earned it, come for me—”

And all it takes for you then is his words, the rasp of his breath against your mouth, for ecstasy to explode in you from the tips of his fingers, pleasure bursting outward in a shockwave that wracks your entire body. Your breath comes short and quick as it takes you, and you whimper John’s name until he kisses you again, saving you from having to control your own volume as you lose control over everything else. He keeps fucking you as you shudder against his body, keeps up the frantic pace of his thrusting hand and the vice-like pressure he has around your clit, sending aftershocks across your body that keep you shaking and near-sobbing against his mouth. He does not let you get away from it, does not let you escape his hands, and does not stop until you go limp and boneless in his arms.

You come back to yourself, eons later, still breathing hard, panting in sync with John. His hold on you has slackened, arms still around you but loose enough that it’s easy—if not prompt, as it still feels like your muscles are jelly—to turn over to face him. He’s gazing at you, as if he wants to drink you in with his eyes alone, and that gaze is heavy-lidded and content. Neither of his hands have gone southward, searching for his cock or his own release. This is not unusual. He’s told you before that he knows he’ll get his eventually. And you know by now, too, that sometimes John finds more satisfaction in your orgasm than his own.

Every sense has come back to you now. His facial hair is softer than it looks, as you cup the side of his face, and the smell of detergent and shampoo is mingled now with the humid weight of the perspiration you two have worked up. The taste of him—you realized belatedly that he must have gotten up and brushed his teeth before this, because it’s lightly minty—is still on your tongue. His breath is heavy, but even and quieter than yours, obscured somewhat by your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears.

But the best experience is the sight of him—painted in the warming tones of a day starting to get on, t-shirt tight across his chest, skin a little flushed and shimmery with moisture. He smiles at you, blue eyes liquid with open affection, as you stroke his mustache. He’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I can’t believe you did that with your fucking fingers,” you laugh.

The smile spreads, creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad you let me.”

It’s a softness that he always expresses after he’s done anything to you. Whatever he thinks he deserves from you, he never hides his gratitude for what you give him.

When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a kiss that he lingers in, lips moving softly against yours as one hand comes to rest lightly on the back of your neck. Your elbows don’t want to prop you up for much longer, though, and you have to break away to lay your head back down.

“Good morning, John,” you say, smiling softly.

He shifts, moves closer, eyes tender as they remain settled on you. “Good morning, love.”

[jolapeno]

what colour is your aura

I’ve been tagged by @hellishjoel + @thetriumphantpanda - thank you bbys!

ORCHID

blooming flowers, butterflies, sunsets, text messages, hair dye, auroras, neon lights. your essence is orchid: you are the brightest smile and strongest heart. you inspire those around you; unconsciously, you exist for their purpose, not your own. continue to seek the limelight though do not lie just for their applause. you are the host. you are the performer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of lavender, amethyst, pink, and purple, who share your boldness. you are also drawn to the practical wine and chiffon, who will help you grow and let you take things one step at a time. however, you may struggle to get along with the analytical personalities of chartreuse and honey who don't get swept up in your ambitions.

tagging: @swiftispunk @psychedelic-ink @goodwithcheese @secretelephanttattoo @thelightsandtheroses @perotovar @eowynstwin @yeyinde ✨🩷

[madstronaut]

got totally blindsided by a whole fucking beautiful chapter on IRL a/b/o pack dynamics in a sociological nonfiction nyt bestseller book I was reading

EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU, ISABEL WILKERSON FOR INCLUDING THIS CHAPTER IN CASTE (great and challenging read btw, highly recommend) i am also honestly like why is there a whole chapter dedicated to this is she secretly an A/B/O fan LMAO

a few choice quotes for all my fellow a/b/o fiends out there:

"True alphas, the behaviorist told me, are fearless protectors against outside incursions, but they rarely have to assert themselves within the pack, rarely have to act with aggression, bark orders, or use physical means of control." speak softly carry big dstick vibes

"True alphas command authority through their calm oversight of those who depend upon them. They establish their rank early in life and communicate through ancient signals their inner strength and stewardship, assert their power only when necessary. An alpha generally eats first, decides when and who will eat afterward, inspires trust through firm shepherding for the safety and well-being of the pack."

"An alpha is not necessarily the biggest or fastest but usually the innately self-assured one who can chastise a pack member with a mere look or low voice. A true alpha wields quiet power judiciously apportioned."

"You know that you are not seeing a true alpha, or, put another way, you have encountered an insecure alpha, if he or she must yell, scream, bully, or attack those beneath them into submission. That individual does not have the loyalty and trust of the pack and endangers the entire group through his or her insecurities, through his or her show of fear and lack of courage."

"We owe our misperceptions about alpha behavior to studies of large groupings of wolves placed into captivity and forced to fight for dominance or to cower into submission. In nature, wolf packs are more likely to consist of extended family systems, packs of between five and fifteen wolves, led by an alpha male and an alpha female, whom the pack trust and has reason to trust for the survival of them all." ok let me interject here to briefly proclaim *clears throat* ALPHA FEMALE SUPREMACYYYY

"The main characteristic of an alpha male wolf is a quiet confidence, quiet self-assurance...you know what's best for your pack. You lead by example. You're very comfortable with that. You have a calming effect."

"At the bottom of the hierarchy is the omega, the underdog, the lowest-ranking wolf, arising from natural personality traits in relation to others in the pack. The omega generally eats last and serves as a kind of court jester who acts as an escape valve, often picked on by other wolves. He bears the brunt of the tensions they face in the wild, where they are subject to attack from predators or from rival packs and during lean times in the hunt for prey."

"The omega acts as a kind of social glue, allowing frustration to be vented without actual acts of war...the omega is so critical to the pack structure that when a pack loses its omega, it enters into a long period of mourning, where the entire pack stops hunting and just lays around looking miserable, as if there were no longer a reason to go on. The loss of an omega can threaten social cohesion and put the entire pack at risk. Depending on the composition of the pack, an omega might not be easily replaced. The new omega would mean a demotion for one of the lower to mid-level pack members. Either way, the pack is destabilized. After all, these roles are not artificially assigned based upon what an individual wolf looks like, as with certain other species, but emerge as a consequence of internal personality traits that surface naturally in the forming of a pack."

tagging my fellow a/b/o + werewolf au fans/moots/beloveds:

@obsidiangravity @the-californicationist @ghostgorlsworld @http-paprika @deadbranch

@gemmahale @frogchiro @yeyinde @ghouljams @shotmrmiller

(i bless you all with enough inspo and hcs and fic ideas to rival loads of rut/heat-induced knotti-)

anyway, HAPPY JULY FOLKS WHAT A GREAT WAY TO START THIS MONTH

[cherry-writes-yanderes]

COD: MW2 Yandere Headcanons (Ghost, Soap & Price)

A/N: so down bad, y’all- (also i was inspired by @yeyinde​ , especially for the Price stuff bc hhh- anyway ily and your writing is phenomenal <3)

as always: like & reblog if you enjoy my work~

cw: gender neutral reader, spoiler free, drugging, stalking/night stalking, Ghost goes on a panty raid (but it’s just your toothbrush), jealousy, kidnapping, abuse of power, murder, blackmail, manipulation, noncon touching (non-sexual), Price’s part gets a lil steamy bc i am feral but that’s what we want amirite babes? ;3 (nothing nsfw tho so it’s okay <3)

Simon “Ghost” Riley

The Stalker

The yandere you never see coming. Ever.

Of course you never see him coming, he knows you too well to let you see him

He’s a hardcore watcher when it comes to obsession, choosing to protect you from afar

For now.

He’ll look up from whatever he’s doing to watch you from across the room, barely able to hear your voice but enough to see your form

The famous Ghost isn’t proud to admit it but... he has come into your room before...

While you were sleeping...

Did you know you mumble a bit? He finds it cute~

The touch-starved man will kneel at the edge of your bed, rubbing your lips with his calloused fingers almost as a subliminal plea for you to fall as deeply for him as he has for you

He’s taken things from your room before as well

Nothing too crazy, though! A shirt that he knew for sure you wouldn’t miss, a bracelet, your toothbrush

Anyways-

When you engage in a conversation with him, he is over the fucking moon istg

He acts all serious and stoic on the outside, but on the inside his heart is beating so fast that he feels like it’ll burst out of his chest like a wrecking ball

These interactions don’t happen often, but they do fan the flame immensely, to the point where he decides to take action

Indeed, the yandere you never see coming... until he gives you some tea

A gruff “drink” command tumbles off of his tongue

He’s staring you down as you bring the cup to your lips, innocently sipping away

He adores how much you trust him

Soon enough, you’re falling right into his arms

Right where you always belonged.

John “Soap” MacTavish

The Killer

I feel like Soap’s not one to fall easily for people, but when he saw you for the first time he just fucking melted

He’s kind and genuine to you, although still just a bit rough around the edges

Especially when others are around when you two are talking

You notice right off the bat how tense Soap can get when others speak to you, and you chalk it up to him just being a bit overprotective; with his line of work, that wasn’t surprising

You were indeed oblivious to the fact that he was working to protect you right under your nose; and he adored that you never found out until it was too late

I strongly believe that Soap is one of the only ones to turn to murder rather quickly, opting to protect you in more ways than just with his physical form being near

Keep in mind, people are the next target even with the wrong wrist movement; a side eye to your form, or even a stare too many

The people you talk to regularly start to dwindle down gradually

Until it’s just him that you turn your face to, which he is so, so happy about!

His favorite part is looking into your pretty eyes

When you caught him cleaning up a certain mess... Your eyes got so wide!

He thought it was so cute!!!~

Soap tried to approach you, but you kept questioning the blood on his face

“Why are you askin’? It doesn’t matter, that guy was bothering you!”

You started to cry and fight, but that was okay!

He can just wrestle you down in that chair over there with some duct tape, and you can take a breather while he finishes up over here! After that, he’ll take you home, don’t worry!

Blood is very hard to clean... but his namesake is for a reason, right?

John Price

The Manipulator

This man knows what he’s doing.

Which is obviously good for him, but absolutely not for you

It starts small at first

He calls you close to speak with him on trivial matters, ones that don’t mean much by the end of the day

This is mostly just to observe you, to watch what makes you tick and fidget

What makes your cheeks heat up...

Soon enough, those same things are playing against you

Within a week, he’s got you sitting on his desk, his warm hand gripping your thigh and his tongue deep down your throat when you’re supposed to be on duty somewhere else

You try to convince him that this is wrong; that you’re here to do your job, and this relationship was most likely against the rules

He’ll only chuckle lowly at your antics, knowing full well that you’ll always come back to him

He’ll brush your side during meetings with the group, just to see you get flustered in front of everyone

He finds you just so adorable, he can hardly stand it~

And when you decide to stop coming to see him, obviously he needed to take action

After a week of you doing your best to avoid Price, he calls you in and says it’s “urgent matters”

You rush into his office, thinking that it was a comrade’s fall or a family member on the phone for you

But no.

Price is sitting in his chair, heavy boots on the desk and a thick cigar in his hand

Your confused look is met with a deep, gravelly laugh and a short and sweet explanation

It seems that - since you decided not to listen to your superior’s orders - you were to be discharged immediately under the discretion of Price himself

Before you could even get a word in, the taller man pushes you into his desk and traps you physically as well as mentally

“What now, love? Hm...?” He asks softly, his lips brushing softly against your throat

You didn’t want to leave, this place and the people here felt like home!!

It didn’t take long for you to be begging Price for forgiveness

And, as a gracious Captain would, he grants you mercy...

Under his rules, of course~

[gauloiseblue]

Gauloiseblue's Bookmarks

A/N: Since there's no bookmark system like they had in AO3, I decide to make one on this site. Will update the list from time to time.

COD

Price

[The True Me] by @i-am-hungry-24-7 Useless by @syoddeye Lazy Saturday Mornings by @clementine-thedestroyer Price and Beauty Mark by @ohmygraves Growing older with john price. by @obsessivelullabies Growing older with john price; smut. by @obsessivelullabies Ex-husband price, but the “ex” lays on significantly blurred lines now. by @captainfern Ex Husband!Price by @moongreenlight (A/N: you have NO idea what this fic had done to me) The boys all collectively realize that you are the captain’s favourite by @dante-mightdie weird HC by @theycalledhimastar

Gaz

lavender skies by @yeyinde (A/N: Gaz girlie, please read this I'm begging-) I may love Kyle, but I can totally admit when he acts like a total weirdo (he doesn’t, he’s perfect). by @theycalledhimastar

König

Ex-Lover Konig with runaway reader by @diejager Dog Hybrid König by @comfortless Hades!Konig and Persephone!reader by @comfortless Aroura Borealis by @clementine-thedestroyer Underground Fighter!König X Rich!Reader by @melancholic-thing

Soap

Rugby player soap fucks you after a win by @vanderilnde Pushy ass cbf!johnny and benefit pay by @shotmrmiller Valentine Days with Soap by @killerpancakeburger cbf!johnny as the dog he is by @ghouljams

Ghost

soulmate au with ghost but it's the fucking opposite of rainbows and sunshine by @bi-writes

Poly/HC

Fancy (Vampire! Poly! 141 x Plus size! Fem! Reader) by @swordsandholly 141 80’s Arcade AU by @clementine-thedestroyer TF141 and "can I try your drink?" By @syoddeye (A/N: don't @ me) 141 when they need attention by @void-my-warranty TF141 when you gave him hickey when you're drunk by @gloomwitchwrites

The Arcana

Asra's Love by @bahrtofane Teen Asra and puppy love headcanons by @smoke-and-silver Trip adventures with Asra by @smoke-and-silver Arcana and Weddings (fanarts) by @bastart13

Random/Miscellaneous

A/N: I put all of the Ghost Band stuff here bc I'm not officially into the fandom, but they're so irresistible to read hnggg

THEN // if (then) FINAL PART (Ghoap Comic) Roach's puppy eyes Korangi pt. 1 Korangi pt .2 Korangi (sus) pt. 3 Korangi (even more sus) pt. 4 Ghoap food pt. 1 👍👍 Self-care (Ghoap short comic) Capt Price having a cheeky wank (audio) Barry Sloane thirst trap (maybe) Bare chested Barry- Barry ugly ass poems (i'm horny) Barry Sloane seducing clip ASMR Barry talking ASMR Barry (Price) pt. 2 The band Ghost wildin' Ghost band shenanigan: part 1 The Ghouls + Rut Season (HC) Swiss meets red velvet ‘you’ve got to press it on you.’ (Ghost Band HC) Nameless Ghoul NSFW headcanons Swiss relationship and NSFW headcanons .... yeah I'm normal I swear St. Vincent *heart eyes* Miyazaki's Retirement Declarations (chronologically) Hayao Miyazaki's "Inspirational" Quotes The Hand

Web Weave | Poetry

not romantic not platonic but a secret third thing [what would happen between earth and the moon if the earth stopped spinning as illustrated by xkcd randall munroe] - Lyudmilla Ignatenko, the wife of deceased firefighter Vasily Ignatenko, Voices from Chernobyl, by Svetlana Alexeivich (transl. Keith Gessen) Robin Wood, “Psychoanalysis of Psycho” | Stoker (2013) dir. Park Chan-wook Stoker (2013) dir. Park Chan-wook and "The Lady of the House of Love" by Angela Carter This Is Me (Stoker 2013) Rice Paddies Home (What Is Home?) Whenever I see you, I remember AM I MAKING YOU FEEL SICK? // DEVOTION THAT EATS YOU ALIVE

[marblemoovt]

Bake A Wish - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Fluff with a smidge of angst

Summary:

You bump into a man and his daughter at the grocery store. The kid is really insistent you join them for dinner.

------

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.” Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL.

Note:

This has been sitting in my wips for over a month but it's finally done!! I apologize if the quality feels sporadic throughout the fic. Writing consistently is just something I can't seem to do and my motivation/inspiration has been in a slump lately. The amount of fluff fics I've written that involve baking is ridiculous, I didn't realize that's the activity I default to lol.

I've never written for John before, so I'm still trying to get a feel for his character.

Anyways, thank you @yeyinde for introducing John Price to me. I was debating on not tagging you but I can't be a coward forever.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

John holds the hand of his six-year-old daughter, Rose. The little munchkin is a ball of energy, and he fears the consequences if he were to let her run wild. “Don’t let go of my hand, ok Rosy?” Rose grins with more mischief than a little child should have. She attempts to run away, and John scoops her in his arms.

“I’m too big to be carried, Daddy!” she squeals, arms flinging around his neck to stabilize herself. The scent of her strawberry shampoo tickles his nose.

“You have to promise me you’re not going to do that again,” he says. Rose holds out her pinky, and he accepts her promise. Her finger looks tiny and frail compared to his. He sets her down and ruffles her hair despite her whinging. “Do you remember what we came here to buy?” he asks.

She claps her hands with glee and exclaims, “Cookies for Santa!!! Because Daddy can’t bake, so we have to buy cookies from the store!” John smiles, but he can’t help but feel the sting of her bluntness. Kids are way too honest.

“What kind of cookies do you want to get?” he asks.

“Not chocolate chip. Everyone uses chocolate chip.” She strokes her chin, imitating the gesture she’s seen her father do whenever he has to think hard about something. “Candy cane cookies!” She ponders over it for another minute before nodding her head. “I bet Santa’s never gotten candy cane cookies before.”

“I don’t think they sell those, rosebud,” he says, and she frowns.

“I guess they’re too special to sell in a store,” she laments, her enthusiasm wilting a little.

John crouches down to Rose’s eye level. “Why don’t we look at all the cookies they have and pick one afterwards?” he suggests.

“Ok,” she sighs, holding her hand out for him to grab. Large, calloused fingers swallow her hand whole, and John wonders how much longer it will stay like this. Her brown locks are a few inches longer than last time, but the beaming smile on her face when she sees him remains constant. He blinks the heat away from his eyes and leads Rose to the snack aisle. 

There’s an entire shelf dedicated to cookies, some of them themed for the holidays. But the snowflake shortbread cookies further deflate Rose. She droops when they come across sugar cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. John silently curses the corporate companies for manufacturing every winter holiday cookie except for a candy cane. He squeezes her hand, and his heart aches when he catches Rose biting her lip. Tears are on the verge of spilling, but she will not cry. He actually can’t remember the last time he’s seen her cry. The thought bothers him more than he wants.

John spots a box of rainbow cookies on the top shelf. He releases her hand to grab them, “What about these?” When he turns around, Rose is gone. The box tumbles to the ground. “Rose?” His eyes sweep the shelves. Rows of cookies and other snacks, but no sign of her. “Rosy?!” He begins jogging through the store, checking every aisle before moving on to the next. Icy claws grip his chest, and all of his senses are on high alert. He fidgets with the dog tags around his neck and has to remind himself that he’s not on duty.

Sharp laughter slices through the pounding in his eardrums; a high-pitched fit dissolves into familiar giggles. Rose. He flexes his clenched fists to relieve the stinging in his palms. He pinpoints the sound to the baking section and sprints like a madman. Sliding to a stop, he spots her at the other end of the aisle. His body sags against a shelf, and the air enters his lungs with ease once more.

“My Daddy’s amazing! He can shoot bad guys from reeeeally far away,” Rose brags to a stranger crouched in front of her. That stranger is you.

A faint giggle grabbed your attention. Twinkling lights accompanied by the pounding of tiled flooring. A little girl beelined straight toward you, veering to the side to hide behind a display of chocolate bars. She covered her shoes with her hands to dull the blinking, peering around for someone. She spotted you holding a bag of flour and asked if you bake. Her eyes lit up when you confirmed that you do. 

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.”

Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL. You don’t have the heart to correct her. Correction: You’re too busy trying not to collapse on the floor in a fit of laughter. The misunderstanding is best left alone, but your curiosity is piqued. What does this man look like?

“Rose!” A voice booms from the other end of the aisle, and the child hides behind you. You stand up and shield her with your body, eying the stranger with a frown. Brown hair with silver streaks, and his eyes—fuck, you wish the sky would be that blue instead of grey. He approaches you two, and when Rose makes no further movements, you stick your arm out to block him.

“Who are you?” you ask. He must be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and built like he could beat you into a bloody pulp if he wanted. 

He mirrors your frown, eyes flickering to the brown hair peeking behind your figure. “I should be asking you that. Who are you, and what are you doing with my daughter?”

You narrow your eyes. “How do I know you’re not some pervert who kidnaps children?”

He chuckles; the low rumble sends the butterflies rampaging against your stomach walls. “Sweetheart, I could say the same about you,” and he crosses his arms—his thick and muscular arms. The way his biceps bulge underneath his sweater…. You bite your lip. The metallic tang in your mouth grounds you. You swipe a tongue across the fresh wound, and the sting helps you regain a few brain cells. 

Turning to Rose, you ask, “Is this your dad?” and squeeze her hands. “You can tell me if it isn’t, and we’ll find a nice employee to help you.” You talk slowly, enunciating each word with care. Rose glances at the man behind you before settling on your face. 

She cups her hands around her mouth, and you lean in, her warm breath tickling your ear. “Yeah, that’s my dad. What do you think? Super handsome, right?” she whispers. You glance at him and huff. A fucking dill, indeed. 

“Rosy, stop bothering the nice stranger,” her father says, gesturing for her to come to him. She skips over and fails to dodge his hand. Rose groans and buries her face into her father’s stomach as he ruffles her hair. You avert your eyes and ignore the heat that prickles the back of your neck. Wringing your hands, you stare at the floor as their laughter echoes in the aisle. You hardly know these people. Plus his wife must be somewhere in the store, ready to pop out at any second. 

“The ‘stranger’ has a name,” you speak up, introducing yourself. You keep your eyes trained on the shelf of sprinkles above his right shoulder as if the plastic bottles of sugar will stop you from falling.

He holds out a hand for you to shake. “John, John Price.” Firm warmth envelopes your skin and dissipates far too quickly for your liking. Sparks of electricity fizzle before they get a chance to light your nerves on fire—and you want to burn.

“Heh, P as in Pickle,” you snicker, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. Your arm drops to your side, and your bones turn to lead. The sky must be grey because all the blue was stolen and contained in his eyes. There’s no coldness, no ice, only calm ripples of water. The gentle drag of the ocean as the waves lap against the shore, inviting you into its depths.

John raises a brow. “An odd observation, but yes.” He smooths Rose’s hair to no avail. Baby hairs and cowlicks in all different directions are a continuous reminder that he’s been meaning to learn how to style hair. 

Rose beams at him with her toothy grin. “Cause Daddy’s a dill!” she adds.

John’s confused expression quickly morphs into one of horror. “Where did you hear that?!” He narrows his eyes at you. 

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me. This is the first time we’ve met.”

Rose tugs on his shirt and says, “That lady who used to babysit me. She also called you a fox, but I told her you’re a man.” Your eyes widen, and your shoulders tremble. John runs a hand through his graying hair, and you rip your gaze away because witnessing that felt illegal. Every time you look at him you notice another thing that attracts you.

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about her. I love Rose, but she can be a handful at times,” he says, whispering the second half. His head tilts forward, and now all you can focus on is how his moustache frames his mouth. Plump and pink.

Your lips crook upwards in a slant. “It’s not a problem. She’s an entertaining conversationalist.” You find yourself drawing nearer to his face, wandering from the shore and deeper into the ocean—oblivious to the current that will pull you under.

Rose tugs on your shirt and asks, “Why don’t you join us for dinner?” You pull away with a sharp inhale, processing how John’s eyes flicker to your lips. The little girl gazes at you with a hopeful smile, but you look to her father for confirmation. 

“Rose, you can’t invite people you barely know to your home,” he reprimands, and her smile flatlines. It’s probably for the best. At the current pace, it’s like you’re in a sappy romance novel! John shoots you an apologetic smile, but you wave your hand and shake your head in understanding. 

Rose pouts and stares at her shoes. She shuffles her feet, and the lights twinkle with each tap. “But then there’ll be someone who can bake cookies,” she says, looking up at him with puppy eyes. John winces.

You notice him wracking his brain for a response and decide to help him. “They sell rolls of sugar cookie dough; next to the puff pastry,” and you jerk a thumb behind you. Sometimes you buy a roll or two when you feel particularly lazy but crave cookies. 

John mouths a “Thank you” and holds Rose’s hand. “C’mon, rosebud. Let’s buy some, and you can make your candy cane cookies.” 

Rose perks up at the mention of cookies, her shoes now fighting to match the brightness of her eyes. “Wow! They sell everything here!” She drags him to the pre-made dough section. Well, she tries to drag him. Rose is less than half her father’s size. It reminds you of those cartoon characters that try to move a comically large boulder. Blue eyes meet your gaze one last time and wink at you. 

Did. Did he just?

You stand there, unblinking, staring at the corner they disappeared behind. 

Holy fucking shit. He did. 

You don’t register going through the checkout and packing your things in the car. With a blink, you’re in front of the steering wheel, key in hand. Where were you...? Home. You were on your way home. Slotting the key in the ignition, you start the engine and begin the drive home. For once, the clouds have gone, and the world mocks you with its clear skies. You don’t think you can stand to look at the colour blue for a while. It’s a good thing you’re sitting right now. 

The drive itself is unremarkable. You go through the same streets, pass the same buildings, pull into the same parking lot, and park in your usual spot next to a truck. You admire the muscular arm resting on said truck window. Funny. Guess that sweater is popular around here. Large hands run through brown hair flecked with grey—John.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

You creep out of your car and circle around to the apartment building, abandoning your groceries.

Just a few feet. Just a few feet, and you’ll make it to the door. Conscious of your steps, you slink across the pavement and concrete. You wrap your hand around the handle, and the tension bleeds from your shoulders. 

“Are you playing hide and seek, too?” a voice from below asks. You jerk and pull the door instead of pushing. A loud rattle echoes in the vicinity. Who decided it was a good idea to make doors out of glass? A sadist who likes to watch people open doors incorrectly, that’s who. You glance down. Long lashes frame blue eyes that stare into your soul. Your fingers itch to adjust the cowlick in the disarray of her hair. You spot a few leaves clinging to her locks. Was she hiding by that bush beside you?

“Are you hiding from your dad?” you ask Rose, scooting behind the potted plant when she beckons you closer.

Rose shrugs and peeks around you. “Daddy was taking too long. I’m waiting to see when he’ll notice I left.” 

Your brows pinch together. “That’s not safe, Rose. You should stick close to him. What if something bad happens to you?”

“Don’t worry, I have a lot of uncles, and they taught me how to beat up baddies!” She punches the air a few times. Her face pulls tight in concentration before loosening into a grin. She shrinks behind the bush and brings a finger to her lips.“Now shhh, we have to be quiet.”

Boots thud against the pavement, the strides between each step growing shorter. “Rosy! Where did you run off to this time?” There’s a divet to his tone beneath the loudness, like the warning tremors of an avalanche. “I need to put that girl on a leash.” There’s a smile in his tone, but it stretches taut like a rubber band, ready to snap and whiplash you with his increasing agitation. He runs a hand down his face and sighs, eyes darting across the rows of cars. 

You can’t watch this any longer. You move to reveal yourself, but Rose beats you to it. She tiptoes behind her father, giving up halfway and slamming herself into him. 

“Boo!” Rose screams, voice muffled by his shirt. 

John stares at Rose and shouts half a second later. “Ah!” Half a second too late.

Rose pulls away with a sullen frown. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

John crouches down and pets her hair. “No, no, rosebud. Was so afraid I forgot how to talk,” he insists. 

Rose gives him a scrutinizing look. “Liar,” she pouts. John leans in and whispers something into her ear, scratching her smooth cheek with his beard. She giggles and squirms, pushing his face away with both her hands. He deliberately rubs their cheeks together, and it causes her to laugh harder. 

Once again, you’re watching the two of them from afar. Heat pricks your skin, and your gaze steers toward the door. You should be able to slip unnoticed if you’re quiet. Standing up, you wince as your joints pop. You might as well hang a giant neon sign to denote your presence. 

John’s voice glues your feet to the ground. “Let’s bring everything inside, then you can bake your cookies,” he says. You press your back against the wall and exhale through your nose. No big deal. You just need to wait until they head inside first. Your palms dig into the stony material of the building. As if with enough force, you’ll be able to reorganize your atoms and disappear into the walls to escape dying from embarrassment. 

“I have a surprise for you, Daddy!” Rose’s voice draws nearer.

You are a wall. A silent, still, and formidable wall.

“Did you find another pretty stone?” John asks, tone laced with amusement. 

You close your eyes, but the ocean will not leave you alone. The waves lap at your feet on the shore, and you shrink away. Stone presses hard into your back.

They won’t find you. They’ll walk past you and go inside. Your erratic heartbeat fragments your thoughts into mismatched puzzle pieces. You can’t think with all this drumming and adrenaline.

“It’s pretty, but it’s not a stone.” Rose runs up to you and tugs you from your hiding spot. “A special guest for dinner!” she presents you like a prized animal. You stumble, and your eyes snap open in fear of hitting the ground. Strong arms rush forward to steady you. You lift your head, and your mouth dries.

Cerulean eyes pull you into their depths, crinkles forming at their edges. John’s accent caresses your ears, and you tamp down the unintelligible noise that threatens to destroy your last shred of dignity. “I didn’t know you lived here too,” and the corners of his lips twitch.

You force your tongue to articulate, the words scraping like sandpaper up your throat. “Neither did I—that you also lived here! Cause I know that I live here because I live here!” A shaky laugh warbles out of you. “I wasn’t following you because that would be creepy—and I’m going to shut up now.” You seal your lips together before you can dig a deeper hole for yourself. His hands are still on you, fingers wrapped around your arms. Your blood sings at the contact. 

“Do you think Daddy’s handsome?” Rose blurts out. Flames lick your skin, and your mouth becomes reminiscent of a goldfish. 

John’s fingers dig into your arms, and it’s not until you flinch that his hands drop to his sides. “That’s not a polite question, Rose,” he rumbles. It’s low, a warning. But when you’re a kid, you’re not afraid of anything.

Rose places her hands on her hips. “But you were like this in the car on the way home too! And when I asked you what was wrong, you told me I was too young to understand. I’m not stupid, Daddy. I’m six.” She stomps on ‘six.’ And you watch as this little girl brings this burly man to his knees. 

John sighs, “Not here, Rose. Please.” 

But Rose refuses to yield. “Why not? You both like each other, so why can’t we have dinner together?” she asks.

John rubs the back of his neck, the muscles in his arms flexing. “Would you like to join us tonight?” he asks, eyes flickering between your face and the parking lot behind you. 

“I’m afraid Rose will kidnap me if I don’t say yes,” you joke. 

Rose grumbles, “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud.” She grabs your hand and tugs you to the entrance. “Daddy can bring the groceries inside. I want to show you my toys!”

You dig your heels into the ground and say, “I need to bring my things inside as well. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Rose’s smile falters, and she reluctantly lets you go.

“Don’t worry, Love. I can take care of that for ya,” John offers

You fidget with the keys in your pocket. “Are you sure?” You’re not worried about him stealing your car. He can’t exactly hide if you two live in the same building. Besides, you want to believe that the kindness in his eyes is genuine. 

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” he reaffirms. 

“Ok,” and you hand him your car keys. His fingertips graze your palm, and you shiver. God, you’re pathetic. Rose tugs on your arm, and you trail after her. She leads you up a few flights of stairs before stopping on the third floor, where you also live. Except she walks to the opposite end of the hallway, away from your apartment. She pulls a key out of her pocket and unlocks the door.

Rose drops your hand and runs inside, returning with a stuffed animal in her arms. “This is Mr. Bear. Daddy got him for me!” Mr. Bear is wearing tactical gear and a bucket hat. Frayed threads stick out of his body along the seams, and small patches of fur have fallen out. She cradles the stuffed animal close to her chest and rests her chin atop his head. 

You nearly melt on the spot. “That’s very sweet of him,” you say.

“Sometimes, when I miss him, I just need to squeeze Mr. Bear tight.” She gives you a demonstration.

A familiar warm timbre greets your ears.“I love you, rosebud.” 

You grin and say, “Your dad reminds me of a bear.”

“Yeah! He’s big and cuddly. But his face turned red when I told him,” Rose mumbles the last part. She straightens up and tugs on your arm. “Oh! And these are my action figures!” 

You walk into what you assume is her bedroom. It’s not as chaotic as you thought it would be. Her bed is in one corner of the room, with a collection of stuffies sitting along one side. There’s a shelf with knickknacks and picture frames. Your eyes land on a photo of John holding a small bundle in his arms. It looks like the picture was taken without him knowing. His eyes are wide, staring at the tiny hand wrapped around his thumb. 

There’s something that’s been bothering you, but you don’t think it’s your place to ask. Rose startles you when she starts barking out, “Hold your fire! We can’t alert the enemy of our whereabouts!” You whip around to see her sitting on the ground with a mini soldier in each hand. The large tub behind her is open, the lid propped neatly against its side. You sit next to her and watch the ‘mission’ play out. She hands you a soldier and assigns you the special position of super spy. Now a successful job rests on your shoulders.

Thanks to Captain Rose, your team retrieves the files, returning without a single casualty. Although you had a close encounter with the enemy’s Captain Pickles, which began some sort of enemies-to-lovers arc. You don’t know. She’s six. She reasoned that the power of love triumphs over all. Rose begins cleaning up, setting the toys neatly in the bin before snapping the lid shut.

“Did you learn all that from your dad?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and picks up Mr. Bear. “Daddy never tells me anything about work. It’s classified. Sometimes I watch TV. There’s a show where one of the characters looks just like him, but Nana doesn’t let me watch much 'cause it’s not for kids.” Dear lord. Could you imagine being sandwiched between two Johns?? 

“Rosy? Want to bake your cookies now?” John shouts from the corridor, snapping you out of your fantasy.

“Yes, please!” Rose replies. She grabs your hand and gives you a toothy grin. “You can be my assistant. Daddy’s hopeless at baking.” She leads you to the kitchen, where some bowls and a tray are on the table. Rose lets go and skips to a seat, plopping herself down. Mr. Bear is seated on the chair next to her.

You sit at her other side and ask, “What kind of cookies are we making?” There are no cookie cutters in sight to give you a clue. 

Rose clasps her hands together. Her feet swing beneath the table. “Candy Canes! Santa will be so impressed that he’ll grant my wish for sure,” she answers.

You don’t know what a six-year-old would ask from Santa, but you sincerely hope it’s fulfilled. Perusing the items on the table, you notice a vital ingredient missing. “Do you have food dye?” you ask. 

Rose strokes her chin. She hops off her chair and walks up to John. “Daddy, do we have any food dye?”

John’s head peeks out from behind the fridge door. “Sorry, Rosy. I don’t remember,” and there’s a sheepish grin on his face. 

Rose hums and grabs a stool, tottering to the drawers. “I forgot. You went away for a while. I think Nana left some the last time we baked.” Your eyes snap to the fridge when you hear a thud. An apple rolls across the floor and stops near your feet. You pick up the fruit, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming underneath its skin. “I found red!” Rose waves a small bottle in her hand and dashes to show you. 

You set the apple on the table and praise Rose. Her chest puffs up, and the smile she gives you is dazzling. She hops onto her seat, clutching the bottle to her chest. 

John walks up to you two. “Here’s the dough,” and he holds out the cylindrical tube but changes his mind and leaves it on the table. The only seats left are the ones across. He picks the spot in front of you. 

“Thanks.” You snap the tube open and remove the packaging. “Alright, Rose. We split the dough in half, and you’ll colour one part red.”

Rose cocks her head to the side. “We don’t paint the cookies?”

You shake your head and say, “There’s an easier way to make them look like candy canes.” You hand Rose a wooden spoon and tell her to mix the dough while you add the dye. Once half the dough is red, you take equal parts from both bowls and roll them into noodles. Putting them together, you twist them to form a cane. You curve one end, and the result is a near-perfect replica of a candy cane. Rose marvels at the sight, face inches from the table’s surface. 

There’s a streak of food colouring on her face, and you grab a tissue for her. She’s engrossed in the cookie, picking it up and turning it over. Out of impulse, you wipe the stain on her cheek and her laughter tinkles throughout the room. She complains about being ticklish between her giggles. A low sigh draws your attention. You look over to John, who’s watching you with his head propped up with his hand. “What? Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

There’s a softness to John’s features. He looks at you like you’re holding his heart in your hands, squeezing the pulsating organ with every cookie you form. “Do good looks count?” It’s barely audible, but you hear it. His elbow slips from the table, and he clears his throat. “Just been a while since I’ve seen her so happy.” He folds his arms across the table, a wall of muscle to create a false sense of distance. 

You gesture your head at Rose. “Make a cookie with her; have fun together.”

John stares at the table, stroking his chin in a familiar fashion, but remains silent otherwise. You chew on the inside of your cheek and resume forming the cookies. The squeal of wood scraping against wood pricks your ears. John squeezes himself into the space between you and Rose. His shoulders brush against you, and he is radiating heat. “What have you got there, Rosy?” he asks.

Rose looks at him with furrowed brows. “A candy cane, silly. Here, I’ll show you how to make it,” she answers. Rose does a quick demonstration, but John still struggles. Somehow he’s managed to mix the parts to create pink. Rose shakes her head, lips tugging into a frown. “My hands are too small; can you help him?” She turns to you. Long lashes frame her doe eyes, and you can’t bring yourself to say no.

You glance at John to find he’s staring at you. Shifting in your seat, you say, “If you don’t mind…?”

John maintains eye contact. “I’m all yours,” and the smile he gives you is bashful. You fight the warmth rushing to your cheeks, but it’s like trying to douse a flame with gasoline. The heat intensifies, and you grab a tissue to wipe your clammy hands, muttering an excuse about the dye staining your skin. 

You focus on the table, resisting the temptation to turn your head and meet the gaze burning into your face. “You take equal parts of each dough and roll them into logs.” You pause to make sure he’s following along. “Once they’re the same size, you can twist them together to form a cane.” John is about to mush his cookie as children tend to do with playdough; always mixing the colours. You grab his hands to stop him. His fingers twitch against your palms, but he doesn’t recoil. “Like this,” and you twist your cookie, rolling it some more to flatten the cane.  

“You make it sound so easy,” John huffs.

You shrug your shoulders. “It’s not too bad once you get the hang of it.”

John shakes his head. “Give me a pistol, and I can field strip and reassemble in a few minutes.” He holds up a warped cookie. “This, this I can’t do.”

You bump your shoulders together. “I’ll have you baking like a pro.”

John grins; it’s boyish and charming—it pulls you in like a flower reaching for a ray of sunlight. “Is that a promise?” he asks, lashes framing an expanse of blue. And once again, you are hopelessly lost at sea. 

“Only if you’ll invite me over again,” you quip.

“Is this flirting?” Rose asks. Her head pops up behind John’s shoulder. “If Daddy won’t invite you, I will.”

You smile as John buries his face in his hands. “Thank you, Rose,” you say.

She returns the gesture with a wide grin. “You’re very welcome.”

You continue making the cookies in silence, gaslighting yourself into thinking that the numerous brushes against your hand are accidental. 7/10 times you’re grabbing something, John also happens to be reaching for the same item. The cookie under your palm flattens into a pancake when his body leans ever-so-slightly into yours. Thankfully this is the last cookie, and you place it on the baking tray with the rest.

Rose insists on putting the tray into the oven herself, and John watches her like a hawk, hovering behind her in case he needs to step in.

Once John’s certain the apartment won’t burst into flames, he rolls up his sleeves. You eye the veins along his arms as subtly as you can, wincing like a child caught in the act of misbehaving when John speaks. “Can you please help Rose clean up? I need to get started on dinner,” he asks.

“Yes, Chef,” and you give a mock salute. “Alright, Rose. I’ll wash all the dishes in the sink. Can you wipe the counter?” you ask her.

Rose straightens her back and nods. “Affirmative,” she replies, marching to grab a towel. 

You begin collecting the bowls and utensils, plugging the drain afterwards to fill up the sink. A few drops of soap and a mountain of suds form. With a sponge, you begin scrubbing away at bits of dried-up dough and red dye. In the corner of your eye, Rose is reprimanding Mr. Bear on how he needs to pull his weight too and that it doesn’t matter if he’s not heavy because he’s full of stuffing. 

“You’ve got an adorable soldier,” you say, turning your head to John, who’s heating a pan on the stove.

John watches Rose with deep affection. Those are the eyes of a man staring at the purpose of his existence. “She’s a trooper, alright,” and the smile on his face is lax.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” you ask, adding more soap to your sponge. The remaining traces of dye are giving you grief.

“Fish and chips; one of Rosy’s favourites,” John answers.

“Daddy makes the best!” Rose pipes up.

John shakes his head, and the base of his neck flushes. “She’s exaggerating,” he says.

You smirk, “I’ll be the judge of that.” The chuckle your words elicit from John fills you with a pleasant buzz.

“I have to warn you. I aim to please,” and the lilt in John’s voice encourages you further.

“Yes, you certainly look the type,” you say, eyes trailing up and down his figure. John’s body trembles under your gaze. “Is it just you and Rose here?” You don’t know if he’s divorced, but you don’t recall seeing a ring on his finger.

“She’s dead,” John says. Concise and well-practiced. The plate in your hand slips and splashes into the sink with a thud, shattering the silence. You look over at John, but his back is to you. Shoulders hunched and head low. “Died during childbirth,” he adds, and the slight wobble churns your stomach. You should have known. Should have guessed from how the pictures on the walls only contain two subjects. Rose only ever talks about her father and grandparents. How could you be so fucking blind?

You crush the sponge in your hands, and bubbles seep out between your fingers. An apology is on the tip of your tongue, straining under the weight of your rapid thoughts. Day one, and you’ve already stepped on a mine. A phantom pain aches in your chest, grieving the loss of a love you never had in the first place. John says nothing. Continues to fry the fish in silence. Pops of oil like the rounds of a machine gun, but not loud enough to drown out the hammering of your heart.

Rose breaks the silent war. “I cleaned the counter. Can I check on the cookies?” she asks.

The apology dies on your tongue, and you tear your eyes away from John’s back, missing how the tension bleeds from his body. “Of course,” you say, placing the last dish on the drying rack. “Do you know how?”

“Nana showed me the buttons because I accidentally turned off the oven before,” Rose replies. She hands you her towel, and you lump it in the sink with yours. Rose walks up to the oven, and John moves to the side. You hang back, grappling with the temptation to steal a glance. You’re not sure what’s worse: John catching you staring or the disappointment of him not staring back. In the end, you decide to focus on Rose. She awes at the cookies and beckons you closer. You shuffle towards her, sticking close to the opposite side.“We should leave extra for the reindeer and elves who want some too!” 

You smile and pat her head. “Next time you can buy peppermint extract so they’ll taste like candy canes too!” you suggest. Rose’s eyes widen. She looks at you like you have the biggest brain in the world. Your confidence skyrockets, but a quick peek at John sends you plummeting back to Earth. You can’t read the expression on his face, and it worries you.

“They look so good! Santa will definitely grant my wish!” Rose’s comment piques your interest.

“What’s your wish?” you ask, crouching down to her level.

Rose glances at her father before lowering her voice. “I can’t tell you with Daddy around; it might make him sad.” Your jaw slackens. What could a child wish for that would make their parents unhappy?

Dinner is served, and the seating arrangement remains unchanged. True to John’s words, Rose devours her dinner. She even asks for seconds. “I’m a growing girl,” is all she responds with when she notices your amused expression.

The conversation consists of small talk. You learn they moved into the complex two years after you did. It’s honestly amazing how you didn’t run into them earlier. John doesn’t talk about his job, but he asks you plenty of questions about yours. You’re happy to answer. Glad to have something to talk about that won’t prod old wounds. Before you know it, you’re cracking jokes, and John is struggling to breathe. His laughter is intoxicating, and like an addict, you crave another dose. Rose watches the entire interaction with a broad smile, nibbling on her food as her eyes ping pong across the table.

John leans forward and hangs off your every word. Every ounce of his attention focused solely on you. You pause mid-story, caught up in the softness of his features. Before he can ask you what’s wrong, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull out the device to see it’s a text notification. The time on the screen reads 9:30 pm. It’s getting late, and from the way Rose slumps in her chair, she should be in bed soon.

“I should go. Rose looks like she’s about to pass out,” you say.

“M’not sleepy,” Rose argues, rubbing her eyes.

John rises from his seat. “I’ll clean up. Rosy, why don’t you say goodbye to our guest?”

Rose gets out of her chair with Mr. Bear and holds your hand, leading you to the entrance. John steps forward but stops himself. He turns to collect the dishes, and you walk away, feeling the heat of his gaze lingering on your back. 

As you’re slipping on your shoes, you ask Rose, “Now that it’s just us, do you want to tell me your wish?” She glances behind her. The faint sounds of porcelain clattering against metal travel along the corridor. 

“You can’t tell Daddy, but I don’t want him to be lonely. He doesn’t cry at night anymore when he thinks I’m sleeping, but he still looks like a raccoon in the morning,” Rose says, pinching an invisible zipper between her fingers and dragging it across her lips. You copy the gesture and even go as far as to mime turning a key and tossing it over your shoulder. You have a sneaking suspicion, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. 

Unlocking the door, you reach for the doorknob. “Wait,” John shouts, stopping you in your tracks. He jogs up to you and holds out a reusable takeout container and your bag of groceries. “I made too much. Take some leftovers with you.” You peer inside, and there’s a generous portion. How much did he cook?

“I’m tired. I’m getting ready for bed,” Rose suddenly announces.

John chuckles, “I thought you weren’t tired earlier?”

“That was earlier. I’m tired now.” Rose walks off to her room, mumbling to Mr. Bear. The only snippet you catch is something about ‘having a moment.’ You take the container and bag from John, fingertips touching. He doesn’t let go, and you’re left standing there awkwardly.

“Don’t feel bad about what happened earlier,” John says, withdrawing his hands and shoving them into his pockets. 

Earli—oh. Your cheeks tingle with warmth. You clear your throat and bring the container close to your chest. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted….” You pause.

“Wanted what?” John asks, and his eyes are wide and pleading. He waits and doesn’t push. Watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek and avoid his gaze.

When you finally gather the courage to look at his face, tender eyes observe you. Does he feel the same? A wave of confidence washes over you, and you decide to take the risk. “To know if I have a fighting chance,” you say.

The corners of John’s lips boomerang up and then back down. His eyebrows draw together, and he almost looks… scared. “Love, I work in the military. I’m a single father. I don’t have much to offer,” John rasps, the words constricting his chest like a vine of thorns. His throat bobs, and he closes his eyes, steeling his body. Because bracing for impact is a natural human response in an attempt to lessen the damage of an imminent crash.

You smile softly. “And if I said I didn’t mind? That I’ll wait for you to come back and become Rose’s favourite while you’re gone?” John’s eyes snap open wide. He stares at you like you’re some sort of mythical creature; a being that can’t possibly exist in this world. Here is a man with his own baggage, who carries a burden on his shoulders that you will never comprehend. And you want to learn how to love him anyway. His expression softens, and he gravitates toward you.

“When I saw how you handle Rose, I didn’t think I could like you more than I already do,” John says.

Your ears perk. “You like me?” you ask. You didn’t think the attraction went both ways.

John rubs the back of his neck, and his cheeks flush. “Might have seen you use the elevator a few times… regularly,” he confesses. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

“And you never tried to say hello?” you tease him, placing a hand on your hip. The pain that flashes across his face is brief, but it stops you from continuing. You decide to change the topic. “Can I kiss you goodbye?” Your face engulfs in flames. “On the cheek, I mean!”

The pink dusting John’s face darkens. “Only if I get to kiss you—on the forehead,” he clarifies.

“Deal.” You place a quick peck on John’s cheek, his skin an inferno against your lips. He cups your face and leans in. It’s soft and leaves you tingling from head to toe. A laugh bubbles in your chest. You slap a hand to cover the dopey grin spreading across your face. “Sorry. I'm just really happy.”

John’s thumb caresses your cheeks. His blue eyes are sparkling. “So am I, Darling. Goodnight,” he says, leaning forward to plant another kiss. You close your eyes and make a content hum, basking in his warmth. 

John opens the door for you and leans against the doorframe after you step out. The hallway is relatively dark, and the lights from the apartment bathe him in an ethereal glow. A smile graces his features, and the current that threatened to pull you under has settled into gentle ripples. “Night, John,” you reply, waving goodbye. 

A smug grin stretches his smile, and he winks at you. “See ya later, Love.” 

You skip to your apartment. The door behind you doesn’t click shut until you disappear from sight. You head to the fridge first to store the leftovers. You find a note when you put away your groceries. Fishing out the paper, it reads: ‘Rose’s bedtime is 10 pm.’

The clock on your stovetop tells you it’s 9:50. 

Where did you put that expensive bottle of whiskey you bought years ago?

Bonus Scene:

John tucks his daughter into bed, pulling the blanket to her chin. “What else did you wish for, Rosy?” he asks. It’s become a tradition to figure out her Christmas present. He makes sure to ask her right before bed when he’s certain she won’t remember the conversation in the morning.

Rose snuggles into her pillow, hugging the stuffed bear close to her chest. Her voice is muffled and thick with sleepiness, but he hears it crystal clear. “A little sister.”

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

Happy early Valentine's Day! I can't wait to consume the Valentine-themed content for all the fandoms I'm in. Not related, but I saw a cowboy ghost render on IG and I think I'm going to have to go back to writing something for him ¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

Time to drop off the face of the Earth for a month or two again.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

[sednonamoris]

call off the dogs (and come home to me)

Pairing: John Price x gn!reader

Summary: You've quietly yearned after Captain John Price for a long time now, and known him even longer. With each stolen glance and interrupted moment the tension between you grows, but everything comes to a head when a mission gone wrong forces you to confront feelings that have gone unspoken for the better part of a decade.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, strong language, alcohol mention, drunk hookup, a little bit of torture + murder, fingering, porn with plot (smut should read gender neutral but let me know if any changes will make it more inclusive!!), mild angst, mutual pining with a happy ending

Word count: 3,940

A/N: My first foray into smut inspired by the incredibly talented @yeyinde!! Expect more Hound/Price content in the future bc I’m obsessed lol

--

 “Hound,” a familiar voice startles you from the mountain of paperwork on your desk, “what are you still doing here?”

 You raise a challenging brow at your captain. “Couldn’t I ask you the same thing?”

 This exchange has become familiar in the months you’ve spent grounded. Anyone else would take a bullet to the knee as a chance to slow down - switch careers entirely if they were smart - but you’re stubborn. A dog with a bone. Two surgeries and months of rehab that still aren’t finished, frankly you’re lucky to be walking. Luckier still that they let you stay on with the 141; There was a minute there that Laswell threatened you with an honourable discharge. A timely intervention with the physical therapist got you out of it, the only stipulation being that you remain firmly planted behind a desk until the doctors clear you. Having spent the better part of a lifetime hands-on in the field, it’s been hard not to overextend to prove your worth off of it.

 So after-hours paperwork it is. At least the company is good.

 “Touché,” Price huffs a laugh through his whiskers. “Fancy a cuppa? Sounds like we’ll both be here a while yet.”

 “Have I told you lately you’re my favourite? Two sugars and--”

 “--a splash of cream,” he finishes for you. The twinkle in his eye warms you right through, and you smile after him a little bit like an idiot.

 It’s been like this ever since the domestic terrorism scare your team was called in on in Belfast what feels like a lifetime ago. He was only a lieutenant then, and you a sergeant. You were assigned to civilian extraction, but took off when you saw one of the primary suspects make a dash for it through side streets. Price saw you go for him and followed, the two of you giving chase on foot for three blocks before you managed to dive-tackle him in a back alley. It was a major success to take him alive, but your captain at the time wanted blood for the abandoned civilians. Price stood up for you in front of the entire regiment.

Took after ‘im like a bloody hellhound! he’d said. That deserves a medal, not disciplinary action.  

 Just over ten years later you’re still called Hound, and he’s still the subject of your silly, unattainable daydreams. Captain John Price is a name that means something, but to you he will always be the sergeant with fire in his eyes who stood up for you when no one else would. When he asked if you were interested in joining the 141 at its inception you didn’t even hesitate. You’d follow him anywhere.

 “One tea, two sugars, splash of cream,” Price announces when he returns from the kitchenette with two steaming mugs to distract you from your thoughts. Yours is placed ceremoniously on an ARW coaster you ‘borrowed’ from your last commanding officer. “Now I believe you owe me something…?”

 You grin and pull out your secret stash. The false bottom of the drawer is probably meant for sensitive intel, but you’ve found it’s perfect for biscuits. Three are placed in his outstretched hand, and three next to your mug.

 “You’re lucky I’ve got a man on the inside who sends me these,” you scold as he scoffs one down almost immediately.

 “Yeah, tell your granddad I said ‘thanks’.”

 “I can’t. He’d disown me if he knew I was feeding a Brit.”

 That earns you a laugh - a true belly laugh - and you can’t help but feel entirely smug about it.

 “Fuckin’ Paddies.”

 “Ah, go fuck yourself.”

 A companionable silence blankets the room after that, broken only by the sound of shuffled papers and laptop keys. Soft lamplight illuminates your reports so unlike the harsh fluorescents everywhere else on base. You’ve done your best to make the regulation desk homey; bright sticky notes and colored pens and a picture of you and the lads after a successful mission. Occasional hums and huffs and heavy sighs from your captain’s desk across the room breathe life into the space as well. You like to think your incoherent, foul-mouthed muttering does the same for him.

 The clock reads 0100 hours when you look up again. The caffeine from the tea wore off over an hour ago and you can feel yourself starting to fade. A quick peek over at Price reveals much the same.

 You open your mouth to ask if he’s ready to tuck in when he looks up and steals the breath from your lungs. His short hair is mussed where he’s been running his hands through it, that hint of premature grey turned silver at his temples in the low light. Tired eyes crinkle fondly behind the lenses of reading glasses you haven’t stopped teasing him over but can’t get enough of. It’s achingly domestic. A glimpse into a future you’ll never have - not with anyone, and certainly not with him.

 “What are you thinking about over there?” he asks softly.

 “Nothing,” you flash a tired and unconvincing smile. “I’m knackered. Shall I close up shop or will you, Cap?”

 “I’ve got it, you get some shut-eye.”

 Your eyes linger just a bit too long as you bid him goodnight, knowing very well you won’t sleep a wink.

--

 This pub is definitely one of the shittier ones, but its location is convenient enough to pretend that the wallpaper isn’t peeling and the live band of part-time musicians and full-time retirees is any good. The handful of covers they play are indistinguishable from originals sprinkled in, all with that same, washed-out sound of empty bottles and stale dreams.

 The group of hooligans crowded up at the bar sit in stark contrast of the otherwise dour patrons. Even Ghost, who’s taken the corner seat and keeps a lazy watch over the room, is loose enough to be making those terrible jokes of his. Soap and Gaz lean over one another with goofy grins and half-empty glasses before them. Price, true to form, has taken the end seat to nurse a ‘proper pint’ alongside a lit cigar the bartender can’t dispute after lighting up what looks like at least his tenth cigarette of the night behind the bar.  

 “If it isn’t the Bionic Hound!” Gaz calls when he spots you across the poorly-lit room, waving you over with a grin.

 You shake your head, wondering why you agreed to come out tonight. But the second Gaz had started with the puppy-dog eyes there was no denying him. Drinks before leave are a 141 tradition, he’d insisted.

 So here you are.

 “You’re lucky it’s a metal knee and not laser eyes or you’d be in yesterday’s papers,” you wag a finger at him as you take your seat amongst them all.

 Ghost snorts a laugh at the empty threat.

 “Oh, come off it, Hound,” Soap says. “You love us too much.”

 Price chuckles. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

 You glare and wrinkle your nose at the comment, but he just smiles back at you with that damned twinkle in his eye. Prick. Then he wordlessly slides over your usual and you have to be grateful on top of it all. Double prick. One swift gulp and half of it is gone; you’re too sober for this.

 The lads cackle over another awful joke - Soap’s, this time. Price holds his temples.

 The drinks go down easy after that.

 “Any exciting plans for your leave, Cap?” you ask. It’s almost closing time now. This place is never full, anyway, but there’s enough alcohol in your system that you almost buy into the pretense of hearing him better as you edge further and further into his space.

 You’re not sure what you want him to say, exactly. Maybe if he reveals that there’s a cute little family or some stunning girlfriend waiting back home you’ll finally be able to move past the strangled feeling in your throat every time you look at him.  

 “Hardly,” he says around the cigar. The soft glow of it lights his face, makes him look like some sharp-eyed noir detective shrouded in smoke and mystery. “Might get a bit of fishing in, head into Liverpool and catch a game or two. What about you?”

 You wave a dismissive hand. “I make a terrible civilian. After I visit my grandfather and annoy him half to death I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe finally get some use out of those Egyptian cotton sheets I spent a bleedin’ fortune on.”

 “Are they nice?” he laughs, leans closer.

 You hum an affirmative, dizzy at the little space between you. He smells like tobacco and wood, whiskey and gunpowder.

“Too nice.” You should stop talking now. “End up on the floor half the time, anyway.”

He doesn’t need to know that.  

 “Sleeping alone, then?”

 His breath fans your face. Yours gets quicker, and you swear you’re more drunk off this shared air than any liquor you’ve had tonight.  

 “Sometimes.” You wet your lips. “Usually.”

 Your lashes leave tender butterfly kisses on your cheekbones as you meet his blue-eyed stare that’s gone impossibly dark, dipping down to see where your lips have parted - breathless, waiting. Wanting. His hand reaches out--

 “Last call!” the bartender’s shout snaps everything back to reality.

 You jump away from one another as though you’ve been burned. It feels a lot like you have.

 Price clears his throat, mutters something about getting back. His voice is rougher than usual. Raw. You look everywhere but him as he proceeds to round up the rest of the lads before you all stumble back to base.

 Your head pounds the whole way back to Ireland the next morning, marching drums in your mind and sandpaper beneath your eyelids. The flight has never felt lonelier.

--

 The man you bring home has blue eyes and brown hair. He’s not tall enough, certainly not broad enough, but he happened to be in the right place at the right time as you drank your sorrows away in some tiny pub up the road from your flat, and you happen to be desperate enough not to care.

 At least that’s what you tell yourself as you back him against your bed.

 When you kiss him it’s relentless and controlling. Mean. You suck a dark bruise on his neck and climb in his lap before he can think to return the favor.

 “Fuck, sweetness,” he groans at the sweet feeling of friction between your bodies. The accent is wrong. So is the endearment.

 You clamp a hand over his mouth. “Shut up and fuck me.”

 It’s a quick and sloppy affair, chasing a half-drunk high like a pair of horny teenagers. When all is said and done, you stare up at the ceiling on too-soft sheets and tell him he can go. He leans over to catch your eye briefly, maybe checking to see if you’re serious. You are. There’s hurt written across his expression - a bit of shock, too - but all you can think about is how his eyes are the wrong shade of blue.

--

 The second the doctors clear you for active duty you all but sprint to Price’s desk, demanding he get you back in the field as soon as possible. He smiles up at you in that sharp way that always makes your heart stutter and promises he’s got something small in the works - perfect to shake the rust off.

 Of course he’d think of an unsanctioned, off-the-books capture of a Russian mobster as small. You’re the only two who make the trip; your Russian is miles better than anyone else’s, and more bodies will only attract attention.

 It’s easy to forget how beautiful Moscow is. You don’t come here often, but the sprawling cityscape and romantic spires speak to your soul, set something singing inside you. You try to hold on to that feeling as you and Price make your way into the chipped paint and piss-stained sector of the city. These winding side streets and twisted back alleys are far more fitting for your line of work.

 Your mark, one Mikhail Yanovich, is a low-level enforcer for a high-interest gang that has connections to Makarov. Allegedly. That’s why you’re planning this friendly little chat. Not so much catch-and-release as catch-and-stage-a-believable-accident; if he really is involved, you can’t afford for Makarov to know you’re onto him.

 It feels strange to walk around in civvies with only a thin kevlar vest underneath to protect you. Thank goodness for the cold that makes layering less conspicuous. You look every inch the lost, frozen tourist. Price does too. You don’t think the miserable face he’s pulling beneath the beanie is acting, cheeks and nose flushed raw as they are.

 “Bloody cold out,” he mutters.

 “The fuck did you expect, tropical holidays?”

 He glowers, and you shake your head to hide a smile.

 Thankfully, kidnapping Yanovich is quick work; two bickering tourists hardly seem like the type who will stick you with a needle on your way to work and drag your unconscious body to a stashed van, driving through bad, then worse neighborhoods to reach a secure location to interrogate you.

 He wakes tied to a chair in the basement of an abandoned parking garage you and Price have taken up a temporary residence in. The captain circles him like a vulture, taking in all the details a broad frame and blockish features have to offer. You sit perched on the edge of a shitty folding table set just in the shadows. Patient. Waiting. There’s a case of freshly sharpened knives beside you - the Hound’s fangs, as Ghost likes to call them. So often the glinting threat of harsh light on metal is all it takes to break a man.

 “What can you tell us about Makarov?” Price opens.

 “Go fuck yourself.”

 The blow lands harsh on Yanovich’s cheekbone. Instantly a bruise begins to form, splotchy and plum on pale skin.

 “I asked you a bloody question. I promise you’d rather answer me than Hound over there,” Price looms over him, growls in his ear. “Makarov. Tell me everything you know.”

 There’s a stubborn set to his jaw when he says, “I know nothing.”

 If he really knew nothing he either would have laughed in your face or led with open ignorance. The way he clings to resistance can only mean there’s something to resist telling. As to how much he knows? There’s another echoing crack as Price backhands him.

 You’ll soon find out.

 “Hound,” your name on your captain’s tongue is as much a command as an invitation.

 You lean forward, step into the light. Twirl one of your knives expertly between scarred fingers. Watch it flash in the whites of his eyes.

 “I’ll ask you again: Where is Makarov?” Price demands.

 “I. Don’t. Know.”

 You step between Yanovich’s legs, lean over him and gently trace your blade over his groin with a smile sharper than the knife. He lets out a harsh breath.

 “I said I don’t know. Boss tells me nothing - I’m just a guard.”

 The knife presses, insistent. Not quite hard enough to draw blood yet. A bead of sweat rolls down Yanovich’s forehead. He’s pressed himself as far back into the chair as his bonds will allow.

 “Fine! He comes to club once a month. Speaks to the boss.”

 “What about?”

 “I don’t know-- I swear!” his accent is thick with unfamiliar syllables and fear.

 “When’s he due next?”

 “You just missed him. He always comes last day of month.”

 “Location?”

 “Changes every time,” he says, licks his lips. “I told you all I know - call off your fucking dog!”

 You dig your knife in for good measure just to watch the hate and fear in his eyes before backing off at Price’s nod.

 Turning to step away and table your knife, you don’t miss the way Yanovich mutters darkly after you, “My zdes strelaem vie brodyachikh sobak, suki. Esli ya uviju tebya snova, the mertview.”

 Then a gunshot fires.

 You pull your weapon out of its holster and whip around to cover Price, only to find the smoking gun in his hand and Yanovich’s head splattered on the wall behind him. Captain John Price stands over the body, eyes blazing, chest heaving, gun still aimed. Blood and brain matter speckles his face and clothes.  

 “What the fuck was that?” you demand. “He could have told us more! And what about the cover-up? Blowing his brains six ways to fucking Sunday isn’t exactly a bleedin’ accident!”

 You expect some kind of remorse when he turns to face you, but there’s only a grim, deadly acceptance. “He said--"

 “I heard what he said, I can speak bloody Russian!” you stalk towards him and jab a finger into his chest. “We were gonna kill the cunt anyway. You should have waited.”

 Price snarls, lip curling to bare his teeth. “You didn’t see the way he looked at you.”

 Suddenly you’re hyperaware of how close the two of you are standing. “How did he look at me?”

“He wanted to kill you the slowest way he knew how,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin, “and I’d shoot his fucking face a thousand times over to make sure he never looks at you again.”

 And just like that anything you were going to say dies in your throat, comes out a pathetic whimper. He grabs a fistful of your shirt and hauls you the rest of the short distance to him.

 “Tell me you wouldn’t do the same,” he demands. “Tell me to stop.”

 His hand burns on your chest, an iron-hot brand of possession.

 “John,” you breathe, because you don’t know what else to say. The look in his eyes is magnetic, drawing you in further still with pupils blown wide with want. “Don’t stop.”

 He kisses you rough, teeth and tongue and a certain kind of desperation brought on by the still-warm corpse lying just a few feet away. When you break for air he wastes no time kissing down your neck, every inch of exposed skin branded by his lips and the rough scrape of his beard. Yanovich’s blood smears down the column of your throat.

 “Fuck, John,” you say, “just like that.”

 “Sound so fucking perfect when you say my name,” he growls and bites down on your pulse point, leaving you gasping.

 It’s enough to distract you from his true purpose, large hands cupping beneath your ass and scooping you up into his arms. You hold on tight as three purposeful strides take you across the room to the table. One sweep of his arm has everything tumbling off it before he sets you down to stare up at him with wide eyes and a kiss-swollen mouth.

 When he captures your lips again it’s searing, molten heat rushing through your veins. It pools in your stomach, that too-hot wanting, and it suddenly hits you how much you do want this. Him. Each kiss tastes like so many years of silent longing, of standing too close and staring too long and wanting too much. All suddenly real and within reach.

 You let your hands snake up his shirt, explore the broad plane of his chest and the wiry hair that curls over it. Your fingers run over scars like braille that tell stories of violence and valor. Some of these stories you helped write. There, beneath his ribs, where you had to stitch him up in the field to keep his guts from spilling into the streets of Vienna. The lump where his collarbone never healed right after taking the brunt of a nasty blow meant for you. He shivers under your touch. Then his large, calloused hands cover yours and stop them in their tracks.

 “I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, “because I don’t think I can wait any longer than I already have to feel you.” His voice is even lower and rougher than usual, accent thick with arousal. “Do you want that?”

 You nod, afraid to speak and break the spell.

 “Come on, soldier, use your words.”

 “Yes, Captain. Please.”

 His grip on your hips tightens and he lets out a growl. “That’s my perfect soldier.”

 It’s all the warning you get before he tucks his fingers under the waistband of your trousers and underwear and tugs them down to your thighs, leaving you exposed before him.

 “Fuck, just look at you,” he says under his breath, almost like you aren’t meant to hear.

 You squirm under the scrutiny. A hot flush creeps up your neck as he stares, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. He looks at you like you’re some kind of revelation, like he’s been denied salvation all his life only to find it at the apex of your thighs.

 One, two, then three fingers stretch you open for him quick and dirty. It’s too much too fast but you want it so bad, and the pleasure far outweighs any pain. When he finally unzips his trousers to free his already hard, leaking cock you think you drool a little bit. You knew he’d be big, the way he carries himself, but seeing it is something else. Your insides flutter at the thought of the tight fit. He lines up to your entrance with that same military precision you’ve always admired before pushing in slowly, slowly, slower still. When he bottoms out he does it with a deep groan, your fingernails raking down his back as you keen at the sensation. This small mercy, just a few moments to adjust with his forehead pressed to yours, is all you’re granted before he sets a brutal pace. The obscene slap of skin on skin echoes off cracked concrete. With each thrust he hits someplace deep inside you no one else has managed to find.

 Heat coils in your belly, closer and closer to fever pitch with each expert snap of his hips.

 “John,” you pant, “m’gonna… gonna cum. Feels so good.”

 He says your name like a prayer. “Cum for me, then. Want to see you make a mess of yourself on my cock.”

 Like a tidal wave breaking against a dam you cum fast and hard at his words with a broken sob. He fucks you through the high, brushing a tear from the corner of your eye with a rough thumb.

 “There you are, so good for me,” he says. “Gonna cum all over your pretty little self, make you mine.”

 “I’m yours, John,” you gasp, “all yours.”

 His thrusts turn sloppy chasing his own high, and it doesn’t take long before he pulls out and makes good on his words, covering your stomach in spend as he grinds out your name. Bent over your body, he presses a chaste kiss to the juncture of your neck before pulling back to admire his handiwork. In the afterglow you lay spread out on the table with a sheen of sweat, smeared with his cum and another man’s blood. The way his eyes darken rubbing it into your skin, and the way you shiver at the sensation, you think that you both might like it a little too much.

 “Laswell’s gonna kill us for this,” he murmurs.

 You hum your agreement. “So where shall we hide the body?”

 His eyes shine down on you with adoration and crinkle with wicked humor. “I’m sure we’ll think of something, but let’s be quick about it. The sooner we get home the better.”

 “Yes,” you hear yourself agreeing, “home.”  

 For you, it will always be at his side.

[bubble-dream-inc]

this is extremely sloppy bc i went haywire and painted it in like two hours ahem. anyways operator price as inspired by @yeyinde 's masked price agenda. he makes me go insane ngl.

[bitchysouljellyfish]

“El día que me quieras”

Rodolfo Parra/Reader

Inspired by this and the incredible writings of @yeyinde because God their writings are to die for! Title is inspired by the song of the same name by Carlos Gardel! The indented writing is done by yeyinde!

Enjoy!

The ocean is a distant roar beyond the sprawling green cut into the fells. The scent of heliotrope and sun-ripened tomatoes is heavy in the balmy air that pulses around you like a heartbeat.

Your finger taps the porcelain mug on the patio table, eyes soaking in the crystalline shore in the distance, basking in the sun. The warmth. The door slides open. Music from inside drifts out. Los Cojolites. He has a fondness for son jarocho. You can smell the sweet mole he's cooking waft through.

He comes up behind you, hands on your shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles on your bare skin. You lean back, head pressed to his tummy as you squint up at him. He's bathed in ochre from the sun: a halo around him that bleeds into your retinas until all you see his the shape of him. Your pulse quickens.

He smiles down at you, lunar white. Love in shades of vermillion leak from the curve of his mouth.

"Want some company, cariño?"

As if you'd ever say no.

Alejandro introduced you to him.

You were the medic, part of the Task Force 141 that had came to Las Almas to assist with El Sin Nombre. You were dwarfed by the other two men who accompanied you, El Fantasma and Soap who had you tucked into the middle of them, protecting you from harm as you protected them from the Reaper.

"This is Seargeant Major Rudolfo Parra, my right hand man. Ghost, Soap, and Bog." He points to you last, and you give him a smile and a nod and he feels the sun on his face like never before. You were radiant, the stress and trauma gracing your eyes but it didn't stop the rays of hope that shined through them. He almost didn't notice the strange call sign.

"Tengo miedo de los fantasmas." He attempted to joke but got nothing but a flat stare in return. "And...Bog?"

You sighed in exasperation, Soap chuckling and slapping his knee in glee. "Feel free to call me Doc instead, Sergeant Major. Soap is terrible with call signs." And that is where it ended, the conversation going serious as he drove through the streets of his home with the gradual realization that eyes were on him, but they were not vicious.

The name Bog stuck much more easily than Doc, to your dismay he could tell, but he had to admit. It fit you. You bounced back from injuries and stressful situations like the soft ground you were named after, yet you could spew acid at those deserving.

"You be safe huh, Darlin'? Can't be too careful with our good ol'doc." Graves's southern drawl cuts through the comms.

You sighed, irritation and anger apparent in your voice. "It's Doctor or Captain, Commander Graves. I give you respect you give me respect."

"What about Bog?"

"Friends can call me Bog."

"We aint-"

"No."

Soap snickered through the ear piece, Ghost telling them to stay focused before the comms went silent again. You were waiting at headquarters with Rudy and the other members of his unit on standby in case there was any medical emergencies while the others went through the cartel compound.

"Doctor?" He asked, because you certainly didn't look old enough to have one.

You turned with wide eyes, doe like he recalled, before smiling and showing your ID card. "Got it while I was enlisted, then I went to Officer Candidate School and the rest is history."

"Your family must be proud, as should your team to have such capable hands with them." He turned his chair so he was resting his arms on the back, one eye and ear out on the cameras.

"Gaz thinks differently, says I'm a torturer with a needle but that's just because he's afraid of them." Then you put a finger to your lips and pursed them, winking at him so slyly that it made his heart leap into his throat. "But I'm not supposed to tell anyone that."

He laughed, resting his head on his hand and tried to keep the admiration out of his eyes. "You have my word, bonita, I won't tell a soul."

You and him spoke like that for ages, only breaking when the on ground team needed something. Your chairs were significantly closer together than when you had started.

He had become so smitten with you in the small time he had known you that when they were relieved of duty he didn't want to end the conversation. He walked you back to a room just for you, female soldiers weren't common in Mexican Special Forces, talking low and walking slow as to prolong his time with you. You had told him about your home in America, somewhere cold that got snow every once in a while and he had watched as you spoke animated about what you would do with your family.

"What about you Rudy? Any experience with snow?"

"Enough to know I am not built for it," he laughed, "No, my home is by the coast, with plenty of warmth for the rest of my days."

"Oh a beach man huh? Am I gonna get the chance to see you in a speedo?" You smirked at him, stopping at your door and peering up at him through your lashes.

"I am Mexican, Bonita, not European, but..." all of the confidence he had managed to keep throughout the night melted away suddenly. Shaking hands reached for your fingers, just enough for them to curl around your knuckles and you held them twice as tightly. "I could take you, some day, when this has calmed down. You would like it. I will make you so much food and drinks you would not know what to do with it all."

You stepped forward and kissed his cheek, feather light and petal soft but it was enough to knock him off his feet. "Its a date. Good night Rudy."

"Buenos noches, bonita."

He had watched you, passing glances through the time you spent with Los Vaqueros and became entranced. You were intelligent, witty, funny, beautiful, and strong, you had to be to carry wounded from the field but it did nothing to rough up the hands you had touched him so delicately with.

Yet those hands, oh those hands, were sculpted by angels he was sure.

You had patched him up after Hassan Zyani left him for dead and Alejandro, his brother in all but blood, saved him from the building, blood running down his head and barely able to walk he was so dazed. He remembered you laying him down, cold water on his face and you soft eyes and gentle hands on his skin and he thought it was heaven. You barked orders to get medical supplies, but made your voice soft and warm when you spoke to him. He noticed then that you always did that, when it was just the two of you or when the attention was away, you spoke to him as if he something soft and gentle to and by God he was.

He was clay in your hands, clay to be molded and shaped to fit into your shape so that your radiance could heat him and bring him back to life so that he may support you and hold you and keep you safe.

"I think a new call sign is in order, hermosa." He whispered, numb to the pain in his head as he raised a hand to hold your face.

"Shh, Rudy, hold still. I'm almost done." You caught his hand, squeezing it tightly as you wrapped the bandages around his head.

"I think Angel is much more fitting. Eres un ángel, esos suaves toques solo podrían pertenecer a una." You smiled and finished the bandages, looking down at him with fondness as you held his hand to your chest.

"I think you have a concussion."

"Perhaps," he shrugged and used his other hand to grasp your cheek. "Or perhaps I have died and the angels had no other choice but to use your face, although I hope that is not the case. I still have to take you to the coast." He struggled to keep his eyes open as the pain medication you gave him started to take effect.

Rodolfo felt something then, firmer but still soft as roses on his lips. "You better." He heard you say, another gentle touch on his forehead that he couldn't recognize before slipping unconscious.

The next time he would kiss you would be just before you left, Valeria in custody and the plane that would cart you away from him waiting behind you. You take his hand and press an envelope into it. "I'm a romantic." You explained, "Write to me?"

He cradled your face and pulled you close, kissing your lips with as much gusto and adoration he could fit into it before he could lose his nerve. The feeling of your arms wrapped around his neck would soon become a favorite of his.

"I will." One more kiss to your lips and you were away.

It would be another six months before he could hold you in his arms again, swinging you around once you came off the airport terminal and committing the sound of your laugh to memory. He wasted no time in taking you to his villa, one hand on your thigh as he drove and you resting against his arm.

And soon the ocean is a distant roar, muffled by the sounds of his Los Cojolites and the sizzling of breakfast he was cooking. The scent of heliotrope and sun-rippened tomatoes is heavy in the balmy air that pulses in time with his heart. His shirt open and revealing the marks you had given him the night before and that morning and he sees you, sitting on the veranda with a cup of coffee and tour own marks on display. Rodolfo smiles and walks out, settling behind you with a hand on your shoulder and another under your chin as he looks at you with nothing but love.

"Want some company, cariño?"

And he knows you could never say no.

[halfmoth-halfman]

may i interest you in some more fic recs????😉

the second half of my may fic rec list!! if you wanna see more more of my fic recs and favs, i have em all on my recs blog, here!! please note the navi page is still under construction!!

and of course, if you have any fic recs of your own, feel free to send em my way here or on my sideblog - i love finding new fics and writers!! 💜

may fic recs pt. 1

John Price

missed you - @thanksbutno98

✧ everything i wanted and more omg this is the treatment price deserves tbh. man deserves to relax and be pampered like a princess. such a cute fic that filled my need for fluff perfectly!!

bloodstained honesty || part two - @a-world-with0ut-dr34ms

✧ had me on the edge of my damn seat good lord. saw this line “Price?” and had to stop reading to do a lap around my living room, this fic had me stressing tf out but in the best way possible.

puppy love || five | six | seven | eight - @writeforfandoms

✧ price. puppies. perfection. am i sad to see this series come to an end? yes. but it was fantastic from start to finish and i know i will absolutely being coming back to read this again and again.

languish - @moriflos

✧ you ever read something once and then decide that once isn't enough and just spend an hour reading it over and over and over? that was me with this fic. idk how to describe the way you write, i was so drawn in, craving more. "But for now, he can only watch as his heart returns to him in ashes-" just uuuggghhh i love it.

rise and fall of tides - @queenquazar

✧ moon/moonlight is such a cute callsign, i was already hooked before i started reading. and when i got to the actual fic?? stunned. the entire dancing scene had me smiling and blushing, i love the way you write price and moon and their relationship

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat - @yeyinde

✧ i don't think there will ever come a day where i'm not left in absolute awe by one of lev's fics. everything is literal poetry and this is fic is no exception. i can't describe the way it makes me feel, like i've been given the christmas present i've been waiting all year for

sad girl - @guyfieriii

✧ new price fic from the writer who inspired me to start my mob!au???? say less. the way you write price is so just aslkdakljs the way you write in general is just alsdkjal. i literally do not have words for how much i love this

karma - @stormiwaves

✧ honeypot mission!!! we love to see it!!!! "The dress was karma, filthy karma that Price deserved." yes girl, get it!! jealous!price isn't something i see often, but i loved the way your wrote it here and that ending?? 👀🔥

untitled - @ghostaholics

✧ i👏🏼love👏🏼soulmate👏🏼au's👏🏼 and this has me going absolutely feral. the phantom pain for his injuries, the journal, the angst, the panic, that ending??? if there is ever a full version, please know that i will lose my mind, it will be an immediate fave just like this is.

choices and consequences - @ghostandsoap

✧ this one hurt real good. the talks about guilt, the choices you have to make, the job, all of it was done so well. this was so wonderful and heart-clenching, i loved every bit of it.

our remains - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i just- i mean- what else is there to say but

handsome stranger || part 8 - @alittleposhtoad

✧ not only did this fic make me hungry for soup, it made me kick my feet and twirl my hair. so much fluff and right up my ally, i binged this series and loved every single bit of it.

fair game - @guyfieriii

✧ got me blushing and sweating like a sinner in church and staring at my phone like

turn me to ashes - @guyfieriii

✧ when you said angsty little piece, i was not expecting to have my heart ripped out be left with a gaping void in my chest. i know i love a good angst fic but god damn if that didn't reach into the pits of my soul and destroy any feeling of happiness i had when i started reading. 10/10

price headcanons - @soapskneebrace

✧ the perfect piece of softness to make me feel better after the absolute heartbreak of the previous fic. the characterization is 100% on point here, one of the best i've read and so so so sweet.

price holding his first-born child - @daisies-daydreams

✧ big tough military men holding and being weak over little babies is my jam. it's the fluff, the sweetness, the soft domesticity of it all. the way he reads the book to her, i'm so weak for this fic.

a drink from her cup - @lunarvicar

✧ that post that inspired this has lived rent free in my mind for so long, and i was ecstatic to see you write something for it. i'm so down bad for this man and for your writing and the way you write him.

gem amra kheli - @guyfieriii

✧ i don't think i've ever talked about how much i adore the way you write banter, the little back and forths and comments between price and reader. everything just feels so real, so grounded and i'm completely obsessed

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

cult of vagabonds || ch. 3 - banshee bluethroat | ch. 4 - finch's frenzy - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i'm screaming. vomiting. scromiting profusely.

"I hate you."

"I know."

how dare you do this to me.

reveries of a lost lamb - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ what's it like to be able to be one of the best writers on earth? i seriously cannot comprehend the sheer amount of talent and ability you have at writing the most captivating and emotion evoking fics i've ever read.

A golden sunrise, tangled fingers; gentle lips.

“I think I love you.” 

i'm deceased.

aiaigasa (相合傘) - @captainpriceslover

✧ i read "Your part of London smelled like wet pennies that evening." and was instantly sold. the rest of the fic was so fantastic, the perfect dose of sweetness i needed, i love gaz and the way you write him so much!!

white flag - @writeforfandoms

✧ you cannot stress me out like this!! but also please continue to stress me out like this!! also the little nicknames for price and gaz had me laughing so hard, esp price.

it's over - @itsohh

✧ i really loved this, i don't think i've seen a lot of fics with gaz that really talk about what he's gone through and how missions affect him and this one does it incredibly well. serious, yet heartwarming, i adore it.

Multiple

dead disco || chapter 4 | chapter 5 | combat baby - @peachesofteal

✧ never before have a i read a series that has captured my attention so much that willingly skipped out on lunch to read it. i couldn't stop, i am in love with this fic, the writing, the characterization, everything about it. there isn't a single flaw to be found here.

how they wake you up in the mornings - @nia-writes

✧ this was so cute, and the addition of the different scenarios for how the characters would wake you made it all the more better. i was blushing, laughing, anxious, constantly giggling about FOAP. such a fun read!!

soulmate au - @itsohh

✧ i've said it once and i will say it again, i love soulmate!aus!! and god the angst in these just raked me over the coals. angst is something i love seeing in soulmate fics and this was so expertly done, my heart still hurts when i think about it

touching their cheek for the first time - @runicarbiter02

✧ absolute cuteness all around, like a cuteness overload. each one fit so well, but i'm gonna take a second to really talk about the love of my life, Roach, being included in this and how this has become an automatic fav just for that.

physical touch - @siilvan

✧ tbh i came to this for the gaz hcs but it was so good that i immediately read the rest and damn near screamed when i saw roach on there. so cute, and adorable, and absolutely perfect i loved every bit of this!!

kiss headcanons - @mangowafflesss

✧ such a cute idea that you did amazing on!! i love kisses and kiss fics and i think you absolutely nailed it here. honestly me and reader are the same because i too would just like to smooch the 141 boys all over.

getting into an accident and being hospitalised while the team is deployed - @daisies-daydreams

✧ slipping while getting out of the shower and needing to have your jaw hinged shut?? reader's just like me fr. this was very sweet, a lovely little dose of fluff with a sprinkle of angst

Simon "Ghost" Riley

silk series || silk ties - @uselsshuman

✧ i screamed. shrieked. went through a rollercoaster of emotions when this series updated. it was everything i wanted, more than everything i wanted, just so unbelievably beyond expectations!! and this:

“Stay with me for now then.”

stay with me forever wtf

no more || chapter 6 - hypnosis - @lethalchiralium

✧ we love a man who wants to apologize but man we gotta get ghost into therapy or st 😂seriously though, this was fun and the little back and forth about having a dad had me giggling

a bath - @blackssuunn

✧ i can't- i literally can't- this is too fluffy, too sweet, too perfect. i'm in awe of your writing "His eyes burn a little. Not a single drop of soap entered them." i'm speechless.

pomp - @bits-and-babs

✧ we stan anti-monarchy simon LOL so great and thos poor guards stuck at the doors. i went from blushing to cackling in like two seconds

tones - @blackssuunn

✧ soft lovely dovey simon is my favorite and you write him so incredibly well. the way this man is absolutely whipped for his partner, i adore it and i adore you for writing this

between dreams and sugar - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i think i'm addicted to your angst, i keep happily going into these angst fics like i don't know i'm about to have my heart shredded into a million pieces. was there a happy ending here? yes. but it still hurt and i still loved it!!

feverish simon confesses to you - @angelltheninth

✧ this is such a cute trope that i don't read that much of, but i loved every bit of this! so much cuteness and let's be real, ghost is def the type of guy who would try and wait out an illness even if it was life-threatening 😂

footprints in the snow - @bittersw33t-lotus

✧ hello??? this was one of the sweetest things i've ever read??? i'm such a sucker for soft!simon esp when he's still a little shit and you've written that so perfectly

happiness series || you belong with me - @lethalchiralium

✧ i swear i'm totally normal about this series i'm not i totally don't immediately go feral every time it updates i do and i totally and definitely don't drop and ignore everything to reread the entire series with every new chapter i won't apologize

untitled - @lunarvicar

✧ the way you write simon and the way he shows love and how he cares has me so weak and how he teases is so aldkasjdkljk he's an asshole and i love him and i can never get enough of the way you write him

simon & rain little headcanons - @mvtthewmurdvck

✧ aaaahhhh simon and rain!!! i've missed these two and when i tell you i sprinted to read this!! i love the way your write their dynamic/relationship and just how real and fun it feels!! you're literally so good at writing ghost, i can't even deal with

sassy series || ch. 3 excerpt - @peachesofteal

✧ i have never wanted to read a full chapter so bad in my entire life. this excerpt is like a the most delicious little appetizers and i'm vibrating with excitement for the full meal!!

Valeria Garza

oh to be consumed by you - @sleepiexx

✧ i want to be consumed by valeria omg. i didn't even know vampire!val was something that i wanted-no, something that i needed-and this fic just came out of nowhere and hit me over the head in the best way possible.

[eowynstwin]

NSFW Alphabet — Captain John Price

Pairing: John Price x AFAB reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: BDSM dynamics, mild daddy kink

Now on AO3!

Dedicated to @yeyinde who has been almost my sole inspiration for how down bad I am for this fucking man. (And because I know she’s working on her own version of this and I’m DYING for it.)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Almost to a fault, John is both active and attentive. After he’s pulled away from you, breath coming out in heavy pants and hair mussed where you’d been running your hands through it (or pulling it—he really likes when you pull it), he’s already on his feet scrounging up a washcloth to clean up with, a sip of water for you both to get back some of that hydration that you’d sweated out, and would you like him to toss you your shirt, dove? He’s never really able to sit still on even the calmest of days, but all it takes to get him to lay back down with you is a sweet, soft plea to come hold you. John cannot deny you when you ask like that.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He doesn’t know if they’re his favorite, but John has a lot of appreciation for his hands. They’re weathered, scarred, and have carried out some of the most heinous acts a man can commit against another human being, but you also mewl and plead for those hands to touch you, to hold you tighter, to pin you down and mark you up. John uses the same hands he’s drenched in blood to wring breathless, sobbing pleasure from your body, and that he can do that is something that he holds dear. When it comes to your body, John loves your neck and your breasts. He has painted both with blooms of red and purple using his lips and teeth, and love to watch your breasts shake and bounce as he thrusts into you, one hand wrapped carefully but firmly around your throat.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Given the opportunity, John always prefers to come inside you. He’ll grab you in an iron grip, thrusting with a force that you’re certain will leave bruises, and bury himself to the hilt when he hits his peak, snarling into your skin as he rolls his hips against you to milk himself with your pussy. There is one exception though: if you’re taking him with your mouth, there’s nothing he likes more than to pull out and paint your jaw with his spend. Then he’ll yank you up, hands grabbing your face regardless of the mess, and kiss you messy and stupid.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He wants to have your ass. Perhaps not the dirtiest of secrets, but he’s rather old-fashioned, and it feels dirty to him. Also, it feels unfair, since it’s an act he thinks only he’ll really be able to enjoy. You’ll have to be the one to bring it up, but you’ll get hints from him that he’s thinking about it—he’ll frame the little ring of muscle between his fingers when he spreads your cheeks as foreplay is heading rapidly toward the main event, or he’ll thumb your perineum when he’s plowing into you from behind, growling about how pretty your ass looks bouncing against him.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

John has had few partners, but plenty of sexual encounters. He is not a man for casual sex—at least, not one-time flings—and prefers to dive deep into pleasure with people that he trusts. Figuring out what makes someone tick, what makes them lose every inhibition with him, is far more to his preference. He’s learned that to have sex means to learn about someone else’s body a little more every time it happens, and that sex really does only get better than even the best anonymous hookup.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Hands down, John likes to have you on your back with your knees hooked over his elbows. Any position, really, that he gets to spread you out and hold you open is his favorite, and he absolutely wants to see your face as he wrecks you. He consumes the expressions you make with a hungry, steely gaze, and he demands more often than not that you look him in the eye when you come on his cock.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous?)

Humor is not really his thing, in the bedroom or out of it. That isn’t to say that sex with John is always serious and intense—he cares for you, deeply, and that includes your smile and your laughter. It is more accurate to say that John is looking for that lightness after the fact; after you’ve wailed and moaned and whimpered from the ecstasy he’s drawn out of you, he wants to make sure you’re grinning and saying how amazing that was once you’ve finished. You can tease him plenty about how into the act he gets, because he knows if he takes you to bed you won’t want to leave it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

John is wonderfully hairy all over, and when he has the time he keeps himself neat and groomed (he’s already maintaining the mutton chops, after all). His chest hair is dark and a little coarse, as is his pubic hair, which strains up his belly in a happy trail that can’t quite make it to his navel. His forearms, calves, and thighs are also generously dusted with the stuff, although years of tight military gear are starting to show their effect on how fast it grows. He’s not too worried about it.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

He can’t help but be at least a little romantic. You’re his, and his alone, and that’s a gift he is actively thankful for every day. He is not exactly prone to sweetness, but sex with John is always comfortable in that he is always paying attention to the little reactions you give when he touches you like this or thrusts into you like that. You find, even pretty early into the development of your sex life with him, that he’s as hungry for the way you respond to him as he is for the feel of your body in his hands.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

You caught him with his hand around his cock once, at his desk on base and flushed red as he fisted himself in a tight grip. He’d called you there, in fact, and it had been at the beginning of your sexual relationship with him—he’d sounded out of breath and strained on the phone, and you’d hurried there to see what the problem was. As it had turned out, he’d started jacking off under the impression that you weren’t present, and then some background mental math had resolved itself to correct that assumption. It was the first time he’d bent you over his desk, but not the last.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

John truly does not like the word daddy, but that does not inhibit his enjoyment for the dynamic. He loves your acquiescence, loves the complete faith you put in him to take care of your needs, and even loves it when you give him the opportunity to lay down the law by being a brat. It’s half about the control—the heady opiate of power met with submission—and half about getting to give you what you desperately need from him. He loves to see you come absolutely unraveled, and loves to be the person you trust to get you there.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

His office is a constant favorite. He doesn’t get to have you there as often as he likes, what with the international nature of his job, but every time the two of you have been within walking distance of it, he’s had you on his desk, on the floor, and across the couch against the wall at every opportunity. He’s a horrible tease about it, too—he’ll keep you speared on his cock for what feels like hours as you cling to your sanity, one eye on the locked deadbolt, your only barrier between bliss and humiliation, as John reminds every so often, “No, dove, you’re not allowed to come yet.”

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Sometimes all he needs to see is the offset angle of the collar of your shirt to be ready to go. It makes him feel a little crazy, like being a randy twenty-something again with a cock that worked faster than his brain ever could, but that’s just the effect you have on him. More than once you’ve met him after your shower, skin still shimmering from the humidity, smelling fresh and hair a little damp, only to have him walk you back against a wall to work up a sweat and defeat the purpose of the bath entirely.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He does not want to actually humiliate you. Control is one thing—abuse is another. In the moment, he might growl about how needy you are, how perfect you look with that fucked-stupid expression on your face, but he will have a very, very hard time calling you a slut or a whore even if you want him to. Those are words, he was taught very early, that you do not call your partner, or anyone else. Period.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill)

John appreciates giving and receiving in perfect balance. The picture of you on your knees, his cock down your throat as he sits with you between his spread legs, is as appealing as the reverse, and he’d never make himself choose between one or the other. When he eats you out, his arms are wound around your thighs from underneath, pulling your pelvis in closer to his face as he buries his mouth and tongue and nose into your folds. When you finish on his lips, he will not stop. He wants to hear you wailing.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

It all depends on what he’s trying to accomplish. If John is trying to get you to that place where words have stopped having any meaning and you are more an experience of pleasure than a person, he’s going slow, and he’s going hard. He wants to be as drunk on you as you are on him, too, and he’s had enough experience with the best Scotch he can afford to know that that dizzy, heady feeling belongs only to an endeavor in savoring it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are a tool in his arsenal that he uses to tease you, but he ends up teasing himself, too. That’s the point, of course, but sometimes it can backfire, and that turns into a rare occasion when John is not in control, is not trying to wring every drop of pleasure from you that you can stand. When John is needy and frantic because he tried to whet your appetite and got lost in his own want for you, you find it much easier to flip him over onto his back or press him down with a hand to his shoulder, and at that point he’d do just about anything you told him if only you’d let him have you. If you want to reap the benefits of him getting you back for it, you can bring him up to the razor’s edge of coming and then leave him there for you to indulge in later. Plan not to be able to walk after the next time he gets you into bed.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?)

John is perfectly willing to experiment with positions and sensation play, just as an example, but there are limits to what he’s willing risk. While the fantasy of the 141 watching as he fucks you dumb is a favorite of his, he’s not actually willing to get into a situation in which that might happen, both because you might not like it and because he needs to maintain a measure of decorum as commanding officer, no matter how unconventional his methods might be. He still thinks about it, though.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

He’s only getting older. He’s gotten cranky about this several times. He can manage two rounds, three on a really good day, but he thinks he should be capable of more. He wants his body to obey his own command, and wants it to be available to you, in fact, whenever you want it. You’ve reminded him more than once that he needs three squares and eight straights if he wants to actually have the energy to do what he wants to you, and neither are always readily available to him. He usually gathers you up into his arms when you say that, because in this big, horrible mess of a world he has a partner who treats him like the fragile human he feels he isn’t allowed to be.

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or on themself?)

John’s old-fashioned, and the wealth of toys available today frankly makes his head spin. He’ll feel a little intimidated, too, if you consider bringing a vibrator into the bedroom with him, because it will feel a little like a suggestion that he can’t please you with just his own body. Luckily, rather than get pissy, he will communicate this, and you get to tell him that the full idea was to let him edge you with the vibe for as long as the both of you could stand. That’s a technique that fits within his tastes, and when you further inform him that butt plugs are great little tools to work up to anal sex, he gets on board pretty fast.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

If it isn’t clear by now—John is merciless. He plays the instrument of your body like a virtuoso, and only hears music in your begging and pleading. He’s never cruel and he never leaves you truly frustrated and unfulfilled, because that’s not who John is, but he’s going to keep your climax out of reach until he knows for certain that finally being able to come will wreck you. How is he being unfair, he asks, when he always gives you what you want in the end?

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

Normally, sex with John is punctuated with growls, groans, deep snarls, and chesty rumbling. Keeping control of you also means keeping control of himself. But. When you catch him in those frantic moments, when his hunger for you far outstrips his desire to play those games of dominance and submission, you can hear him moan and whimper and almost weep when you ply his body with your hands and mouth, when you sink onto his cock at a pace leisurely and comfortable for you and agonizing for him. He will swear all colors of the rainbow, curse and praise you in the same breath, promise to get payback and promise you everything he owns if you would please, sweetheart, just please let him fuck you properly already.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He asked Kate once—ONCE—what he might be able to do, in her opinion as a woman, to take better “care” of you. She’d stared at him for a silent, awkward, infinite moment, and when she finally replied it was to address a completely different subject. He’d downed the remainder of scotch in his glass and asked the bartender for another. The best case scenario would have had Kate pretend to forget that he’d ever so much as thought to ask her, but no—later that night, she sent him a fucking Cosmopolitan listicle, not because she’s finally decided to be helpful but because she wants him to know: she remembers. She will always remember.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

John reaches about 6 inches fully erect, is uncircumcised, and is thicker toward the base of his cock. It’s an average length and shape, but he has never been, and never will be, an average man, not on the battlefield and not in the bedroom. His balls are a little larger than average, though, and they sit low and heavy. It’s actually rather fitting, for a captain who threatened to hunt a four-star general down.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

You wouldn’t know it, because he keeps it under control as much as he does everything else, but John always wants you. There are hints of it—the intensity of his gaze, the low baritone his voice can reach when addressing you even in the company of others. The way he maneuvers himself into position at your side, not so close as to be unprofessional, but close enough to feel the energy radiating off of him in waves. You always get drunk on him, on what he gives you in bed, but sometimes it’s a surprise to be reminded that he’s every bit as drunk on you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Part of the reason John gets up immediately to do the little chores of aftercare, at least sometimes, is to keep himself from falling straight to sleep. He isn’t always exhausted after he’s fucked your brains out, but the world is getting more complicated. His job is getting bloodier. Someone is always screwing over someone else, and he tasked himself a long time ago with fixing all of that. He has to be able to get up and do it. It’s why he’s honed the control he has over himself to such a sharp edge. It’s why, when he finally lets go and lets you take the reins, he’s never as mad or as frustrated about it afterwords as he is in the moment. But he really needs to be reminded that he’s allowed to rest. That he’s allowed to settle into the comfortable afterglow, to breathe in silence just for a little while. In the end, you have to be the one to ask him, wouldn’t you like to lay down with me, John? Wouldn’t you like to just hold each other, for a bit? And always, his answer is yes. When you ask like that, soft and sweet, he cannot deny you.

[piratesfromspace]

What happens in Siberia… (141xReader)

Pairing: Reader x Ghost x Soap x Price x Gaz Rated: Very Explicit Word count: 2.7k Summary: the squad celebrates your first successful mission in their own way. Note: This is just pure filth, just bring me to horny jail at this point. In the same universe as my "Rain or Shine" fic. Reader callsign is "Rain", she's bi and autistic (I am autistic myself). Inspired to finish this wip by the queen @yeyinde and her Body Electric, go read it.

Content: group sex, oral, p-i-v, praise kink, size kink, alcohol, probably some warcrimes, overall canon typical violence

MASTERLIST // PART 1 // PART 2 // <> // PART 4 // PART 5

They are at the end of the world. Far East. Miles and miles of snow and ice and the occasional patch of dark trees. It’s just the five of them: Price, Soap, Gaz, Ghost and her.

They've been hiking for days now. Camping along the way, never really leaving their heavy gear. All-white winter jackets and pants, the gray of the kevlar vests, the black of their weapons. The blizzard makes everything blur. The cold - deadlier than any heat - numbs the fingers and the senses. 

They're used to the humid furnace of the jungle, the burning sun of the desert, but the freezing temperatures of Siberia are seriously undermining their mood. It was the only way to discreetly reach the compound of this Russian oligarch they need to steal intel from. The mission was simple enough : reach the damn place, eliminate everyone in a surprise attack, find the hard drive with the info in it and wait for evac. Simple. The difficult part was getting there without being killed by the cold or the beasts living in those damned icy woods. Soap swears he saw a wolf the size of a jeep. Or maybe it was a bear. Hard to tell when you have to wear a ski mask so your eyeballs don’t freeze in your skull. 

When the 141 strikes, they sweep the place clean. The handful of guards don’t stand a chance against them despite the weariness of the travel. They had found an entrance in the sewer system, reached the basement and its concrete walls, but when they climbed to the higher levels of the building, they suddenly found themselves in an imitation of a luxury cabin. Warm wood, white furs thrown on sprawling beige sofas, a fireplace big enough for a child to stand in it. A chef kitchen. Half a dozen bedrooms with king size beds and ensuite bathrooms.

The place is stocked for literal orgies. Champagne and vodka and cocaine - and the drawers in the bedrooms are full of condoms and lube. The kind of place rich assholes spend their winter vacation in when they go skiing in the Alps. It fits with what they know of the owner.

Once they secure the hard drive, and make sure nobody else is alive in there, they all stagger to the living room with a palpable relief. Evac will be there in a little less than 48 hours. Two whole days in Nowhere, Siberia, with nothing else to do except rest in this 5-stars chalet after days of miserable trek in the snow.

“I really need a shower” Rain mutters, and she makes a beeline for the main suite. Ghost follows without a word. When it’s just them and the core squad they don’t bother to hide anymore. It was Rain's first field trip as not just a supply manager. Of course they had her at the back of the group when they breached the building, Ghost the first to break in as usual. She did not even have to fire a single bullet. But she went in with her gun tightly clutched in her hand and her night vision goggles on nonetheless. 

They are doing shots. Tsarskaya vodka, straight from Saint Petersburg. The hot meal has been the best she had in months thanks to the freezer of the pantry being full of stupidly expensive delicacies. Price, Gaz and Ghost are sprawled across the sofa, Soap and her are sitting on the plush fur carpet. They’re all down to cargo pants and T-shirts, a blessing after days in those heavy and cumbersome jackets. She could cry at the relief of feeling something else than the wooly inside of her gloves under her fingertips. Her limbs still ache from days of fighting the cold and sleeping on the ground, but the fatigue has been somewhat dulled by the vivid memory of Simon’s tongue between her legs when he dropped to his knees during the shower she took earlier. Her back is warmed by the fireplace, her belly is full and she still feels a bit light-headed from the fight. She wants nothing more than to indulge in the playful atmosphere and the many promises of those two full days of rest with her squad.

“A toast” Price starts, raising his vodka “to Rain - for her first mission accomplished!”

“Please Captain, you make me sound like a damn rookie. I’ve been in the team for a year now. And I’m older than Soap for fuck sake!” 

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

The easy banter goes on, more vodka burns her throat, she bares her neck and laughs - and Ghost’s eyes narrow with a glint. 

Nah, I tell you, you're still a rookie. Oh yeah? I bet you could not think of something I haven’t done that MacTavish has. Easy, you never killed. Not because you never see me do it means I didn’t do it before. (there is a silence)  Let’s lighten the mood… ‘bet you never kissed a girl. Come on, I’ve had more girlfriends than you, Soap.  Never had a threesome?  I did once back in college. Why, you’ interested, Gaz? (it’s a joke - but also not really)

It lasts for a while until Soap grins victoriously.

“You never kissed me.” he beams, even though it doesn't really make sense for the little game they’re playing. She’s too tipsy to care.

“If that’s the only thing to shut you up.” and she leans into him, grabs his thigh for balance and just like that - she kisses him. Her tongue breaches his lips and she can taste the vodka they’re drinking and the sugar of the russian caramel they had for dessert. The kiss lasts only a couple of seconds, but Soap is glass eyed when she sits back down. 

Price lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rain...”  “Thank you, Captain.”  “John for tonight” “Thank you, John.” she whispers, tone low and suggestive. “I’m gonna get more dessert!” she announces all of a sudden - she had always craved sugar - and she bounces to the kitchen, leaving them all a bit stunned. 

Price glances at Ghost. For once, he has no clue how he will react. To his girl openly flirting with others, to his girl initiating something they won’t be able to come back from. 

“She decides.” Simon’s voice is even more gravelly than usual. “You follow.” he asserts, and that’s all the instructions they will get from him. It’s clear enough though - she’s the one in charge from there, Ghost trusts them to do as she says, and he trusts her to ask for what she needs.

When she comes back, she sits down next to Soap, leans heavily on him. He brushes her hair out of her pretty face, and she looks at him with intent, daring him to continue what they started. It’s like she provides him with a pool of gasoline, and hopes for nothing more than a spark to light it all and let the fire consume them both - and by a chain reaction consume them all.

He doesn’t resist and kisses her again. She lets him. She even moans against his lips when he grabs her nape. It’s like the match has been cracked, it’s too late now. No coming back from that. The flames are already spreading. Gaz falls on his knees behind her, strong hands on her waist, his mouth against her earshell.

“Is this okay? ‘This what you want?” She breaks the kiss just enough time to answer a breathy yes.

The rest is a blur. Someone removes her T-shirt, lays her down on the fur. Expensive vodka poured into the divot of her navel.

“It’s cold!” she protests with a laugh until Gaz laps the alcohol from her skin with a gaze so sinful it warms her right up. 

Ghost is right there by her head, a hand spanning her neck, holding her jaw. Through his mask, he whispers sweet praises to her, walking her through it. Soap is playing with her tits, teeth grazing the gentle curve of her breast before his latches on one of the tender buds. Gaz is laying on his belly, tongue buried in her cunt. She’s still sensitive from what Ghost did just before during their shower, but Gaz is different in his approach, he takes his time, goes slow, licks her clit like they’ve got all night (they have). 

He sinks one finger into her then a second. “Fuck she’s tight.” He exhales against her folds, half-wonder, half-worry. “Let me do it.” It’s Price - he’s been hovering around them all, carefully observing, waiting for the right time to step in. It’s not that easy for him, he’s their Captain, even though he had the intuition to forbid her to use his title earlier. But if they’re going to do this, he wants to do it right - right by her. He won’t let her be hurt on the battlefield, no reason to stop caring for her now. 

He takes Gaz's place between her legs.

“Open your mouth for me darling.” he croons and he coats two of his fingers with her saliva, presses on her tongue and rewards her with a good girl when she licks at the rough pad of his fingers. Price sinks into her cunt again, gently fucks her with two fingers, scissors her open with an infinite patience. Gaz pets at her clit, circles slow and wide, not enough for her to come, but definitely enough to make her forget the burn of the stretching process. 

They take turns making her shatter to pieces only to carefully rebuild her after. Soap takes her in long lazy strokes, before guiding her lips on his cock and she can taste herself on him - it’s enough to make her whimper around his flesh. Price maneuvers her on her hands and knees, grips her hips with large hands, fucks her in powerful thrusts and drown her in praises.

You’re so fucking pretty like this You tell me if it’s too much Fucking hell, you feel so good

She keens and laughs as she comes for the third time of the night. It’s a lot but they don’t stop, not as long as she welcomes them. Not as long as the embers of her desire are still shining gold. Gaz has her ride him on the couch, Ghost holding her waist to help her get up when her legs become too shaky. They work as one, just like they did hours before. They take care of each other in so many ways, it was just a matter of time before such a night would happen.

Ghost is finally shedding the last of his gear - he’s naked except for the mask. The flames of the fireplace frame his devilish figure with an unnatural glow - an Angel of Death, covered in so many scars he looks like he’s been to Hell and back a few times. Muscles rippling fat and strong under his skin, light trails of blond hair leading down to his leaking cock. Rain is not the only one to stare, but she’s the only one he sees, and when she pleads his name, he drapes his body over hers.

One of them has brought back lube from one of the bedrooms. Simon coats his length in the shiny liquid before burying to the hilt into her cunt. Despite the fair share of preparation, she’s still panting at the sudden pressure. Her little pained whimper has them suddenly on high alert. But Simon is handling her with the confidence she can take it, he offers shallow trusts and reassuring words until the burn of the stretch turns into blistering pleasure.

He brings her legs on his shoulders, his arms the size of her thighs, and if she already appeared small compared to the rest of them, Ghost is dwarfing her. Soap is mesmerized by it, how Simon’s dick fits inside her despite the absurd size difference. Ghost moves again and the change in position has him hit that spongy spot hidden just behind the bone of her pelvis that makes her moan and whimper. Johnny had already dreamed about it, imagined it, heard it from the other side of a door, but actually seeing her lips part around cries of pleasure under his lieutenant, it makes his cheeks burn even more than when he was the one hitting the end of her soft cunt.

He’s taken out of his trance by Rain’s pleading voice. Please Johnny she begs - and she begs so pretty he would do anything she asks him - and she catches his hand and brings it just where Ghost and her are connected. When he presses on her clit, she arches off the sofa, and when he keeps rubbing in time with Simon’s thrusts, she comes so hard she drenches his whole hand. 

There is a pause in the non-stop sex, someone presses a glass of water to her lips, another digs his fingers into the muscles of her back. She closes her eyes and sighs in contentment, lulled by the soft crackling of the fire and the satisfied groans of her lovers. She thinks they’re all sated, but it’s her Captain - no, it’s John - that cups her cheek and asks oh so gently will you have me again, sweet thing?

How can she say no when he talks to her like this? She’s raw between her legs, delicate flesh all swollen and still wet, and she will regret it tomorrow - will she?. She nods, and he moves her back down on the pile of throws. His rough hand on her delicate neck, he feels the warm pulse of her life - he has her life between his hands everyday, tonight is just more literal. What did he think would happen back when she appeared on base for the first time?

Despite everything, she had survived her first few months with them, had embedded herself so far in their team, she is impossible to remove now. The men foolish enough to try would have to step through their fire. It was inevitable, actually. The squad swore to do anything to protect each other, and it’s even more obvious with her. One could mistake it for machismo, the reality is they do their best to understand what it’s like for her to live in this world made of ongoing threats - coming not only from their enemies but also from the other soldiers they sometimes share their missions with. The revelation that she had killed before - before them - is no real surprise for Price. He’ll ask her more, maybe, when the time is right. When the place they’re in will be no more than ashes and smoke, white and gray and covered in fresh snow.

When they are done, nerves raw and skin too sensitive to the touch, it’s her captain who carries her under the shower, letting the water soothe the last of their fever. Once he’s sure she can still walk, he reluctantly lets her go. She needs to be alone, needs to reset away from their eyes. You alright sweetheart? Was it too much? - Price is suddenly anxious, the pungent bile of doubt pooling under his tongue. Her temples burn, she’s a bit ashamed of what she’s about to say but here in a place that no one knows about and that will vanish from the surface of the earth, she feels like she can admit it, that her secret will be safe, thrown out in the blind blizzard of Siberia. It was perfect.

She steals the largest T-shirt discarded in the living room - Simon’s - before crashing into one of the beds. Ghost materializes by her side, like a cryptid she can’t quite get rid of even if she wanted to. He glues himself to her back. Check-ins and praises whispered in the icy black of the night.

Fucking hell, you were so -so good. Are you okay pet? Didn’t know you had this in you.

She finally falls asleep just as the foggy glow of dawn starts creeping up the dark sky. They still have one whole day and one whole night before packing up and dowsing the place in gasoline, before cracking a match and watching it burn. They’ll make the most of it.

NEXT PART